Almost Perfect

M. phoned last night.

I cried.

M. is the reason I'm dating, and probably a big part of the reason I'm blogging. He is the reason I was able to spend a year backpacking in Europe and Africa last year. And the reason I happen to have developed a taste for blueberry fritters and chunky redheads.

M. is very nearly the perfect man.

He is soft-spoken and considerate, but not afraid to stand up for himself. He understands the way I think, and can often tell that something is bothering me before I even figure it out. M. can communicate. My dog loves him. He is hilarious. He's reliable, and has never failed to do exactly what he's said he was going to. He is gainfully employed and financially sensible. He is the only person I have ever been able to spend a week in a foriegn country with, without wanting to smack repeatedly. My girlfriends think he's great. He is respectful. He is one of five people I have ever cried in front of. We agree about religion, money, child-rearing, and values. He has never tried to restrict my independence. I trust him utterly. He is the most incredible lover I've ever had.

He also believes that a houseplant is more responsibility and commitment than he can handle.

We spent three years exploring it, and I have come to the conclusion that it will never change. As incredible as he is, I want more than eternal non-committal dating. I want kids. Or at least the option of kids.

He called to say he missed me, and to ask if I'd like to drive (two hours) to his town to hang out. The last time I saw him was November 20th, when I packed up the last of my stuff and moved here.

I have just finally gotten to the point where I don't automatically start dialing his number whenever I pick up the phone. I still miss him terribly. When I have a bad day, he's the first person I want to speak to.

We talked for five hours last night.

And, really, nothing's changed.

I didn't go for the drive.

I curled up in bed and bawled.

I sure am glad I'm going to London, but I'm pretty sad, today.