Roses are red,
Violets are blue
You’re dragging your feet,
And I don’t know what else to do.
Stop me if you’ve heard this one. Girl meets boy, boy expresses interest, girl reciprocates — and boy does nothing. Yeah, I can hear the sighs of agreement already, ladies.
A colleague and friend of friends, this guy (Mr. Not a Mover, we’ll call him?) was slow to show his interest, but eventually it was confirmed. However, lately we seem to be at a bit of a communication impasse.
It’s a frustrating place to be in. And as you may have read before, when it comes to frustration, I’ve got more than my fair share. But now I’ve got an interested party on my hands with his feet so firmly planted on the ground that even a tornado wouldn’t knock him over.
And I’m running out of patience, as well as excuses for him.
Shyness is a fickle trait. An over-eager guy puts a girl off, and one who moves too fast isn’t one worth knowing, right? Yet a guy who has his timing down? There’s nothing better. But when it comes to timidity, there’s a fine line between charming and infuriating, and it’s just as hard for the other party.
It shouldn’t surprise you that I’ve never been shy. A child of nomad parents, I moved around most of my childhood, putting me in two elementary schools, three middle schools, two high schools, and three colleges. Needless to say, I had to figure out how to talk to people — and fast. Otherwise, I’d spend my lunch hours eating in the phone booth, lamenting my outfit choices à la D.J. Tanner.
It’s sometimes hard for me to comprehend shyness; I can sympathize, but that’s as far as it goes. Keeping things to myself, however? That’s not something I’m good at.
So you can imagine that for me, dealing with a person who won’t seem to make a move is akin to sitting at home, watching paint dry. Witty, friendly paint.
For quite some time, I’ve convinced myself that there are reasons for his hesitation. Oh, he’s busy; give it time; there’s too much pressure. But I’ve made many attempts to bridge the shyness gap, and I’m tired of seeming overeager. Once again, I’m marinating in my own over-analysis. Did I try too hard? Is it my fault?
But like many women, I’ve begun to feel that it is. One fickle man, and we’re back into the downward spiral of feeling down on ourselves. It’s a vicious cycle.
Will Mr. Not a Mover ever decide to finally make a play? Who knows. It may not be a match, but if there’s no exploring it, there’s no knowing. For the time being, I’ll live my life, talking too loud and saying things without thinking.
At least I’ll never leave anyone wondering, right?