I suppose I should I just know by know that a 22-year-old boy is not going to be good at making and then keeping plans.
This is my fault.
I’ve dated craptons of stupid 22-year-old boys and none of them ever has ever once ever been good at keeping plans.
So I should know better.
But this boy is driving me insane!
With his, “hit me up, I’ll be around”s and his “I’ll be home, so just give me a call”s.
I hate it.
I want definite plans. I want to know exactly what time I should be at your house. And what I should bring. And what kind of shoes I should wear. And what we’re going to eat so that I can make sure to eat something different for lunch. And who’s going to be there. And if I need a jacket or not. And how much money I should bring. And what purse I should bring.
I WANT TO KNOW THOSE THINGS.
But he’s not like that.
He’s carefree, and go with the flow and “whatever man”
Which I like.
I do. I like it.
I like it because I find myself watching “Four Christmases” on his couch while he jumps next to me and then grabs my hand and a suddenly a crappy movie is the best movie I’ve ever seen.
And I find myself wearing his favorite Cubs sweatshirt and having Saturday afternoon lunch together at a very dim and very intimate TGI Friday’s while the rest of the world is running errands and then walking through Best Buy hand-in-hand on a whim and thinking about how much I love spending time with him.
And I find myself smiling all the time.
Those are the kinds of things you can’t plan.
I know that.
But this weekend, I wish, just maybe, we could set a time for dinner.