Yet another instance of The Bizarre in my daily life:

Early last week, I helped a chap who was trying to find a book for his mom. We chatted a little about this or that while I tried---futilely---to locate said book. It was a crazy day, and while I kind of got the impression he was Interested, I didn't think much of his tossed off, "I'll come back and bug you sometime," as he left.

On Monday, who should show up but this same chap. Bugging me, I guess. We had a nice little chat...even as I was panicking that he was *actually* at my *workplace* intending to *ask me out*. Uh. Weird. I managed to evade an invitation to see Narnia---I've had enough of the movie-date thing, thankyouverymuch---but I'm now supposed to meet him for coffee at the store's Starbucks on Friday after I get off work. Still weird.

I'm just not good at this stuff. And I know the only way I'm going to get better is by screwing it up a few hundred times, but...gah. ...When he left, he shook my hand. A nice, simple handshake...and I initiated the Lingering Handshake. ::winces:: That, K, is called a "signal"...and it's not one I'm comfortable giving. Yet there I was. I'm an idiot. But I just never seem to know how to interact with men who find me interesting.

On one hand, I appreciate their interest. Doesn't happen often, after all. On the other hand, I rarely feel reciprocal interest. Men I find attractive are not attracted to me...and vice versa. So then I start thinking Well, give 'em a chance. Maybe you'll find they're actually just the sort of fellow you're looking for. And then I start thinking of the couples I know where the men aren't attractive and the women Gave Them A Chance and Lived Happily Ever After. And couldn't that be me?

So. I feel obliged to thank them for their interest. That is, after all, the warmest feeling I can summon at the moment of First Contact. And in attempting to be grateful, I invariably give the impression that I find them far more interesting than I do. And then I feel guilty. And nervous. That they're going to expect me to be nicer than I really am. Or that they're going to think things are going swimmingly, while meanwhile I'm desperately trying to come up with a way to politely turn them down for a second date-thing. And then, after all that, I sit and turn the thing over and over in my head, wondering if I'm *really* not interested or if I'm just scared and, therefore, taking a cop-out.

For once, I'd like to meet someone who excites me. Who makes me feel blessed by their interest, not merely grateful. Who makes me feel not only comfortable in my own skin but free of all my second guessing.

Dammit! I need a Henry Tilney! If nothing else, with a Henry Tilney the burden of Condescending and Gracious Interest in the Lesser Mortal lies with him. Not me.

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