After an especially crummy day yesterday, the
child guy I’m dating took me to dinner at my favorite pub. Yes, he’s of legal drinking age. Barely. I know I really should have a blog name for him, but I typically use people’s initials and his initials are bad luck for me, and seeing them on a constant basis would make me even more superstitious than I already am.
I don’t recall the exact comment I made, but he called me difficult. Me? Difficult? I should have been more offended than I was, but I’m fully aware of how difficult I can be so I just shook it off.
Later that night, however, I just couldn’t shake his observation. I couldn’t decide if he was calling me difficult in a joking matter, or if he was serious. I called and asked him, “On a scale of one to ten, ten obviously being the highest, how difficult am I?”
Without a moment of hesitation he replied, “I’d say 6.5-7.” I was crushed. Anything above a four is of concern. Then again, I know if I called and asked my mom the same question she would tell me I was of the charts at a 99.5 on a scale of one to ten. Somehow knowing that put it all into perspective and I didn’t take away his Pokemon cards as punishment.