Love is Like Stepping on a Lego

Slimeball

I break up with my first credible boyfriend in my junior year in December. It is a whirlwind of new and untried emotions, and I throw my characteristic caution to the wind in a mix of anticipation, expectation, and excitement. Yet I find his prescience suffocating once the honeymoon stage of the first date wears off: he is too eager, to expectant, too heavy. It is while I struggle beneath the weight of his arm that I realize this won't be working out. I had pushed my boundaries to make the dynamic work, but my modesty and wariness denied the poor boy any stolen kisses or a sprint between bases. So, true to myself in a prompt, efficient, logical manner, I break up with him. Unsurprisingly, also in my own fashion, the guilt is nearly unbearable. It is when he utters "I thought my patience would be rewarded," and "I love you" in the same breadth that my resolve gathers its strength and and indignation rears its ugly head. He is lucky I had the tact to do it over a phone call.