The Politics of Dancing, er, Dating

We were discussing an article from The Slate; it was around the time speculation about Hillary Clinton’s VP appointment had reached its peak, just after her concession. Mrs. Clinton was/is actively pursuing this position, and the article treated the situation similarly to that of a woman who wants a man’s attention and seeks it way too aggressively. Somewhere in our conversation, the guy I’m with states if a man wants a woman, he’ll go after her. He said something like nothing scares a guy away more than a super-assertive woman. I’ve heard this on several occasions, and it seems in my case, it’s true. I’ve been hyper-interested and hyper-expressed my feelings, and whatever interest a guy might have had in me immediately evaporated. Hyperly. It’s weird. The evening progressed, and we were really enjoying each other’s company. We talked about quite a few things; we shared personal stories, and while I didn’t want the night to end, I knew it had to. And I let it, because I’ve learned to be a slow-mover in my old age, and I’ve learned to hold back, because I’ve been burned a few times in the course of my life, but I’ve also learned it’s okay to be vulnerable, because how else are people supposed to get to know me? My learnings over the past 20 or so years conflicted and clashed, but now they get along and have interwoven quite nicely, and now I’m starting to get the hang of this dating thing. Now I’m this present and sweet and fun personality who happens to be a pretty tough cookie. Anyway, a couple of days later, I sent a thank-you email. Then about 10 days later, he called to invite me out to do something. Then he was out of town for a while, but I sent him another email just to check in. Nothing too long or involved, and he replied to my email. Then I left him alone, because I knew he was busy, and I got the impression he’s just as slow a mover as I am. Then three weeks later, he called to catch up. And then we caught up. Then the next day I sent him an email to invite him over for brownies. His response came via text message and past my bedtime and too late for him to drop by. I didn’t reply; I thought it would be pointless. Then he emailed to make sure I got his text and to ask about my week. Then I replied to his email. Then I don’t know what. Then I don’t know what. If this is pursuit, I’ll take it; I haven’t experienced anything remotely like it in a long time. I want him to like me. I want him to want me. I need him to need me. I’d love for him to love me. I’d beg him to beg me. You know. Thank you, Slate. Thank you, Mrs. Clinton and Mr. Obama. You’ve made my personal life a whole lot easier to handle.