I’ve had a minor epiphany: I’m not particularly attractive. I’m tall, well-built, and I can dress myself, but I don’t think I tend to excite people in a mmm-I-really-want-to-kiss-him-and-keep-kissing-him way. And this is, in large part, why I keep getting spurned by interesting women in what’s become a depressingly familiar pattern: we hit it off (rare enough for me, because I’m damn picky), we connect, maybe we date for a couple of weeks, and they lose romantic interest and just want to be good friends. That explains it. Huh.
As an adult, I’ve always viewed myself as moderately appealing, at least. But there’s a kind of comfort in taking this realization to heart. I ain’t that good-looking. I’m happy enough with who I am that I’ll continue to carry myself with confidence, but something like this is good to know.
Not that it will cause me to lower my romantic standards or to feel less lonely, but at least I’ll have a better handle on why things unfold the way they do, when they do. And hell, maybe lightning will strike anyway.