There’s this line that’s been running through my head from that show Sex and the City (look at me saying “that show” as if I weren’t just as obsessed with it as the majority of girls I know). The line goes something like this: “Maybe some women aren’t meant to be tamed. Maybe they just need to run free until they find someone just as wild to run with them.” And like that majority of women, I’ve always taken that line to apply to myself. I’d like to think for the most part that I’m wild, not exactly the domesticated type. When I was with the ex-Fiance, I walked away the first time he told me that he loved me. With Pete, I always tried to convince myself that I could stay distant. I took whatever measures I could not to get attached, regardless of how successful that was.

And then there’s right now. Right now I’m dating a guy who wants all the usual domesticated stops: dinners out (paid for by him), meeting the parents, going to church on Sunday. We’ve hardly been dating a month and he notions towards seriousness. Half the time I can’t determine if joking or if he plays it off as such after trying to gauge how I feel- usually I break into a deep sweat and try to remember to breathe deeply to slow my heart.

I think one of the most telling signs of all came today, when I was doing one of my anti-stress hobbies. For some reason, I’ve always found looking at houses and apartments to calm me. In college, I would procrastinate on Prudential’s website looking at estates outside of Washington D.C., cabins in Telluride, cottages in Maine, and lofts in New York City. I try to see if I could imagine myself living there, how my books would look on the shelves, and how many margaritas I’d have to skimp on to afford the place. And not to overbutter the crazy bread, but I also have a registry at Pottery Barn, where I pick the leather chairs that would go beside the arched windows and built-in bookshelves, the wine shelves that would hold my endless bottles of red wine in the room with my giant Lichtenstein print.

So today, out of curiosity, I was looking at houses in Pittsburgh. Not because I was making some unconcious connection to living there, but because I’d never really though seriously about living there until the jobs seemed to be there. Actually I had two windows up, one of my dream loft in New York City (two blocks from the river!) and one of houses in Pittsburgh. I guess it flashed in my head then that these were possible paths I could end up in, based up where I end up working. I mean, among many. But if I end up in Pittsburgh, I think that this boy is serious. I have no doubt that we could end up going to breakfasts on Sundays, splitting the paper. That we’d walk home, hand in hand, to our house with a front porch and flower pots lining the steps.

I guess my point on this is that I didn’t expect myself to be at this point. I’m not the type of girl to like the gushy parts of relationships. I hated dating the guy who always sent flowers to my dorm room, and I hated the man who insisted on paying for everything. I don’t feel comfortable holding hands or kissing in public, I don’t like talking on the phone every night or checking in every hour. I don’t like cutesy nicknames, “I miss you more!” contests, and I hate titles being thrown around so early. I couldn’t care less about meeting parents or cuddling in bed. Pittsburgh Boy likes all of these things and then some. In a way, even though it’s been so short of a time, I feel like I’m getting used to it. Maybe I’m not the wild, untameable woman that I thought I was.

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O.k. no, maybe I am. My chest tightened just writing this and I instantly reclicked on the link to that NYC apartment. And now I feel calm again. And can already imagine how I’d change the furniture and art in an otherwise perfect room.

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