I briefly dated a man who mostly went to his woodworking shop, played pool at the same bar with the same friends, and worked on finances at the same Starbucks where they knew him by name. I think I liked the consistency.

He liked me because I “went out most nights,” and “traveled a lot” and “didn’t stay at home swiping apps with Netflix and a dog.”

I tried to keep that appearance up even though he met me at a fluke time in my social life. And it’s fucking exhausting to try to constantly appear interesting. And expensive. And, well, a flat-out lie.

An ideal “date” for me is staying home, splitting a bottle of a decent red, working on a puzzle and chatting through anything as small as our days at work or as big as what the world will look like in a billion years.

I think all anyone is looking for at the end of the day is someone who still loves us even after they realize how boring we are. Or, if we’re really lucky, someone who loves us because of those boring moments.

Because at the end of the day, it’s the end of the day that matters — the hours when we are tired, when we order pad Thai for delivery because we don’t have it in us to choose a more adventurous dish, let alone actually cook ourselves a meal. The hours when we want to sit eyes-glazed-over while a sitcom we’ve seen 15 times before plays in front of us because processing a new drama seems like “too much.” When we can hardly hold a meaningful conversation and want to sit in comfortable silence instead.

To feel loved as we are, without bending over backwards, even in the most mundane context.