Your Boundaries Were Excellent Until You Liked Him

Before you really like a man, never is a magnificent word. It has posture, excellent instincts and no interest in compromise. You would never tolerate disappearing acts, never keep adjusting yourself around somebody else’s moods, never accept behavior that leaves you small, confused or permanently available whenever he remembers you exist.

You can say all this with tremendous conviction because, at the moment, nobody irresistible is testing the theory.

Then he arrives, and never, which only yesterday was carved in stone, suddenly becomes interested in circumstances. Perhaps this was unusual, perhaps he had a difficult week, perhaps you misunderstood, or perhaps three days is not technically disappearing if everyone involved remains attractive.

Nothing has changed, naturally. Your boundary is still exactly where you left it. It has simply developed an exception.

Never Becomes “Just This Once”

Women rarely throw their standards away because a man is attractive. We are much more sophisticated than that. We keep the standard and quietly decide that this particular incident does not count.

“I would never tolerate inconsistency” remains completely true, except apparently this is not inconsistency because he has been terribly busy. “I don’t rearrange my life around men” also survives beautifully, although Wednesday has somehow been rearranged.

Nothing has changed except the definition.

I picture boundaries as proper paths through a beautiful garden: the routes that let someone move through your life without trampling anything important. One charming visitor takes a shortcut, one flower bends, and because the flower is still alive, never adjusts her hat and decides we are dealing with special circumstances.

A very elegant little exception has been born.

Then Never Discovers Nuance

The first exception feels harmless because it is alone. The second arrives wearing a plausible explanation, and by the third, something that once deserved a crisp absolutely not has become “not ideal,” one of dating’s hardest-working phrases.

This is especially entertaining when compared with our ability to assess somebody else’s romance. A girlfriend describes the same behavior and your eyesight becomes supernatural; you can see the entire situation from six tables away.

When it belongs to you, however, suddenly the picture has layers. Timing must be considered, background information has appeared, and perhaps another week of observation would be wise.

Attraction can turn one obvious fact into a documentary series.

Meanwhile, never has quietly become I don’t love it, but..., and outside another set of footprints has appeared beside the proper path. The daisies have noticed.

“I Don’t Love It” Somehow Settles In

One thing is annoying but understandable, another is disappointing but probably temporary, and something else gives you that unmistakable internal no while everything surrounding it remains lovely enough to keep the romance moving.

So never continues its journey: I would never tolerate that becomes well, just this once; just this once becomes I don’t love it, but...; and eventually we arrive at that grand old favorite, that’s just how he is.

A sentence that began with standards has somehow ended with anthropology.

You may still believe completely in the original boundary and could explain it beautifully if called upon. Out in the garden, however, the shortcut now has several footprints, two bent stems and the beginnings of a confident little trail.

Nobody approved it. It simply kept working.

Then You Start Making Room for It

And now comes one of romance’s prettier contradictions: sometimes we begin accommodating the very thing we insist we do not accept.

Expectations shrink here, an awkward moment gets brushed aside there, and life begins arranging itself around the pattern because that feels easier than asking why it keeps arriving. In garden terms, somebody has quietly moved the flowerpot that kept getting knocked over.

Now the shortcut is easier.

This would be hilarious if it were not your garden.

In your mind, the boundary remains in excellent condition. Out in the garden, nobody seems to be consulting it.

Then Never Wakes Up

Eventually the explanation stops looking flattering and starts looking tired. Even excuses have a shelf life, and the behavior that once seemed temporary begins showing an alarming interest in permanent residence.

That’s just how he is suddenly sounds much less charming when you realize this may indeed be exactly how he is, and never makes a spectacular return, fully rested and deeply offended.

Since when is this acceptable?

From your point of view, the boundary was always there. From his point of view, the shortcut has been open since spring.

By now the grass is flat, the trail is obvious and even the roses have learned to lean slightly aside when they hear him coming. He is no longer taking a shortcut; he thinks this is the path.

You knew what bothered you long before attraction arrived with its footnotes, exceptions and very persuasive face. Once attraction cools, all that fascinating nuance packs its little suitcase and never is standing exactly where you first left it, looking unbearably pleased with herself.

You simply met someone you wanted badly enough to turn never into not usually, not usually into just this once, and just this once into a surprisingly well-traveled path through the roses.

By then, unfortunately, even the flowers knew the shortcut. The little signs had always been there — THIS WAY, PLEASE and KEEP OFF THE FLOWERS — but he had walked past them often enough that the grass was flattened, the shrubs were mussed, and several flowers had developed a permanent lean. The garden had never forgotten where the path was; it simply looked as though somebody had been allowed to ignore it for a very long time.

And that is what happens when “just this once” gets repeated often enough: the signs are still standing, the path is still clearly marked, and yet the flower beds look like they have hosted a small parade.