The first time he came to my house, he looked in my fridge and approved of the fruits and vegetables I had in there. He approved of my basement, too, but I think that was because it is sparsely furnished and his ex was a hoarder. He looked at my cd’s and approved of my collection. He commented on the fact that I did not keep all the books I read, and he approved.
I liked him a lot; still do, really. I made the mistake, though, of thinking that his approval meant that he liked me but it turns out he just, well, approved. It’s not the same thing.
Today I passed a lovely house that had everything; double garage, stone facing, impressive front door, a stained and polished driveway, tasteful landscaping, you name it. It also had artificial turf. I understand why a person would lay artificial instead of real turf. No watering. No mowing. No fertilizing. No weeds. No problems with pet poop. Fabulous. I approve–but I don’t like it.
Am I comparing myself to artificial turf? No! Since I want more than just approval from a partner, I’m comparing myself to Kentucky Bluegrass instead.