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" I recently came across a photo of a sexy Brazilian man I had an affair with a few years ago. (OK, I Googled him.) When I saw his sly smile and unruly black hair, I couldn&amp;#039;t help thinking that, by comparison, my live-in boyfriend wasn&amp;#039;t quite as darkly seductive or exciting. I met the Brazilian in line for a film screening while visiting Manhattan from San Francisco. I was convinced I&amp;#039;d found my ideal man: intellectual, witty, artistic, and hot. We spent a passionate week together, and when I left town, I thought I was leaving behind a new long-distance boyfriend\u2014one who, it turned out, didn&amp;#039;t like to call or e-mail...ever. I thought our fling was the start of a relationship; he thought it was a fling, period. Disappointing, but it fit my usual pattern. I would fall for a brilliant guy with an irresistible smile who never quite fell for me but who possessed all the qualities I liked in a man: a sense of humor, certified smarts, smoldering looks. Each time, these men\u2014dashing chefs, moody architects\u2014would give me just enough attention to keep me in their narcissistic orbit. Whether or not they&amp;#039;d ever call was just part of the thrill, always keeping me on edge. Outwardly, I told myself I was having fun and it was just a matter of time before someone wanted to settle down; inside, I started to worry that I wasn&amp;#039;t lovable or exciting enough. My friends were concerned. Sometime after the Brazilian, a buddy observed, &amp;quot;You need to be the Brazilian in your relationship.&amp;quot; By that, she meant I needed a solid guy I could rely on. But was it possible to be stable and exciting? She had a point, but the kind of guy she described sounded so boring I figured I&amp;#039;d be better off getting a dog. Then I met Peter\u2014or, rather, re-met him. I had known Peter vaguely in college. He&amp;#039;d recently emerged from a divorce and onto a dating site where I&amp;#039;d been lurking. I passed over his profile, which depicted an earnest guy with bright blue-gray eyes wearing an old Guatemalan sweater. But he recognized me, and we started chatting. There were no witty phrases in his e-mails, no sense that he was teetering on that razor&amp;#039;s edge between genius and madness. Unconvinced of his romantic potential, I invited him over for soup, less a date than a get-together with an old friend. From the moment he walked in, I felt like he&amp;#039;d been sitting in my living room forever. I didn&amp;#039;t feel compelled to impress him; he seemed to genuinely like my apartment, my books, my soup...and me. We laughed easily and kissed each other good night. Surprisingly, given how kind he was, I didn&amp;#039;t want to stop kissing him. The next day, he called to ask when he could see me again\u2014unusual behavior, considering the guys I&amp;#039;d dated. On our second date, we had a quiet dinner at a bistro. On our third, he told me he was only interested in a committed relationship. I&amp;#039;d never heard a man say such a thing. But even though it was what I&amp;#039;d always said I wanted, the word monogamy sounded a lot like monotonous. Everything about Peter was steady. He used to own a recording studio and now had a less-exciting gig as a construction manager. He had a cheerful disposition and didn&amp;#039;t swear at drivers. He&amp;#039;d raised a considerate daughter who shared his quirky sense of humor. My friends told me I&amp;#039;d totally scored, finding a smart, handsome, 6&amp;#039;4&amp;quot; man who adored me.  By our second month of dating, Peter told me he loved me, that I was beautiful, that he liked my shoes, and that he was the luckiest man in the world to find me. We didn&amp;#039;t always have the pyrotechnic chemistry of a one-night stand, but we had a constant warmth that made me want to cuddle up next to him. At the same time, it made me incredibly anxious: I loved hearing Peter&amp;#039;s offbeat observations about music and architecture, watching him rewire the lighting in my apartment, listen- ing to his boyish laugh\u2014but where was that manic streak of irresponsibility I craved? It seemed too easy. I didn&amp;#039;t have to try to pin down an artistic, wandering soul to persuade him to love me, or clamor for his attention. Without that, the romance seemed to lose a certain thrill. One evening, after one too many drinks, some demon took over my brain and I con- fessed that I thought he was too boring for me. I gave him a long list of all the ways he wasn&amp;#039;t interesting enough: He was always even-tempered. He didn&amp;#039;t come up with crazy ideas, asking me, as other men had, to take off for Argentina, ride the roller coaster in Santa Cruz, or swallow vision-inducing drugs with a shaman in the Amazon. He was predictable\u2014showing up when he said he would, bringing flowers, picking me up at the airport. Peter looked crushed. &amp;quot;Are you breaking up with me?&amp;quot; he asked, near tears. I hadn&amp;#039;t planned on it\u2014inexperienced as I was with intimacy, I thought I was just airing my feelings. Breaking up was the last thing I wanted. I didn&amp;#039;t know what I would do without his hugs and gap-toothed smile. &amp;quot;No,&amp;quot; I mumbled, embarrassed and worried that he was going to flee. But Peter pushed back. &amp;quot;Just because I&amp;#039;m not an asshole doesn&amp;#039;t mean I&amp;#039;m boring,&amp;quot; he said &amp;quot;You need to figure out the difference.&amp;quot; Now that was interesting. He left, pissed off, and I ruminated all the next day. Peter was right. When I considered it, most of the charismatic men I&amp;#039;d dated were actually jerks or bad boys, hardly relationship material. They&amp;#039;d subtly reject me but keep me around for fun, playing games where I always ended up the loser. I suppose I&amp;#039;d always been attracted to commitment-phobes because some part of me felt unlovable. It was a lot easier to fall for a guy who I knew, on some level, wouldn&amp;#039;t fall in love with me. There was nothing to risk. The real risk would be to finally be vulnerable to love. The problem wasn&amp;#039;t that Peter was boring. It was that I was scared to be in a real relationship. Who cared if he didn&amp;#039;t speak three languages? Peter made me deeply happy, not constantly anxious that I wasn&amp;#039;t good enough. His solidity was exactly why, I realized, I loved him so much. The next day, too scared to call, I texted Peter that I loved him, too. He came over and crowed about it, then insisted I tell him out loud. Now I say it all the time. And the more he feels secure, the more he&amp;#039;s game for new adventures: going to Patagonia and Mexico, hosting parties, learning to ski. These days, I feel silly for not realizing a long time ago what I needed: someone I could trust with my heart. And that beats a sexy Brazilian any day. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.marieclaire.com/sex-love/advice/a7816/the-day-i-stopped-falling-for-jerks/>