Intimations on Romantic Love and Why I'm So Very Bad at It

The other day, my father was kind enough to tell me how well pleased he is with me-- it is one of his idiosyncratic charms that he doesn't like to use the word "proud" when discussing his children. He told me he's grateful I've become a responsible adult and a contributor. He likes the way I manage my finances and go to church of my own volition and a half dozen other things. He praised my judgement, however, with a qualifier-- he told me he thinks I have zero sense when it comes to choosing the men I associate with. I rolled my eyes, but I've thought about it quite a bit since.
It's what I hear from my entire family. "Rachel is attracted to the wrong kind of guys." Last night, while not listening to "Le Chat Lunatique" (I did watch the drummer from our outside table, and I love how he is Paul Twitchell's doppelganger), my sweet friends encouraged the budding love between me and non-boyfriend. I made excuses. What if our children are unattractive? He's into role-playing games! I could very easily see myself having to move every four years, and even more easily picture myself hating it, despite my nomadic propensities. Of course, there are a thousand things that make him wonderful and greater than most men I know, but the scare factor is high, and my own typical three-week expiration date is fast approaching, so his jets may have cooled already. I'm not in a position to make a decision. Still, all my supposedly superficial arguments even sounded hollow in my own head.
What's more, I was frankly flabbergasted at the subtle teasing of darling Jacob (the newest Jacob of my acquaintance, not to be confused with the love of my life, J. Hatch, who will soon return from South Africa, nor Jacob the disenchanted, who I rarely see or hear from now, yet still hope all the best for). Our friends' newest Jacob is a genuinely sweet boy, with much apparent goodness. He teases, but doesn't mock. He offers intelligent conversation, and such joie de vivre that he's already secured a solid place in our circle and in our hearts. He and dearest Rudy are a matched pair of knights in shining armor, and they fit quite nicely. Anyway, Jacob said, "Rachel, what in the world is with you and all your men? It's a different one every time we talk! How could I be your favorite?" Good question.
On the one hand, the 12-year-old gawky girl in me knows where he's coming from. Surely, this new acquaintance cannot begin to comprehend what's so interesting about me that I could hold any man's attention, let alone several at once. I'm not particularly nice, nor interesting. In fact, I'm rather a bore. I talk too much. Since moving back to NM, I've put on 15 lbs (I think most of it was in the Ray era), and though I'm slowly chinking away at the cellulite, I've never been nor ever expect to be a raving beauty. I'm too loud, and too independent. I'm a flatterer deluxe, and I throw many of society's conventions by the wayside. I am not what any man is looking for.
Worse still, is new Jacob's subtle suggestion that my affection for him or any man of whom he's heard me speak is non-existent. I would submit I'm prone to outbursts of admiration, but I don't say anything that isn't true. Perhaps, though, it is only true in the way I know how to love. I'm deeply sincere about my shallow feelings. It's no secret I can't swim, but wading in water to cool off has served me well over the years. Until now (and perhaps still), I've been content to let others dive into their small, above-ground pools, confined to that deep but small space. Instead, I stomp through an endless puddle of love and mud, with the casualties of unforeseen sharp objects scraping and scarring my calloused feet. I am fulfilled in stirring the shallow waters and changing the makeup of the puddle for the better, until I find another one calling for my attention. My friends urge me to learn to swim and so many of my beloved gentlemen of yore have even offered to teach me, but I'm afraid I won't be able to breathe and I'll drown.