Fortunately, an evening spent holding a bag of frozen broccoli to my forehead countered Monday’s headbutt melodrama, and I headed into my date last night relatively unbruised and certainly in prime form. I must admit to having been more than a bit drunk when I first met the girl, however, and so braced myself for the potential aftermath of a serious case of beer goggles.

In fact, there was no need for bracing, as my date was even more beautiful than I had remembered. In fact, she was great on all counts – smart, funny and articulate, as well as attractive. But throughout the date, a small voice in the back of my head continually objected. Some part of me, for whatever reason, knew that the relationship wouldn’t work, long term. Which, frankly, is true about the vast majority of relationships I’ve embarked upon; were I to have sat down and thought carefully about them at the get-go, I’d have known they had no possibility of going the distance.

Still, in years (or weeks) past, I’d never paid any heed to that small warning voice. Hearing it insistently last night was, frankly, a new and rather disquieting experience. Was this the first sign of impending emotional maturity? Would suddenly having a conscience weighing in keep me from wreaking my standard horribly messy trail of love life havoc?

In short, I’m not certain. So in this specific case, if she’s willing, I’d love to at least go on a second date; until I get used to listening to that little voice, I’d hate to think I killed off something potentially promising due to poor communication within my own head.