My friend, Sarah, is dating someone new. Someone who has been described as a thoughtful, nice, polite rock climber that shares her interests and enjoys spending time with her, which is why she naturally made a sour face and said, “But,” and I paused from what could otherwise be called a full scale attack on a margarita and a basket of chips Sunday night to learn about his one fatal flaw: “He likes me, maybe a lot.”

“Mmmm.” I made a face–and not even the painfully sarcastic one my mother uses when she is judging all of my dating decisions and talking about how expensive cats can be–and that’s because I know exactly what Sarah is talking about. And, that, is simultaneously a mild repulsion over being treated well mixed with a boredom in the glaring absence of the games, manipulation and drama that usually serve as signals I’m in a relationship.

“He was in my car on Saturday and there was country music on and he said he didn’t really like country music, and then, later in the day, told me he could like country music or that he would at least go to shows with me and I’m like, but you would only be doing that for me.

And then if I were to repeat that, per se, to my mother, she would probably flex her ring finger and stare at all the sparkling diamonds before saying, “All these carats get so heavy. Anyway, that’s a problem, why?”

And I would be forced to say, “Because, Mother, he needs to have his own identity. He needs to be his own man. He needs to tell her if he hates country music. She doesn’t want him to scale mountains in a ten gallon hat while listening to Brad Paisley. ”

Then I imagine this conversation ending, “Well, that’s a very juvenile attitude to have.” Pregnant (or not pregnant, maybe never pregnant, because I won’t make the sacrifices needed to be loved) pause. Then, “Ta ta now. Mumsy needs to go play tennis.”

Unfortunately, that mumsy has a point sometimes. Not when she’s trying to convince me to buy a skort from Chicos, but when she says things like, “That’s a very juvenile attitude to have.”

Next week I’m going to talk all about why women love dating sub-par human beings so much, but this week, I’m just going to say that sometimes it’s hard to leave those vestiges behind and embrace a nice guy. Sometimes it’s confusing to date someone that will stand when you enter the room and hug you, pay for your meals and chauffeur you around while pretending to listen on Friday night when you get drunk and tell a way too long, way too pointless story about how a superior at work has annoying printing habits. It gets even weirder when your boyfriend compliments how you look or appears to want to please you.

Sometimes when a guy is overly enthusiastic up front, it isn’t entirely about our aversion to nice men. It’s something else, and that something else is that it can feel generic because: a) he has probably been that enthusiastic before and b) as quickly as he falls in love, he’s likely to fall out of it. No one wants to be with someone that will be with just anyone and no one wants to fall for the ruse that is infatuation only to find out that the feeling passed for Prince Charming as quickly as it came.

At some point though, it’s time to admit that you enjoy having relations with bad men, but a good guy would probably be preferable for the long term. I think I had this moment when I was 25 and I unenthusiastically said something like, “He’s really nice” about a guy I had started to date to my mother and she said, “You’re ridiculous. I need to go. There’s laundry to do or something. Next time you go out with someone, remember your father and I don’t want you to move home.” And, here, I think she meant: although drama and games lead to unbelievably amazing hate sex, sometimes life has more to offer than sharing a wonderful, confusing ten minutes with someone you can barely stand.