Why Does Patience Kill Me?

I've never considered myself to be an impatient person.

I can play hide and seek with Bella and Ben, even when they tell me where they are; hence, ruining the "hide and seek" concept.
I can teach someone a kickbox routine over and over until they get it.
I can listen to my mom go on and on when we're on the phone.
I can bake dozens of cookies in my kitchen for hours at a time.
I can play fetch with Kelly in the backyard like it's the greatest game in the world.

Yet when it comes to dating, I can be, at times, a little impatient. I try not to be, but sometimes I am. I don't know that I'm being entirely unreasonable, though. There's nothing wrong with wanting to spend time with someone you care about, and it's not like I demand someone's attention 24/7.

It probably doesn't help that I've been attracted to work-aholics, but I'd rather be dating a work-aholic than a couch potato.

The date with "B," last Friday went well, and I would like to see him again. In fact, he actually thanked ME the next day for MY PATIENCE during our date, because his work interrupted him a few times. Oh, I'm sure on the outside I appeared as cool as a cucumber, being understanding, smiling with kindness, laying a gentle, reassuring hand on what felt like a nicely sculpted bicep. The inside me wasn't thinking that way entirely. The inside me was probably a little impatient.

In spite of the interruptions, we still had a good time. From what I gather, he wants to see me again, too, but this week he's doing the jobs of three people.

So I have to be patient.
And I have to trust him.
And it's killing me.