Have you ever left your number for someone on the back of a receipt? Cute waiter? Hot bartender? “Hot” busboy you think is hot but you’ve actually had too many beers to accurately judge him?
Right. We’ve all been there. Only twice has anyone ever actually texted me back. Enter my most recent datescapade.
It was Valentine’s Day and I had the choice of either wallowing in self pity or going out with a friend for drinks and apps after our show. I chose the latter. Obvi.
We sat down and immediately after the waiter took our order, my amigo turned to me and said, “He’s totally checking you out.”
“What? No he’s not.”
“Yes he is. You HAVE to leave your number.”
So I left my number. What’s the worst that could happen, right? The guy didn’t make a huge impression on me, I wasn’t looking for anything, so really, nothing to lose!
Well sho-nuff, T-Lo (code name – I’m all about avoiding getting sued here) texted me that night. And we continued to text a bit. Then we made plans to get drinks the following Monday.
I showed up a fashionable five minutes late and met him up at the bar. To be honest I didn’t really remember what he looked like (oops) so I awkwardly walked up and down the bar until I found a loner. And voila! Turns out he wasn’t bad looking – nice face, kind eyes, a little filled out (but hey, my hips have their own zip code so no judgement here). And he was fun – we literally talked all night and didn’t leave that spot for four hours. Not to mention the fact that I decided to go ahead and rip off the bandaid and expose my humor for what it is. This meant a slew of jokes about me coming from my dad’s sweaty nut sack, Helen Keller jokes, etc (see my previous post on dating without filters!), etc…and he rolled with the punches.
A plus for effort, good sir!
Then came the texts.
At first it was all, “Oh, that’s sweet, he’s thinking about me! Ha-ha he has a sense of humor! Ha-ha he got my 80’s porn joke! Ha-ha he made a mullet joke right back!”
Then it was all, “Oh, that’s sweet, he wants to make me dinner next weekend. Seems a little soon, but, yeah! I’m into it!”
Then he was all, “So do you like or hate mushrooms?”
And I was all, “More hate, but I can eat them.”
And he was all, “Do you like or hate me? Haha.”
Rrrrrrreeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaakkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk (brake noise).
There’s nothing on this earth more unappealing than insecurity. Well, other than my dog’s lipstick shooting out every time a male walks in the room. But seriously. What the fuck. Immediate turn off. I actually felt my labia shrinking into the recesses of my vagina.
Fast forward to our date.
It was a Monday night at 6pm. I showed up at his place (No! Run! Run! Haven’t you ever seen 60 minutes?!?! Yes I have and I’ve also online dated. It’s worse and far more terrifying.). We proceeded to drink some wine, he cooked, I drank more wine, he kept re-filling my glass, we ate dinner, and finally we sat down to watch Ted (my idea of romance). After about half the movie, it was edging towards 9pm. At this point, I was dreading the end of the movie where I could just tell the inevitable “attempted make out sesh” would occur. So I feined exhaustion and started gathering my things.
This was met with, “You can stay as long as you want you know. You can stay over. I promise I’ll get you up as early as you want.” (Insert weirdly suggestive grin/sly/smirk/suggestion of making unwarranted love).
Fuck to the no. No. Just…no. If I wanted you to rip my panties off I wouldn’t have cared if it was 3 am. I would have stayed. Haven’t you ever seen Cruel Intentions?? Actually I haven’t, it just felt like a good reference while writing this.
The following week was a blur of weird comments about “wooing” me and “damn I really like you” bits. It all came to a head at the end of the week.
T-Lo: Talk to me.
Me: ____________________ (What the fuck does that even mean?)
T-Lo: (3 hours later) What’s going on? I’m at work.
Me: ____________________ (OH MY GOD it’s been three hours. Calm the fuck down. I’m not even home from work.)
T-Lo: Hey hot stuff. Just landed. How are you? Don’t be a stranger. When are we gonna hang out again?
Me: ____________________ (Is never too soon? I’m sorry. That’s mean. Thank you for alluding to my good looks. It’s a nice thought, truly. But I’m not responding because, well, I’m not interested. Isn’t this written down in some relationship book somewhere???)
T-Lo: Everything okay?
Me: ____________________ (Well, if it wasn’t okay – like, if I had fallen into a meat grinder or something – I wouldn’t be able to text you back anyways. So I’ll take this as a rhetorical question.)
T-Lo: So, can I take you to dinner next Saturday? Or are you just over it?
Me: (OH MY GOD GO AWAY…) Hey sorry, I’ve been with family all weekend. Had a great time but I’m not really looking for a relationship right now. I hope you understand…
T-Lo: Yeah, I do. I’m bummed I won’t get to see you again, but you’re smart and beautiful – text me anytime!(Will
That was my out and I took it. Praise Jesus he accepted it. I mean, honestly, if he hadn’t I…
T-Lo: Hey so I wasn’t going to text you but I’ve been wondering. Do you really not want a relationship, or were you just not into it? It’s just, I thought we had a great time. Sorry. I was just wondering…
What’s that smell? Oh yes, desperation in pathetic abundance.
I should’ve stopped it right then and there and said “I’m just not that into you.” But I once again tried to not hurt his feelings and now he’s under the assumption he needs to fix me because I’m a broken individual who’s just not used to real good luvin’.
Which is precisely why I’ve deleted his number and all traces of his existence (thank you AJ, thou art intelligent and wise in all things that hath or will hath pass).
Some people out there are probably thinking…ha – that’s exactly how women act. And believe you me, I am wholeheartedly in accordance. Bitches be crazy. Which puts me in a highly empathetic mood towards men. Which also makes me want to punch myself in the vagina. I vow before God to never ever ever ever be that person (here’s to hoping I’ve never ever ever ever been that person in the past).
Unless, of course, it’s Jake Gyllenhaal we’re discussing. Then I shall fully restore all methods of over-interest and self-sacrifice, for he is a God and I would very much like him in my jeans. For, like, ever.
God speed. (Godspeed? Is that one word? Fuck it. I have no clue).