So. There’s this guy…isn’t that how all the bad stories start? Or sometimes, just sometimes, the really good ones? I’ve met someone. He’s devilishly charming with the smile to match and is one of those men with a talent for making you feel like the only woman in the room. The fact that he’s unbelievably gorgeous with a set of dimples that makes me melt doesn’t hurt either. The problem is that he isn’t anywhere near interested in me. Which, as much as it’s a blow to my ego, would be fine if he could just find the cojones God gave him and tell me. But he can’t. Or won’t. So I’m reduced to pining away like a pathetic little school girl re-watching episodes of Dr. Phil and eating an entire container of Ben and Jerry’s. Nah, just kidding, I’ve already moved on to the next. But I can’t help but wonder…what ever happened to good ole fashioned rejection?
I had a disaster of a date this weekend. One of those where you want to move and change your name just in case kind of dates. It started out normally enough; we met through a mutual friend, talked on the phone a few times and each ran a background check on the other before deciding to go out for dinner the coming weekend. Living out of town, he was planning on leaving from work, driving the two hours here and then spending the night with friends. But that’s not exactly what happened. He and his luggage (yes luggage. With wheels and everything) showed up to my apartment 30 minutes late. He didn’t even speak to me as he went straight back to my bedroom where he then started stripping down before walking back through my house, NAKED, to get in my shower. (As a side note, the next morning I discovered that he had made very good friends with my loofah. My poor innocent loofah.) Did I mention he was naked?! Who does that?! On a first date! You can rest assured that I was already frantically texting my mother to have her call me and make up any kind of excuse to get me out of this date. My child was sick, the house burned down, I just remembered I’m a lesbian…but it never once occurred to me to tell him: “Look. I don’t think this is going to work. Please take your pants and go.”
In a society where niceties are continuously giving way to rude and abrupt behavior when did we start being so concerned with lying to a bad date to preserve their feelings? Had the roles been reversed, 1) I wouldn’t have accosted a poor unsuspecting loofah and 2) I would have totally expected my date to tell me that not only was I completely out of line, but there wasn’t any hope of a second date in our future. He lying to me by saying he had a good time wouldn’t do either one of us any favors. I would most likely go on thinking that this person was interested me when in all actuality, he may very well be writing a column about it, telling the world about the girl who got a little too friendly with his loofah. (I don’t know if you can tell or not, but that really disturbed me.)
Now while I think that I am wildly entertaining, I’m no where near self absorbed enough to think that every date I have is going to be successful. There are so many things that go into dating but for me, chemistry is key. If we don’t “click” then I don’t really see the point of pursuing another date. I expect the same reasoning from the men I go out with. I had a date a few weeks ago that, short of fireworks writing our names in the sky, went as well as a first date could go. He was smart, attractive and a gentleman; everything a girl could hope for. But as charming as I was and as wonderful as Mr. Perfect was, there wasn’t any chemistry. For either of us. We haven’t talked since. And that’s perfectly ok.
After the nightmare of this last date, Mr. Bubbles actually called me two days ago to invite me to come visit him this weekend. Apparently my lesbian excuse wasn’t convincing. The heck of it is I still didn’t him tell him the truth. I just couldn’t stand the thought of rejecting him. Maybe I’m the one who needs a pair of cojones.0