Sometimes the stars align just right and you find yourself the center of attention, surrounded by suitors who want nothing more than to wine and dine you. These are the kinds of nights when it pays tenfold to be a single girl. You look fabulous, feel even better, and say such witty, delightfully charming shit—you wonder what really cool alien sucked out your brain and implanted itself. If you’re me, the stars collide and . . . .
2. You have plans to hook up with an old lover later that night but you're meeting him here at happy hour first;
3. Even though you know better, the old lover is in a committed relationship;
4. The two lovers see each other, happen to be great friends (you didn’t even know they knew each other) and chit chat all night;
5. At first you’re scared shitless that the new lover will figure out the whole charade, but finally you grow bored with their boy chatter and start talking to some random Fat Guy.
Fat Guy is an ex-minor league left fielder, and seeing how much I like baseball, this piques my interest just enough for me to hand over my business card.
ME: I would have taken you for a pitcher—not an outfielder.
FAT GUY: Ouch! Are you calling me fat? I broke a leg last year. I’m usually 60 pounds lighter.
ME: (not the least bit impressed) Hmm.
Fat Guy thinks we make plans to meet up later that night when I’m out with my old lover. I guess he’s hoping he can join in on the action. Whatever. I’m not the least bit interested in this guy, but seeing that I like the attention I probably come off as though I’m flirting. Okay, I know I’m flirting.
In the morning I check my phone to find:
FAT GUY: Hey Sexy
FAT GUY: Really call me
FAT GUY: Call me please
FAT GUY: How is it?
FAT GUY: Are you naked yet?
FAT GUY: Hope it was fun. Call when you can.
FAT GUY: How are you sexy? Drinks sometime.
I really do try to ignore him, but seeing that at this point I’m currently being ignored by every other guy I know, I succumb to his persistence and finally give Fat Guy a bone. We plan to meet at Uptown Tavern for Trivia Night with a group of my friends. My girlfriends and I need someone who can answer the sports questions, so that’s how I rationalize his invitation.
The first thing I find out from Fat Guy is that he left his money clip at home and it’s my job to buy him drinks all night. The second thing I find out about Fat Guy is that he thinks he knows a hell of a lot more trivia than he really does—but because he’s persuasive we give in to his shitty answers and do very badly at Trivia Night.
Eight beers, three shots, and a plate of nachos later—my bill is over $75, and I’m pissed. Honestly, who does that? Fat Guy swears up and down that he owes me, that he’s going to take me to dinner to make up for it, and I’m not having any of it.
Eight beers, three shots, and a plate of nachos later—my bill is over $75, and I’m pissed. Honestly, who does that? Fat Guy swears up and down that he owes me, that he’s going to take me to dinner to make up for it, and I’m not having any of it.
FAT GUY: Sorry!
FAT GUY: Sorry baby
FAT GUY: If you felt disrespected, won’t happen again
ME: How about it we just start over with a real nice dinner Thursday?
FAT GUY: Perfect.
We make plans to meet at an art exhibit my friend asked me to go to, and I show up right on time. Of course, Fat Guy is nowhere to be found. I’m not surprised OR disappointed OR feeling anything at all really, but I do wonder why I’m still allowing this man in my life. Seriously, who’s the desperate one here—the one who’s glomming on for dear life or the one who’s letting him?
After ignoring about thirty texts from Fat Guy apologizing for being a dick for not showing up, I think he finally begins to get the hint.
It’s Trivia Night the following week and I’m sharing with my girlfriends how relieved I am that this chapter of my oh-so-shitty-dating life appears to be done when the Uptown Tavern server comes over to our table and says, “Don’t look.” Of course our heads go every which way trying to figure out what she’s talking about. “That asshole from last week who totally took advantage of you? The one who drank himself stupid on your tab? He’s over at the bar.”
Wearing a red jacket and chatting up the bartender stands Fat Guy in all of his glory. “Bring me our tab, please,” I say.
As I make my way over to Fat Guy, I’m very glad that I’m wearing a cute sweater dress that showcases my curves. I feel like that single girl who has everything going right for her when I begin bouncing the pleather bill sleeve against Fat Guy’s belly.
ME: Don’t—bang!—ever—bang!—contact—bang!—me—bang!—again. Here is your tab. You need to pay this.
FAT GUY: (as his smile droops) I’m not paying anything.
ME: This should cover the bill you owe me.
FAT GUY: I don’t owe you anything.
I walk away after stuffing the tab into his jacket. Actually, I strut. Fat Guy leaves the bill—unpaid—on the bar and leaves.
Instinctively I know I’m not done with him yet, but I’m feeling high on life for being so bold. When he does contact me, the texts are about how embarrassed I should feel for my behavior, how he would have paid the bill if I had asked nicely, and how I looked so incredibly hot walking back to my friends. This time I don't have stars in my eyes because of the compliment, and I avoid getting sucked in.
Instinctively I know I’m not done with him yet, but I’m feeling high on life for being so bold. When he does contact me, the texts are about how embarrassed I should feel for my behavior, how he would have paid the bill if I had asked nicely, and how I looked so incredibly hot walking back to my friends. This time I don't have stars in my eyes because of the compliment, and I avoid getting sucked in.
2 comments:
Douche
I couldn't agree with you more.
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