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April 29, 2006


Hah hah. I thought I was doing it right, keeping it a big secret and all. Which is funny, since the one thing I wanted to do was TELL EVERYONE, and I do mean EVERYONE, that I Had Been Asked On A Date. Yes. A divorced woman over a certain age with four cats and a propensity for crazy was asked out on a real bonafide date. Hooray!

It's odd having a diary that other people read. I'm not really secretive by nature (obviously) but on the other hand, there is the matter of good old-fashioned Southern superstition, in which you can jinx things merely by saying them aloud. I remember when Matt McAlister asked me to the prom in high school, I was afraid to tell anyone for at least a whole week (forever in High School Standard Time) because of the possible jinxing it factor. It's a concern.

And so I went on this date, and told no one. And it was fun! Better than fun! He took me to a great cajun restaurant and it reminded me of home a little, and it was nice. Because what a cute guy, right? Who knows you used to live in the Gret Stet of Loosiana and takes you to a cajun restaurant. And we went out again, and again, and before long we were spending all kinds of time together, and wasn't this nice? Because ya'll know. It's been too long. I've had eighteen months of nothing, not even a hand on my arm, not even a hug. It's been Angela's Ashes over here in the lovin' department. The Grapes of Wrath Of Getting Any (handholding) (hi Dad!).

And I thought things were going OK, I mean no I wasn't delusional, after all he's still a guy and I'm still me with my issues and quirks (quirk-free!) and so on and so forth. But for the most part, it was going well and we did all these goofy things like teenagers, text messaging each other, kissing in the car, watching really bad DVDs until all hours of the night. He brought me flowers once. Made me dinner one night. I told a few people. Just close friends.

This sounds good, doesn't it?

Except then we talked one day on the phone, JUST LIKE NORMAL, and he said, "OK, I'll talk to you later tonight..." and then HE NEVER CALLED ME AGAIN.

On the first day it was like, "Oh, I just saw him yesterday. Maybe he got busy."

On the second day, I was surprised not to hear from him. After all, this had not been the pattern. We talked at least every other day. Usually every day (just for a minute or two, not long conversations) (or a text message, an email) but... now, nothing. The sounds of silence.

Day Three comes and I am well and very pissed off.

Day Four. I tell Jennifer, "Oh my God, I think I have been Lone Rangered. He came, he saw, he left... who was that masked man?"

Day Five and I refuse to talk or think about the whole thing. Perhaps he died.

Day Six. He better have died.

Finally, one week with no proof of life and all I can do is shake my head and wonder, what the fu...?

And all that time spent not telling ya'll, or anyone out of fear of jinxing it. Then I go and get jinxed somehow anyway. My love karma must be something so foul and miserable, Lord knows what I have done in a former life to deserve it. Oh sure, I could call him, but I do have at least a shred of pride remaining. The woman who calls after a week of a man's no-calls is put in the awkward position of being The Chaser. Give my my dignity, please.

When put into proper perspective, it's no big deal ... it's not like the slow destruction of a marriage, a true love, but still. I liked him. He was fun to hang out with. He was cute. He could cook. He was in my age range. He had really nice arms. I mean, I do have my standards. But apparently he is now The One Who Never Called Again. Nice! Oh God. Wait. What if I have developed some kind of man-repelling aura? I am unpalatable. It could be happening on a cellular level without my express consent... maybe it's chemical ... maybe next month we'll all be making jokes about how quickly I can make a man disappear. BECAUSE PEOPLE, THIS IS NOT A GOOD THING.

Or -- maybe it's not just me, it's just how dating goes. Tell me, please is this what dating has to offer? Anxiety over what to wear and who to tell about what you're going to wear. Followed by angst over whether or not it went well/ya'll should kiss/ya'll kissed too much/will he call again. Then butterflies, or whatever, then... NOT ONE SINGLE DAMN THING OK I QUIT. THIS SUCKS.

Appparently it's much easier to simply NEVER CALL AGAIN than to send an email (or, God forbid, a PHONE CALL) explaining "Hey, it was nice knowing you and I'm glad I spent the past many weeks with you, but I've decided to get back with my ex/run off to Bora Bora/become a transvestite/join Opus Dei so I won't be calling you anymore. But let's be friends." Does a man think it's KINDER to the woman to disappear? Does he think we prefer silence to any excuse, no matter how lame? Does the pope wear a G-string? (I don't know. Maybe he does. It's been a rough year for the pope. All I can say is that for the sake of my analogy there, we'll assume the pope does not, in fact, wear a G-string.) Because I believe I speak for all women here when I say WE HATE YOU WHEN YOU JUST MYSTERIOUSLY STOP CALLING.

And yet! Men wonder why women are from time to time prone to pessimism. Men wonder why women put up walls around their hearts, men wonder why we scoff at their sincerity, doubt them. Well let me tell you why. It is because each of us, through a lifetime of dealing with men, have been subjected to He Who Never Called Again. And ya'll are just paying it forward each time you abruptly stop calling a woman, forget about her like gum on the bottom of someone's shoe, or leave your wives to play house with some new girl you've known for a month. I don't hate men -- I love men, the way ya'll smell and talk and look at a girl just so -- but I'll be damned if right now I could care less about any of you, all of you, because you say you're different and some of you even appear to be different, and in the end you just aren't different at all.

Maybe the trick is to go out on dates and at the end of each evening, not care if you ever hear from the guy ever again. Except, what's the point of that? I can go to dinner with my friends, and laugh and carry on without caring if my outfit is just-so or if I talked too much, and my friends won't Lone Ranger me. All of this is so confusing. I feel like a small, daft child who's had her favorite candy handed to her for a month then it's rudely taken away with no warning.

Generally trying to avoid depression like the sticky side of a pantyliner. Not always succeeding.

Posted by laurie at April 29, 2006 9:35 AM