About two weeks ago I went on a date with a guy. He was real cute. I asked him about his job. He was a heart stopper. No, really. I guess there’s a specific person who stops your heart when you have open heart surgery. Go figure.
Anyways, this heart guy seemed really sweet. We went to a bar up in my neighborhood and shared a giant bowl of all-you-can-eat mac&cheese, chatted for about an hour, but were both tired so called it quits shortly afterwards and he gave me a ride home. It was generally agreed that we would get together again some time and I was pleasantly surprised over the next few days when he texted me, calling me cute little pet names (Hi Gorgeous/Hey Cutie/etc) and even when he would call just to talk in the evenings after a long day at work. His face was cute. His personality was cute. The whole situation was cute. We decided to get together the following Wednesday. With no solid plans in place by Wednesday afternoon I reached out to work out the details. In response: he cancelled. Claiming that he had a lot to do and that he wasn’t working that day so therefore was not in the city (a point of contention for me as I had already explained my wariness to date a suburb-dweller simply because of the distance.) He requested a rain check and we settled on the weekend (’cause you know this girl is BUSY!)
Saturday rolls around and I get a text in the morning asking what my plans for the night are. “Not sure yet” says I. Crickets from his end. Not a word. Until 6pm when I’m comfortably sitting on the couch with a girlfriend eating crab rangoon and watching a terrible movie and I receive a text. “I guess we’re not hanging out tonight, huh?” Well, sir, you did not make any plans so… After plenty of back and forth it was determined that he didn’t want to go out and would really only settle with coming to my apartment to “hangout.” I had a number of qualms with this:
- This is meant to be a second date, not a “hangout,”
- Aside from messages/texts/calls, I’ve known this gent for all of one face-to-face hour. The possibility of rapist/murderer/stalker has not been entirely ruled out,
- Close friends can drop me a last minute invite to hang out, no problem, sure, whatever. Strangers, particularly ones who are trying to woo me (or at least woo their way into my pants) need to give a little advance notice. Nothing like a last minute invite to make a girl feel like an afterthought.
A little put off, I extended the olive branch and offered: “pick a night this week, a time and a place, and I’ll be there.” Perfect – he said – how about Tuesday? Done deal.
Now, we all know that if things had gone well, I wouldn’t be writing this post.
Once again, somewhat bothered that day-of-date no details had been determined, I texted Tuesday morning to see what the plan was. Crickets. All day crickets. Crickets well into the evening. Enough crickets that I decided it was time to cut him loose. A quit snip of a text and off he went, free into the world. More crickets. Then, at 10:30 he called. Judge all you want, I didn’t answer (amen to that).
So here’s what I’m writing. I know there are plenty of girls who are down to hangout. Who are up for a good time. Who don’t care if you decide last minute to head to a dive bar. But I am not one of those girls. I still advocate The Date. The formal, somewhat awkward, courtship of two individuals as they get to know each other. I’ve got a schedule on my hands and the sitting-around-waiting-for-you-to-text thing? I did that all through high school, I’m not up for it any more. I’ve got better things to do. I know there’s all this nonsense swirling about a hook up culture but I refuse to succumb to it. You want to date me? Well, you’re going to have to date me.
Oh, christ. Back to the drawing board.