He’s Just Not That Into Me

Last night, I went on a first date with the second guy I found on the online dating site. At first, all seemed well. We met up at a beer bar in my neighborhood and settled in at a table with our preferred pale ales. The conversation was going well… nothing about it was earth-shatteringly wonderful nor was it forced or blatantly offensive. It was just good. When we both reached the end of our second beers, the server came by asking if we wanted another round. She looked at me first and I said, “Sure!” I thought things were going well and I wouldn’t mind a few more minutes to chat with him. 

But when the server looked at him to see if he wanted another round, he said, “No, thanks.” Before I could change my order, the server dashed off to get me the pint that was going to make me look like a raging alcoholic. Mercifully, she reappeared moments later to tell me the keg had blown and if there was an alternate brew I’d like. 

“No, actually. I’m alright,” I gratefully said. 

“Yeah, could I get the check?” The Date asked quickly. 

Hmm. Something here was clearly amiss. I ran through the previous moments conversation, wondering what it could have been that turned him off, because this guy was ready to go. But as far as I could remember, there was nothing. 

When he’d paid the bill, we got up and walked out where he gave me a half-assed hug and we went our separate ways. 

It was the strangest thing I’ve seen during a date in a long time. Just BOOM! Done. He obviously wasn’t that into me, which is alright by me. There was nothing about the few hours we spent in each other’s company that truly excited me and had me longing for more, either. 

I guess it’s back to the drawing board. I guess I’m going to have to start tapping into my B-list of dating site matches, as I have gone through the first stringers. 

The best thing about my date last night? At least I made it home in time to see SNL. :) 

Helpful Hints From A Husband Hunter*

I’ve been into this online dating for a little over one week now and I only have one thing to say. I’m exhausted! Before signing on, I have to psych myself up because there is a lot of sifting through profiles that needs to be done and if you’re not up for the task, then, well, forget about it.

I imagine that most women have this problem when signing up for an online dating service. Far too much riff-raff sending “winks” and emails and IMs and all that jazz. I feel that some of the men that I have received messages from haven’t even looked at my profile. Had they actually read about me, they probably wouldn’t think that I–a liberal, active, 20-something–would mesh well with them–a late 40’s, ultra-conservative church elder.

Over the past week and a half, I have been proposed to twice via dating site emails. I have been invited to meet mothers and I have been told once that I would make beautiful children (with the message sender, of course).

There are a few things I have learned, though, by scanning the hundreds of eligible bachelors within a 15-mile radius of my zip code. (Yes, I won’t go further than that. Anything outside of that, I consider it long-distance. Seriously. I hate driving.)

Gentlemen, if you’re planning on diving into the online dating pool, keep some of these handy tips in mind when constructing your profile. Trust me.

Please don’t put up pictures of you with other women. There are some men who’s pictures are virtually a slideshow of all their past girlfriends. Though this isn’t all that bad, it just strikes me the wrong way as I scroll through the pics of a prospective beau. Also, in the same vain, please don’t put up dozens of pics of you with all your friends or you in groups of people. This just confuses me. Who the heck am I looking for?

Please, I beg of you, do not put up more than one photo of you holding an alcoholic beverage. Yes, there might be that one picture that your friend took of you last year at that party that you feel makes you look a bit like Matt Damon. Sure, you’re holding a Bud Light bottle in it, which is not bad. But then when I click “next” and I see a picture of you tapping a keg, followed by a picture of you and your friends hoisting shot glasses in a toast, I’m going to assume that drinking is all you do. Or the only way you know how to have fun. Mix it up a bit, sir.

Also, in regards to picture choice, please don’t put up pictures of you posing with famous people. That ain’t gonna woo me. Also, please don’t put up pictures of the far-off places you’ve traveled–especially if you’re not in the photos themselves, because I just don’t see the point of posting them. These travel pics just don’t excite me. In fact, it almost looks like a desperate move to me. But this whole process may have turned me into a jaded curmudgeon. Sometimes I think I’m being a little overly picky… quickly running through the profiles of possible future-boyfriends like I would look over resumes… scanning quickly for a few things: proper grammar and syntax, things that don’t make me vomit and sarcasm and intelligent humor. If, in a ten-second glance, I don’t find any of those things, it’s off to the Round File (aka the trashcan) for you.

Wow. That sounded really bitchy. But it’s the truth. It’s how I am trying to stay sane during my one-month subscription to this place that promises that it will find me true love.

*I’m not exactly a husband-hunter, per say. It’s just that my love of alliteration took over and I thought that would be a great title.

And So It Begins

I did it this week. I joined one of those online dating sites that I’ve written about. God help me.

I answered all the questions, I scoured my photo library looking for pictures in which I looked not hideous yet fun and cute but not slutty. Though it may not be my best work, I wrote what I’d like to find in a mate (haha, that phrase cracks me up) and I think I managed to let my personality shine through just enough.

Imagine my surprise when, this morning, I logged in to see that in the past day and a half, there had not been one single view of my profile–not one! I promptly searched in my zip code for females in my age range, you know, just to see what my competition was like, hoping to get some clue why not a single person had viewed my profile. The girls looked normal. There were no supermodels, so that wasn’t it.

Stumped, I clicked to see my profile… to see what everyone else was viewing. Maybe I wasn’t being looked at because I accidentally uploaded that pic of me doing that barnyard animal impression that amuses my friends so much but contorts my face into what could be the world’s ugliest visage. A funny thing happened, though, when I clicked to see my profile. I was redirected to a page that read “This profile is not available. Please try another profile.”

What??? It most certainly did exist. I paid the damn money to make sure it did!

Immediately, I fired off an email to the webmasters asking where the heck my profile was. How could I break men’s hearts if they couldn’t find me!? They sent back to me a list of criteria and rules for profiles, which I quickly read and felt that I had honored. But there was still no profile.

To the phone I went, where I called one of the friendly operators who was surely going to tell me that it must have been that the company thought I was far too pretty or funny or charming for their site and they were doing me a favor by not letting it appear. Surely that would be it.

“No, ma’am. It seems your profile was dis-approved due to inappropriate content,” she sweetly said.

“What the fuck? What the hell kind of damn inappropriate content is on there? I wrote that shit myself!” I calmly told her.

“Well, you see ma’am, you used the word A-S-S in the first paragraph. That kind of language is inappropriate for our website.”

Yes. She spelled it out. To clarify, I used that word in the context of “laughing your ass off.” Not like, say, “put it up your ass” or anything crude like that. I used it very chastely, I believe.

“If you’d like, I’d be happy to change it for you and we’ll get your profile back up and running right now,” she offered. “What would you like me to change it to?”

“How about B-U-T-T? Is that allowed?” I semi-sarcastically spelled out for her.

“Yes, ma’am. B-U-T-T is allowed.” She spelled that one out, too.

So change it we did and now I’m back in business, ready to charm the schmorgasborg of available men. But this time, the profile is PG-13. Unlike my general day-to-day vocabulary, apparently.

Damn.

A/S/L Please

The internets. A wonderful place to buy books. All the books you could imagine: rare books, out of print books, self-published books. The internets is also a great place to find that regional delicacy that makes you think of home (Who knew you could buy it where you buy books… and holy crap… that’s like a 2000% markup…). But can you buy a boyfriend or girlfriend on the intarweb?

I guess so. Not that I have, mind you. But so many others have on any number of those online dating services. I’ve always been a bit wary of them. I prefer to find my men the old-fashioned way: a bottle of gin and a handful of shame and regret. You know, old-school relationships have multiple dates, usually laden with alcohol, where each party dances around potential landmines… the Deal Breakers. Things like expected commitment level, kids, all that happy horse shit. The time in between those dates is spent obsessing over the phone with your girlfriends about what he could possibly want out of this relationship, does he want kids? Does he not want kids? Why is he single (cause you know there’s always a why…)?I’ve always found asking those questions very difficult, yet the answers to them are so damned important to me. In a dream world, I’d like to start off each date with a questionnaire that might look like this… 

• When was your last relationship?
• Why did it end?
• Do you see marriage in your future?
• Do you find “The Office” funny? (American or British)
• What is your credit rating? hey, this is very important…
• Do you want to have kids?
• Do you want to live in the suburbs? that’s one of those dealbreakers I was talkin’ about…
• Are there any horrendous “family tradition names” that you would expect our child to be named for? (Roman numerals, feminine names for males, etc.)
• How do you feel about show tunes?

 These things are all very important questions to me… some more than others. I feel like if I just tossed out these things on the first date, it would freak that date the hell out, but the answers are so crucial to me that I’d rather not go on many dates only to find out the answers are not good later on in the game.

So here’s where I’m starting to think that online dating sites are a great idea. You lay it all out on the line up front. Kids. Religion. “The Office.” It’s all there for potential mates to see. If you don’t like one, you move on to the next… no muss, no fuss, no time wasted. I think all these people who have found love online might actually be onto something…But that brings me to my next problem… I’ve checked out the dating sites for guys in my preferred demo (29-39, in case you were wondering). For the most part, my city’s offerings in that age range don’t really excite me.

Is it time to move?

Rabbi Says…

I think it’s telling when, in the past few years, my mom has gotten me the books “He’s Just Not That Into You” and “It’s Called A Break-up Because It’s Broken.” But then, I noticed my sister has also been sending me various articles she runs across on the internet about how to date and find love. Hmm… so my family has noticed that I’m a relationship trainwreck, too, huh? Interesting…Anyway, my sister sent me a link that I reluctantly clicked last week. Rabbi Shmuley Boteach’s Rules Of Dating on Oprah’s XM Radio website.I read on and realized that in Dr. Shmuley’s eyes… I have totally fucked up all the rules of dating.

Do not get the four stages of romantic relationships out of order, namely (1) physical attraction, (2) verbal communication, (3) emotional intimacy and (4) physical intimacy. These four stages need to unfold gradually and in the right order, he says. “If you get them out of order, then the relationship is going to be very troubled.”

Uh oh. I don’t really have to provide an explanation of my fuck-uppery here, do I? How about this next one?

You must observe a two-date minimum. “Give people a chance,” Rabbi Shmuley says.

Okay, I buy that. And I’ve observed that, too. What’s next Shmules? (He loves it when I call him Shmules..)

Don’t get too personal on the first date. Rabbi Shmuley says you’ll lose your mystique and risk revealing information that is inappropriate to share with a stranger.

Hmm… I’m going to go with the “uh oh” again. I’ve been known to over-share (um… are you new around these parts??) and I freely give TMI to perfect strangers. I’m going to have to find a man who doesn’t quite agree with Shmules on this one…

Show respect for the other person by being on time and turning off your cell phone.

A-fucking-men! I will be the first to admit that I am guilty of the over-blackberrying and texting, but I do try try try my hardest to at least not do it when I’m out with someone I’m (hoping to get) involved with. It’s downright fucking rude and nothing chaps my ass more than a guy constantly pulling out his cell phone to check it in front of me. Grrr. That shit pisses me off. As John Galt experienced when a few too many texts on his part one night unleashed a flurry of crazy out of me that few have seen. Picture yelling in the street, drunkenly, in front of a patio of bar patrons on a busy Friday night…. yeah, not one of my proudest moments… anyway… Shmules, what else ya got?

Don’t stare at members of the opposite sex during the date. Focus on your date to show you care.

Duh. If you’re doing this on a date, well then, you’re just a douche. The only reason I stare at other members of the opposite sex is because they look vaguely familiar and I can’t figure out how I know them, but it’s all because I refuse to go to the eye doctor and get a new prescription on my glasses and I’m semi-blind as a bat.

As dating progresses, slowly reveal more and more about yourself. “But do so organically and naturally—don’t force it,” Rabbi Shmuley says.

Yeah, so I have another problem here. “Force It” seems to be my mantra…

Be yourself. “Be natural, be confident,” he says.

Hah. hahaha. Okay, I can’t stop laughing here… moving on …

Don’t use cheap pickup lines. Introduce yourself with sincerity, not gimmicks.

Okay, now I’m starting to find Shmuley’s methods suspect… I, for instance, could easily be picked up with certain lines. Like my favorite: “Baby, you’re like a prized bass. I don’t know whether to eat you or mount you.”

Do not bring up an ex or talk about previous lovers. “It’s insulting to the person you’re dating,” Rabbi Shmuley says. “It makes them feel like you’re still stuck in the previous relationship. It makes them feel like you’re comparing them.”

Yeah, he’s probably onto something here. I’m seen this in action, both in my dates and in my friends dates…

Do not use sexually suggestive words. It sends the wrong message.

Well, crap. That’s my only tactic.

Do not talk about yourself constantly. “Make [your date] feel they’re being listened to,” he says.

Thankfully, this is something I’m learning to do just a wee bit more. Because all I have to talk about is ex boyfriends, and Shmules already said we can’t do that… I don’t talk cause I have nothing else to talk about, except, you know, my cat.

Do not go to a movie. “That’s not a meaningful date—a meaningful date is the two of you sharing a conversation,” he says.

True dat.

Do not bring along a friend, relative or any third party on your date.

Well, shoot. My mom is always a hoot to have along on a date… but alright, Shmules. If you say so. Who am I to say you’re wrong??

Googles Gone Bad

Last week I had this awesomely funny post going in my mind. It was all about googling people and if it was creepy to tell them that you had googled them. But as the day wore on, the post kept changing in my mind because of fallout from said “google” until it became something I didn’t even want to write about because I was so hurt by it.

I woke up that morning with an ex on my mind for whatever reason. Though Gibson and I had a slightly chilly last encounter, something had me thinking about him. So I googled him. In the past year, he’s taken on a new position and since then, the results of a Gibson Google are much, much more interesting. I was pleased to have found a video of him, dated December 07, presenting a new product he developed at a convention. It tickled me to see a video of him online and see his face and hear his voice without having to call him or see him. Yes, I know. I’m slightly crazy. (or wholly crazy, depending on who you talk to). All day long, I wondered to myself if it would be creepy to send him an email just saying, “Wow, googling you has gotten a lot more interesting! Hope you’re well!” I decided it would be creepy and restrained myself. But I did, however, email the link of the video to my roommate–she’d heard so much about him from me over the years and had never seen or met him, so I wanted her to get a glimpse.

Later that day, my roomie IM’d me.

“Uh… Grace… so I watched that video…” she typed. “And you’re right. He’s cute. But did you see one important thing about that video?”

“No….?” I responded.

“Um…. did you notice the wedding ring on his left hand?”

I immediately dropped what I was doing and went back to that video to rewatch and lo and behold, there is was. A gold wedding ring on his left hand. I was seething. So I forgot about my decision that emailing him was creepy and went for it in what my roommate describes as my greatest literary work to date:

“Hey there, Mister! How you be?? Hope all is well with you! So this funny thing happened today… For whatever reason, I thought of you this morning and decided to google you. I must say, googling you has gotten a whole lot more interesting! I found this awesome video of you at that amp convention in December. You look good!! But I noticed something really interesting in that video. You’re wearing a wedding ring. So that makes me wonder… were you married the whole time you were fucking me, like all my friends kept telling me you were? Or how about in December when you can to town and wanted to fuck me??Best,Grace” 

He wrote back nearly immediately with an email that started off with “Ouch.” He followed with a feeble rebuff saying he was “married again” but was very vague with his timeline. He finished with some sort of “I didn’t know what my intentions were with you when I came to Nashville” and that he knew he owed me some sort of explanation but didn’t know how to say the words.

I didn’t respond. There’s no reason to. That book is done. I’d use the worn-out “chapter” metaphor, but he was more than a chapter to me. I don’t know quite what to believe, if he was single when we were officially seeing each other and just recently got married or if he was indeed married with a family back in Seattle while he was seeing me here like my friends so adamantly believed but I was too trusting and naive to see… Each seems completely plausible to me.

What hurts the most isn’t the possible lie or break of trust. What hurts the most is something within myself that I was only finally able admit after a glass a wine and more than a few tears shed in front of my roommate. The girl writing this is one hell of a lonely soul and upon hearing that he was married, the first thing that I thought was he’s just one more man that didn’t choose me. This blog is littered with them, and as I get older it seems my options just keep getting smaller and smaller. Don’t worry, though. I’m not all “Boo hoo… I wish he picked ME!” It’s just the idea of it. The idea that I wasn’t important enough to him to be anything more than a girl on the side.

Oh well. Fuck him.

If My Life…

…was the romantic comedy I always envision it to be, I had a moment a few weeks ago that would be one of the opening scenes in which I, the flawed-yet-charming heroine, meet the man who at the end of movie I’d marry on some beach after he and I had a big fight and there was a slow-speed car chase. With Julie Roberts driving.  No seriously. I this awesome Romantic-Comedy moment at my office building. It was waaay early in the mornin’ and I was sipping my coffee as I waited for the elevator. Into the vestibule walks a guy about my age… based on his looks, I’d say he’s a graphic designer–he’s got the spikey hair, the messenger bag, the chunky-rimmed glasses. We exchange the token “hi” as we both stare at the elevator doors, waiting waiting waiting silently until the doors opened and we both entered the car. That’s when  he broke the rule. He talked.”This elevator is soooo slow,” he said.  I nodded in acknowledgment, trying to not let this continue any further, because if there’s anything I hate, it would be stupid small talk with strangers. ”This elevator is so slow,” he continued, “that two people could talk about how slow it is and there’d be enough time for an awkward silence after.”[Beat]“Like that one,” he nervously said. I couldn’t handle it anymore. I laughed so hard that I snorted (which, isn’t all that difficult for me…). The door opened to my floor, and still laughing, I said good-bye and went on my way. Now all I have to figure out is who’ll play my quirky best friend.    

Fear And Learning In Las Vegas

Back in late December, I met a man at my company’s holiday party out on the west coast. There was a definite attraction and follow-up flirtation there (and some awesome photos to prove it), but when you take a real look at him and me, you’ll realize that there really isn’t anywhere that this relationship could go. Among other things, the man lives in San Francisco, his job requires he travel all over the west coast and my job requires me to be chained to a desk 96.8% of the time. The relationship was doomed from the beginning. 

But does that stop me from trying? Hell no. Sometime after the new year, we decided that we needed to see each other. Instead of meeting in Bald Knob, Arkansas we decided on Las Vegas. (Okay okay, so Bald Knob isn’t the middle point between San Francisco and Nashville… I just found it on the map and laughed my ass off when I read it). The perfect locale for a first official date.

We had a fantastic time… we did our fair share of drinking and gambling and I feel as if we successfully left the city richer than when we arrived. But besides the slot machine and roulette winnings, I think I left with something even more important. I learned what it was like to be treated like a lady. 

This man treated me in a manner I have never seen or felt before, that I only read about in fairy tales. (ick… rereading that last sentence made me almost throw up in my mouth from the cliche-ity of all, but it’s damn true…) He held doors open for me and always let me enter a room or a car first–not because he thought it was something he thought would impress me, like many people do at the beginning of relationships. I could tell he did it because it was instinctual to him and he was taught from a very early age how to be a gentleman and he made a very real effort to be one. Sometimes, his gentlemanliness was so extreme, like when he insisted on paying for everything, which makes me extremely uncomfortable (there’s that whole “I don’t want to owe anyone anything” part of me). We even got into tiny arguments about who would pay because I just wanted to pay for something… so he let me pay a $6 cab fare. One of the reasons why I detest men paying for things is because I’ve always felt that when a man pays, there’s… an obligation. But it was different during this trip… there wasn’t that feeling, and he never once tried anything with me.

One of my favorite things he did while we were in Vegas was the way he held my hand whenever we went anywhere. I loved this not because I’m a schmoop who wants PDA anywhere and everywhere. This hand-holding was more of a thoughtful service he provided to me. You see, when I go to a new place, I’m filled with such wide-eyed wonder that I forget about necessary safety precautions… you know, like looking before you cross the street or making sure there are no poles or tables or things in your way when you walk. When he held my hand, he led us to where we were going, allowing me to stare up at shiny things without risk of injury while I walked. Had he not held onto me, he would’ve lost me within the first 10 minutes and I’d still probably be wandering up and down the strip, with my eyes pointed upward, jaw dragging on the ground just taking everything in. 

Despite this amazing time we had, the reality is there isn’t really much chance of a romantic relationship here. The logistics alone–not to mention the insane airfares–are just too daunting. But I’m one of those fate-believin’ people who thinks other humans enter our lives to teach us very specific lessons. And I think I met this guy to learn that this is how I should expect to be treated and that I shouldn’t settle for anything less. For far too long, I let myself get walked over and treated with a subtle disrespect, all the while thinking that that was just the way men and women act around each other these days. I expected to leave Vegas either broke or married… not smarter and more enlightened. Nice. 

Avoiding The Others

For weeks and weeks, I’ve been trying with all my might to convince my friends that Valentine’s Day meant nothing to me and it didn’t bother me that there wasn’t a valentine in sight. I realize now, in that ever-so-clear hindsight, that I was actually trying to talk myself into indifference over the Feast of St. Valentine. I was not successful.

I decided that I wanted to take myself on a date this evening… I was in the mood for some good wine and a nice rare beef tenderloin. But every restaurant in town was bound to be an emotional landmine, littered with Them. You know who Them are… (They are?)… The happy couples. The Others.  Ick. I did not want to see Them.

It’s not that I’m one of those militant anti-Valentine’s people. Quite the contrary. I’m a hopeless romantic who takes holidays far too personally. I just didn’t want to be reminded that I wasn’t dressed up, giddy about a person sitting across from me sharing a bottle of wine and awkwardly trying to make conversation peppered with nervous giggling. I love being one of those people, and I was just a teensy bit jealous of the girls that got to be that today.

Until later this evening, when I was one great sauvignon blanc into my solo dinner at Mirror. When I had entered the restaurant, I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was not polluted with Them and that I had an enjoyable evening (complete with trashy tabloids) ahead of me. But sometime after my plate was cleared away and before my second glass of wine was poured, They started to pour in too.

A couple of Them landed on the barstools to my left and I was forced to eavesdrop on their conversation. Overhearing couples on dates is a secret pleasure of mine… I make sport of guessing where in their relationship they are. This couple next to me was on a first date. The over-the-top outfits, the cumbersome handling of the barstools, the cologne that was marinated in… it all reeked–quite literally–of “first date.”

As the two were perusing the wine menu, they landed on sangria. The bartender asked what they’d like to start off to drink and the Male Them quickly took over the ordering process. “We’d like to start off with a ca-raf-fay of sangria.”

“You mean ‘ca-raff?’” The bartender said, secretly snidely (hey, I was a bartender once… I would have reveled in a moment like that.)

“Uh.. yes. Ca-raff,” Male Them corrected. “I was using the Spanish pronunciation,” he quickly told Female Them when the bartender walked away (snickering, I imagine).

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better and that hearing that exchange had basically negated any sad, mopey feelings I harbored all day, I heard another fantastic gem of wisdom come from Male Them.

“You know, one day, I’d love to develop organic fast food. That’s my dream. That’s my passion,” he emphatically told Female Them when she said she liked Whole Foods better than his favorite grocery store, Kroger.

Right at that moment, when I overheard him trying too hard to impress his date, I realized that it wasn’t so bad to be single on Valentine’s Day and that it really could be worse. I could’ve been on a bad first date with a man passionate about organic fast food. Instead, I was on a date with me. And that isn’t so bad after all.

My Hot Date

Last week, I had a hot date. ‘Cept I ended up with someone other than who I was planning on going out with. Gibson sent me an email notifying me that he would be making an appearance for one night only and he requested I meet up with him. I knew in the back of my mind that he was thinking the night would end with boot-knockin’ but between you and me, I really didn’t want that to happen (all part of this new Thinkin’ Clearly Thing I’m doing…). He suggested meeting for drinks, but I knew that after a glass of wine, he would get more and more irresistible, even though I know all he really does is objectify me and there’s not really anything there but raw chemistry. 

Desperate to find a more platonic activity, I scored my boss’ tickets to the Preds game. He’s got kick ass seats and he was sitting in the company seats (on the glass!) with a client so he was more than happy to donate his personal seats to me. The Boss instructed me to meet him at the Palm before the game to get the tickets from him. On my way to the Palm, twenty minutes before the puck dropped, Gibson texted me saying he wasn’t going to be able to get out of his meetings and that I should go on without him. 

Two years ago when I first met Gibson, I would’ve been crushed, but something this time was different. I was relieved. And not just because it totally got me off the hook of having to rebuff Gibson’s advances later in the evening. No, I was relieved because when I was thinking about going to the hockey game, there was only one person that I wanted sitting next to me and it wasn’t Gibson. It was John Galt. 

John knew I was going out with Gibson that night. He wasn’t all that happy about it, but he dealt with it. But twenty minutes before the game, when Gibson bailed on me, I made a call. A few minutes later, there was John, meeting me at the Palm with a smile. I played up the whole “I got stood up” thing but truth is, I wanted to go with John. I could’ve probably saved the night with Gibson–in fact, ten minutes after he bailed, he texted back saying that he ended up getting out the meetings and would meet me in time to only miss a few minutes of the game, but I lied and said that it was too late, even though I hadn’t gotten John on the phone yet. But in my mind, it was too late. 

Yes, what I did to Gibson was rude. I blew him off the rest of the night, not returning any emails or texts, causing him to write a final chilly email to me. But when it came down to it, I just thought about my time and who I’d rather spend it with. Would I rather spend my evening with someone that isn’t more than a semi-fictional character who lives across the country and wants nothing more but sex from me or spend my time with someone who laughs heartily at my jokes, who is always a phone call away willing to help me with anything I need and is a best friend who will call me on my bullshit, but still always end it with a “but you know I still love you.” The choice seemed pretty clear to me. 

During the third period, John looked over at me and said in a tone tinged with hurt that he was sitting in my date’s seat. But he wasn’t. My date would’ve been sitting in his seat. So even though the night didn’t go as I thought it would, it went exactly as it should have.