Guess who has sent me two text messages and called me twice in the last six days? Was it the cute guy I work with, who asked me out but never followed through (we'll call him Pussy, because that's what he is)? Was it Tom, the really good kisser who I had a great date with last week? Or was it Jon, the really bad lay who tasted like stale cigarettes? Come on, I know you can get this one.
That's right, it was Jon. When I got the last message I laughed the bitter ironic laugh of the single girl who gets called by the wrong guy.
Do we see what I'm dealing with here, people?
To be fair, my heart went out to the guy. The forced casualness of the very short, "Hey, it's Jon, give me a call. 917-XXX-XXXX" was almost painful to listen to. I could almost hear the advice from a friend telling him to wait a few days, and keep it brief. In fact, I have heard that advice, and let's face it, when you start strategizing because you are so insecure about where you stand with the other person, chances are, you have no standing with them.
It's not like I am a stranger to rejection. When Pussy asked me out, I was elated. We picked a day, but plans fell through due to unforeseen circumstances. I asked if he wanted to reschedule and he was emphatic about a rain check. The holidays went by, we returned to work, and nothing. The ball was definitely in his court, but he missed the serve, on purpose or not. I could have sent a little email to nudge him, but instead I chose to get the hint that, for whatever reason, he changed his mind. If he was that keen on going out with me, he would have followed up, right?
Part of the reason I went out with Tom last week and hooked up with Jon at the club was to forget about Pussy. Isn't it strange how we can get hung up on these random people we hardly know anything about? It doesn't matter. I'm resigned to a life of awkward elevator rides with The Date That Never Was.
I'm predicting Jon will call one more time before giving up, maybe some time early next week. I wish I had the guts to answer and tell him flat out that I don't want to take things any further. Instead, I'll let it go to voicemail. I guess I'm a pussy, too.