Last night, I ran into a woman I dated once … once. Actually, I was chatting with her friend and when she introduced us, a tiny sensor went off in my Bushmills brain that said, “She looks familiar.” My sensors are less sensitive nowadays, leaving me in embarrassing situations.
“Oh, don’t even act like you don’t remember me.”
“We had dinner date then went back to my place and I kicked your ass in Foosball.”
“What? You were so butt-hurt about a girl whooping you that you forgot to call?”
“I … but … losing in Foosball? That’s impossible.”
“I think you have me confused with someone else.”
“No. You’re an author from Philadelphia. You drove a white Infiniti.”
Holy fucking shit. I’m such an ass.
“I’m just messing with you. Of course I remember.”
“Right. Let’s go, Betsy. Buh-bye, loser.”
Off they went. Well, I didn’t take a chardonnay bath so it could have been worse. Her friend was cute, but my chances were diminished now that Ms. Jilted tore me a new one.
Honestly, I don’t remember her or the date. I’ve dated numerous women since becoming single eight years ago. I can’t expect to recall every detail of every date, can I? I don’t think we had sex. Hm. Nope. I usually remember that. She probably had an annoying dog or halitosis. Whatever the reason, if I didn’t call her, I must not have been that into her so I did her a favor by tossing her back. It was only one date. How could she be sufficiently into me to hold such a grudge?
My buddies found it amusing. As much as I try to stay in the shadows, drama finds me and I eventually become the entertainment.
“You know she probably practiced your beat-down in the mirror for years just waiting for this day to come.”
“Stop. It was one fucking date.”
“Right now she’s taking laps around the bar telling all the single women you’re a heartless swine.”
“I know. Damn it. Her friend was cute, too.”
“Oh, I bet if I pushed it, I could get a date out of her friend.”
“Women have egos too, dude. Her friend must know she’s a sassy pain-in-the-ass-y and is confident she’d have better luck with me.”
“That’s some twisted-ass logic.”
“Seriously. If you went on one date with a chick and she never returned your calls, that wouldn’t scare me away from her.”
“What if I told you she can burp the alphabet?”
Jesus, woman! I’m sorry I didn’t call you. What would I have said, anyway? “Thank you for the date last night. I’m not feeling it, so there won’t be a second date. Have a nice life.” Radio silence is gentler. My conflict avoidance gene insists I skulk away quietly. If I burn a few bridges along the way, so be it. Life is too short to go on second dates with dead ends.