One of those friends was an alarmingly intense for 30 guy* who attempted to woo me by, among other things, buying one of my etsy hankies but then never coming up with the money and having to bow out of the arrangement and sending a 3AM myspace message that, amongst other things, assured me that he was not drunk.
Another one of those friends was a 23yrold with a similar look, but a much better sense of humor. Cuter, too, and nicer, in a jackassy sort of way.** As I left for the night, he turned and asked if he could get my number and “call me sometime”. In a move that’s socially retarded even for me, I told him that our mutual friend had my number and he could get it from her.
Except, yeah—she didn’t have my number. I’m a spaz.
Then Melissa and I decided to have another picnic and this boy was the only other person who showed up, making it the awesomest awkward first hanging out ever. Melissa makes a great Victorian era chaperone, you guys. Pip and I would trade strange stories, or the three of us would get hit up for change by some random guy who then hit on me, or there’d be a bit of silence, and there would be Melissa, small-talking it up.
Which is good, because my small talk skills suck. I don’t small talk; I non sequitor. And then I wonder why people think I’m weird.
On our first date, I made him wait in my living room while I changed out of the white t shirt I was wearing, since he showed up in a white t, cuffed jeans, and Docs too. Later that night, we wound up in my room due to the magical mixture of beer and my excellent record collection.
So, for a couple months, this was like the greatest casual relationship ever. I’d go about my week, we’d hang out on like a Wednesday, watch the Simpsons, hook up, and then I’d go about the rest of my week, hanging out with Melissa and being a Dance Machine and such. Then he didn’t call for a couple weeks, I assumed that a break in the calling pattern meant I would never hear from him again (as it frequently has for me), and went out with a boy who will be cataloged at a later date. Except a couple weeks after that he did call again. I saw his band and met some friends, which was confusing because I was obviously brought in for the friends’ approval but then he stopped calling again. Maybe I didn’t pass muster.*** Then Pip randomly showed up at my apartment a month later and we talked for a bit, awkwardly. He remarked on the loudness of my menorah candles but it was really the rattley noise my living room heating vent made that I never wanted to question too deeply.
Except I could never remember his last name beyond it starting with an H and having 3 syllables, so I referred to him as Mr Havisham (see how I did that? How I started calling him Pip here? Remember about the non sequitor?)
A Teaching Moment:
- Forcing a boy you maybe still have a crush on to hang out with you on a Monday night is always a good plan.
- I like picnics.
- Your Iggy Pop live TV Eye album may just get you laid.
- See my footnote re: assholes.
- If a boy hasn’t called in a few weeks and asks what you’ve been up to, tell him you went on a date and watch him try to act like he doesn’t care. It’s funny.
*He had the strange punk intensity of a 23yrold, that would impress a girl a couple years younger than that.
**Pip fits in quite nicely with my theory that sometimes what you need is an asshole. A nice sensitive boy stops calling you, you wonder what you did wrong and why you’ll never ever find anyone and die alone. An asshole stops calling you, you think, yeah, well—he was an asshole. No surprises there.
***I’m kidding, obviously.
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