About a month ago, I turned into a complete and utter recluse. Not because of the super storms (yes, plural… Hey, Sandy! Hey, Athena!) or because I didn’t have any interesting offers. I’d voluntarily grounded myself and was actually quite content. Turns out I would rather stay home and order in, not wash my hair, watch horrible TV, and rub Smitty’s sweet pink belly than sit through dinner with someone I have no intention of reproducing with and can hardly muster up polite conversation with. Some may call it depression, I call it having standards. Tomato, tomato.
Not so long ago, I would have picked myself up by the boot straps and headed out. I needed stimulation, validation from a male, unauthentic attention. Now? I could care less. I’m not sure exactly what it is. It could be because I know so well what “wrong” feels like or because I’ve realized that hanging out with someone you aren’t that interested in is a form of desperation. It could be because my heart is full of unrequited love. Or it could simply be that I’m asexual.
Funny enough, when I moved into my self inflicted nunnery, the phone calls just started pouring in. Sadly, none of them were calls I really wished to answer. Why is it always the one you “don’t” and never the ones you “do”? Anyway, because I was quite thrilled about staying home to moisturize my cuticles, I was also too busy to join any of said gentlemen callers on evenings out. So, whether I politely declined their invitations, pressed the “ignore” button, or just altogether ignored the fellows wishing for my companionship, I started to notice something. They were undeterred by my disinterest. As a matter of fact, I think it actually caused some of them to become even more interested. A simple case of economics: supply and demand. Ironically, that’s not something I was hoping to happen. However, there are a few take aways:
A good indicator of a man’s character is the way he acts when you tell him, “No.”
Watching these guys beg and pout and be big, desperate babies only shed light on how stupid we must look when we do the exact same things. Does it make me change my mind? No. As a matter of fact, all it does is confirm to me that I’ve made the right decision on staying in my cashmere sweatpants and slippers with the SATC boxed set and a tub of dried apricots.
One particular gentleman just blows up my phone relentlessly. I don’t respond and he just keeps on texting. When I say, “I’m busy,” he follows up with a “It only takes a moment to tell me that.” Come on, ladies, how many times have you said that to a guy. Now, I’ve just taken to sending back unbelievable responses, and better yet surrendered my phone to my friends to answer. We consider it a form of creative writing.
As I laid around one Sunday after another platonic sleepover, my guy friend sighed and snorted at the text messages he was receiving from a young lady he had hung out with that week. Sure they were in Swedish, but I could tell by the length and frequency what these messages were all about. I blushed a little remembering having been that girl. I’d written a digital novel to the object of my affection a time or two.
Being in this new position of female power, has allowed me to see things from a completely opposite perspective. Now I am fully aware of how it looks when we, as ladies, double text, drunk text, continuously call, and basically don’t pick up on the not so subtle hints of ignoring. And it’s not good. Any shot in hell you might have had, has now been shot to hell. For me, the thought of going out with someone so desperate or persistent is utterly exhausting and I haven’t even gotten in the shower yet. I’m not not answering because I’m saving baby kittens (although that’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility) or doing my taxes. I’m not busy… I just don’t want to talk to you and in some cases, I forgot you even called. So think about the last time a fella reached out and you were not even slightly interested. How did you react?
For now, I’m quite alright keeping a low profile in the ol’ dating department and I know two guys (for a fact) that are psyched about this: Smitty and my Dad. However, when I do put myself back on the market, I’ll be sure to remember the secondhand embarrassment I experienced for all of you oh so desperate dudes.