I’m sort of enjoying my attitude problem lately. Shortly after the holidays, I decided to embark on a Dating Siesta (tm Madcat), and short of spraying pheromones behind my ears, I probably couldn’t have thought of a better way to get guys to think I’m extra delightful. (Also, that’s one complicated sentence, there. Have I mentioned that I’m sick?)
The other night, I was out at the frattiest bar I’ve been to since college, and this huge meat-head guy came up to me and grabbed my hand. I never know what to do when people touch me unexpectedly. I was raised to be polite, so generally I smile nervously, which is a mistake. Anyone would take that to mean that the touching was well-received, when in fact, what I mean is usually more along the lines of, “Oh, my, that’s my person you’re grabbing there. How very uncomfortable and embarrassing for us both. I’ll pretend this isn’t happening if you will.”
On this particular night, however, I was feeling bitchy, so when the guy grabbed me and started his spiel, I just said, “I’m sorry. I really can’t right now,” disengaged my hand, and walked away.
My cousin, who was hanging out with me on this particular evening, leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Big man likes you!”
“Oh, hooray. Maybe if I keep eating, we can buy matching pants.”
So we ordered some nachos, as you do.
An hour or two later, the Drunken Mouse’s roommate sidled up to me, and asked if he could do a faux-lean on my shoulder.
“A faux-lean,” he said. “Like this.” And he mimed leaning on me.
“Um, OK, sure.” I shrugged went back to shoveling nachos down my throat.
“You hate me, don’t you,” the roommate said.
“No, I don’t hate you.” (This is a pet peeve of mine. Guys who say “you hate me, don’t you?” are the male equivalent of girls who toss their hair back and say, “you think I’m hideous, don’t you?” Like I don’t have enough trouble without validating other people? C’mon, folks. Get a therapist like the rest of us.)
“You do. I can tell. You hate me.”
I sighed. “No, dude, I don’t hate you. I just know you’re a nightmare with women.”
He looked at me in horror. “I am not!” He jerked his thumb at the Mouse, who was chatting up a girl at the end of the bar with evident success. “What, just because this guy says I am? Don’t believe him!”
In fact, the Mouse had told me a bit about this gentleman’s sexscapades, but I didn’t need the cheat-sheet. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, you know,” I told him.
“I can’t believe you think that of me.”
“Look, I think you’re a nice guy: I’m just not going to be macked on, is all.”
For the rest of the evening, I had a new best friend. The Mouse’s roommate was determined to get my approval one way or the other. By hook or by crook, as they say, he would convince me that he was a nice guy. And then, one imagines, he’d seal the deal by tricking me out of my pants. Is it any wonder I’m tired?
My stop is first on the F-train, so I got off before anyone else. I waved goodbye without looking, and pushed my way out of the car.
The Mouse claims that I would have been fooled by this guy, had I not had the inside scoop. But the power of the Dating Siesta is strong, my friends. You are no match for its kung fu!