Von

Stood—the— hell—up!

On a Friday night of all nights.

I was supposed to have a date. However, she didn’t call. Didn’t show.

 

 

Sadly, I blame myself. Should’ve seen it coming.

Why?

‘Cause the girl in question was the same one who almost cussed me out a few weeks ago.
Ol’ girl who mistook me for a guy she dated—my evil, hard-partying, playboy twin (the guy who kicked her out of his apartment after she wouldn’t give him “any”).

How’d this shocking turn of events come about?

 

 

During phone conversations about contacting the guy she dated (my look-alike) to see if he and I are somehow related, she hinted that she’d be interested in hanging out. Possibly going out on a date. I gave it some thought. She’s a nice, attractive young lady. Seems to have a good head on her shoulders. I’m single. It’s the summer. Why the hell not?

 

We made tentative plans to meet up that Friday night to have a couple cocktails at the local sports bar.

 

But shyt got sketchy when I called to confirm the morning of.
Supposedly, she was gon’ be busy payin’ bills that night and might have to reschedule (who the hell pays bills on a Friday night? And who—in 2008—still pays bills manually? Mine are all auto-debited).

 

In this age of flaky chicks, was I really supposed to believe that?
Nonetheless, I played along. She said she’d give me a definitive answer later that day (but I didn’t really expect to hear from her). So imagine my surprise when—later that afternoon—she informed me that we were still on for the night. We’d meet at my place at 9 and head out from there.

Cool!

I raced home from work, cleaned up my place and car, showered, and got dressed—in record time.

9 o’ clock came. And went. Not a big deal. ‘Cause no woman in the history of mankind has EVER been on time—for anything.

9:15: Kinda rude not to call to say she’d be running this late.

9:30: Still not there.

9:45: I came to the dreadful realization: I’m being stood up.

9:48: In a last-ditch effort, I decide to call. To make sure nothing bad happened.

3 rings. Straight to voicemail.

 

The Price is Right Loser’s horn played in the background.

 

At this point I’m pissed the hell off.

Is there anything more rude? Disrespectful?

Just as I’m about to call it a night and end this evening from hell—my phone goes off. It’s a text. From her. It read: Not ready yet. I still need more time.

How come she couldn’t just answer the phone and say that? I was still skeptical, but I figured I’d give her one last shot to come through.

I laid on my couch and watched mixed martial arts for about an hour (of not hearing from ol’ girl) before putting myself out of my misery.

Ladies, how hard is it to just say “I can’t make it tonight”?
Or “Something came up at the last minute. Can we reschedule”?

What’s the worst that could happen? I’m an adult. I ain’t gon’ cry. Or get upset.

But standing me up is childish. Immature.
I want to spend time with a woman. Not a little girl.
And if I have to spend my hard-earned cash on someone—it won’t be her ass.

 

 

Epilogue: I got a voicemail from her the next day: “Hey, Von. This is XXXXX. Don’t shoot me about what happened last night. I want to apologize. Give me a call when you get this.”

I didn’t call her back. Nor did I answer when she called again the next day.

I felt kinda bad for ignoring her. But had I answered, and she gave me some BS fairy tale excuse, and I agreed to go out with her again—she would’ve won. Subsequently, she wouldn’t respect me and would probably feel that she could treat me any ol’ way. In essence, I’d be her bytch.

So, in order to maintain my manhood, I did what I had to.

But this ordeal could have been avoided had she just behaved like an adult. 

 

 

Yesterday (Sunday). The Costco parking lot. Early afternoon.

 

I was walking back to my car with a bag of hot wings and bourbon-glazed chicken bites.

There weren’t any spots close, so earlier I parked pretty far from the entrance.

As I neared my car, I came across an older white lady.
She was flanked by (I’m assuming) her two teenaged kids.
A young boy and girl.

Going in opposite directions, our paths crossed precisely as I reached my car and they were on their long walk to the entrance.

I went to put my key in the door and happened to notice that the lady had stopped dead in her tracks. She pulled out her car alarm remote as she walked back toward her car. I got behind the wheel of my own car in time to see her pressing her alarm remote in the direction of her car.

Frantically.

Now…I don’t know if she was really having trouble getting her alarm to work.

Or if her theatrics were supposed to be sending me a message.

After a couple seconds, I assume she was satisfied that her alarm was working properly and her car was safe and secure. She caught up with her kids and they went into Costco.

 

So, in summation, only after seeing me did ol’ girl feel it was necessary to activate her car alarm.

 

Someone told me a while ago not to sweat stuff that’s out of my control. So under that line of thinking, I shouldn’t have let what happened affect me. But I couldn’t shake it off. It stayed with me all day.

What that lady did…her actions were the nonverbal equivalent of calling me a nigger—to my face.

Am I overreacting? Am I wrong to be offended?
On the drive home I replayed the incident in my head and tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. How would I react if I were an older white suburban soccer mom in a Costco parking lot—and a big, bald, tattooed black man approached me? She probably watches the news and sees black folks actin’ a damn fool every night and saw me as one ”them,” in her quiet little suburb possibly about to engage in some thuggish shenanigans.

But c’mon.

 

In reality, I’d just finished shopping.
I was just trying to go home and enjoy the rest of my day.
And really, would I pay for a Costco membership, go shopping there, and then break in cars in the parking lot?

Does that make any sense at all?

 

 

Guess I’m spoiled.

‘Cause aside from occasionally being followed around Target, and having the sense that some of my newer colleagues may be afraid of me—I’m never really confronted with stuff like this.

So I guess I really shouldn’t trip. ‘Cause in reality, a lot worse has happened to folks in more random situations.

It ain’t like she Katherine Harris’d me (aka, disenfranchised my right to vote).

Somehow, I think my ancestors (who were enslaved, sprayed with water hoses, and had dogs sicced on ‘em so I can enjoy the privileges I have in 2008) would tell me to suck it up, rub some dirt on it, and stop actin’ like a baby.

In the grand scheme of things, what she did wasn’t really that big of a deal and I should really just let it go already.

 

 

 

So why am I still bothered by it?