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.