Vondarrien

Her phone rang a few times—then went to voicemail.

 

I called again. Same result.

WHAT THEE HELL!?

 

I’d just spoken to her a few hours earlier to confirm that I’d be at her place at 10:30. Granted, I was running a few minutes late—but I sent her a text earlier notifying her.

Now I was in front of her building—waiting to pick her up to accompany me to a friend’s get-together.

But she wasn’t answering the phone.

I called one final time. Voicemail.

 

At that point, I could only face the cold, undeniable truth: she was flaking out on me.

I’ll be damned.

But, in all honesty, I blame myself for allowing it—because she’s done stuff like this before.

 

Like the night we were supposed to have some drinks at a nice South Loop lounge.

Just as I was leaving my place, she texted saying her car got a flat en route. I immediately called her. No answer. I texted—to no avail. She finally answered, saying that a friend was coming to fix it. I asked if she wanted company until her friend arrived. No answer.

I went to bed angry.

The next day she called and apologized. Apparently, she was freaked out and “wasn’t thinking straight.”

Mmmm hmmm. I doubted there was ever a flat—but I didn’t have any evidence.

A week later we planned to celebrate her work promotion. When I called Thursday night to confirm, she changed the subject and ended the conversation. So imagine my surprise when she texted the next morning saying that we talked all night but never made plans. I replied, asking when she was free. No answer. Needless to say, we ain’t go out that weekend.

At that point, I vowed not entertain her flakiness EVER again. I wouldn’t call. Nor would I take hers.

To quote our 43rd president: “…fool me once, shame on—shame on you. Fool me—you can’t get fooled again.”

 

But sadly, I couldn’t keep my promise. She contacted me via email a few weeks later. I replied. We corresponded sporadically for a month before I finally caved and invited her to my friend’s get-together.

 

Now, the obvious question is: why would I put up with her flakiness when I’ve dismissed girls in the past who’ve exhibited similar behavior?

It’s simple. Because she’s bad (the verbiage we brothas use for an eye-catching young lady).
She’s really attractive. Great, curvy body. Well dressed. Stylish. Good personality. And the two dates we did have were fun.

We had such good chemistry.

In summation, the reason I keep coming back can be explained by my Rodman Dating Theory.

It’s a sports/dating parallel involving Mr Dennis Rodman (aka, The Worm) himself.

Dude missed practice whenever he wanted—if he bothered to show up at all.
Clashed with teammates. Got in fights. Disobeyed his coaches.
Generally, he was a headache for his team(s) to deal with.

However, he could get away with mostly anything because he was just that talented. A lesser player would’ve been cut for the stuff he did. Whereas Rodman, because he was such a great player, his teams tolerated his ill behavior.

Those exact principles apply to my dating life. I’ll tolerate flakiness from the aforementioned young lady because of her hotness. Whereas a less endearing woman shouldn’t expect the same courtesy.

It’s the sad but unfortunate truth.

 

Back to the night of the get-together.

I felt like a complete and utter doofus waiting in front of her apartment complex while she was, most likely, ducking my calls.

I headed to the party without her. But much to my surprise, I got a text from her before I arrived. It said “K,” as in, “You’re gonna be five minutes late? OK?”

 

I called her after I parked and told her that I’d already called her three times.

To which she claimed that her phone never rang.

And that she just got my text and was ready to go.

I told her I’d already arrived at the party, but I’d come back to pick her up.

With a disappointed tone in her voice, she told me not to bother. And that she hoped I’d have fun.

Damn. I was left wondering if this was another one of her flaky ploys. Or if her phone really didn’t work. It was impossible to know for certain. Still, I contemplated if this was the sign that I should just let this dream go and finally move on.

 

The next day I got a text from her: Hey thanks again hopefully I can have a rain check : )

Awesome. Can’t wait to call her and make plans for this weekend.

 

First dates typically follow the same ol’ tired routine.

Dinner. Drinks. Maybe a movie.
Something involving both parties getting to know one another—usually in a public setting.
However, to my surprise, ol’ girl had alternate plans.

I ran into her at my friend’s get-together.
She’s a cutie. Short. Petite. Nice rack.
Great smile. Easy going. Bubbly personality.

Our paths initially crossed at another party—about a year ago; afterward, she gave me her number. Although I was interested, we couldn’t seem to get on the same page. Nothing ever materialized. But there wasn’t any ill will or hard feelings. I’d see her at random events and we’d always be cordial.

Fast forward to the latest encounter: she made her way through the crowded room and approached me while I was enjoying a nice cocktail. We hugged and got to talking—typical for when we rendezvous in social settings. But after the initial small talk—she moved the conversation in a different direction. She wanted to revisit the dating thing and suggested we hang out soon.

 

Cool. I’ve always found her attractive. And love her alluring personality.

Why the hell not?

I figured she’d want to do the dinner/movie thing—the typical first date.
However, in a stunning development—I was completely mistaken.

Instead, she preferred a movie night, consisting of us cuddling at my place while watching DVDs on my 42-inch plasma.

I was speechless.

Now, if you asked most dudes about their ideal first date—it’d be cuddling on the couch watching movies.
It’s practical. Efficient. Not much effort involved. You don’t have to open your wallet.

 

The problem is: we’ve been programmed to think that it ain’t a viable option.
And that movie night just isn’t something that happens before date three.
Women wanna be taken out. Wined and dined. They need to know we’re making an effort to really get to know ’em.

 

Thus movie night ain’t happenin’—at least until y’all have established a connection.

So imagine my shock when she suggested it.

Ol’ girl even took it a step further, saying that in these downtrodden economic times it was important to save money (aka, “I ain’t gon’ spend all your money in a restaurant”).

I almost shed a tear of joy.

 
I left the party wondering if that really just happened.

Did an attractive woman really just asked me on a movie night date?

 

But I got to thinking: I’ve dealt with my share of flaky women before. Maybe she had a little too much happy juice and got caught up in the moment. After sobering up, she’d surely realize what an unprecedented proposition she’d made.

I didn’t really expect to hear from her.

So imagine my shock when she hit me up the next day on Facebook to confirm. Said she enjoyed our conversation the previous night. And thanked me for, unknowingly, stopping several creeps from harassing her at the party.

She closed the email with: “let me know when movie night is 312-XXX-XXXX ”

 

Awesome!

 

I called her a few days later to confirm…

 

…and haven’t heard from her since (more than 3 weeks ago).

 

Guess it was too good to be true.

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.