Von

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 up 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.

 

I went out for a night on the town Saturday night.

 

 

I had fun.
The music was cool. There was a nice, professional crowd.
I ran into a few folks I hadn’t seen in a while.
Another young lady mistook me for my evil, diabolical twin brother (“I could’ve sworn I knew you from somewhere”).

It was good times, dog.

 

 

At one point I was on the sidelines chillin’—when my concentration was broken by someone callin’ my name.

 

I turned around only to be face to face with none other than my young, flaky club chick friend.

 

You know—the 23-year-old I met a few months ago.
Ol’ girl who asked me to dance. The one who gave me her number and insisted I call.
The one I actually called—despite my reservations about meeting women in clubs.

Yeah, her.

It was not too long after she gave me her number. We played phone tag for a few days before I finally got a hold of her. The 3-minute conversation consisted of me asking her stuff—followed by her giving one or two word answers.

 

Me: Hey, what’s goin’ on?
Her: Nothin’.

Me: How was your day?
Her: Good.
Me: Uh…what’d you do?
Her: Just worked.
*short, uncomfortable silence*

 

Yeah, it ain’t go well.

That convo—combined with her age and where we met, were confirmation of what I already suspected.

 

She was indeed a flake who wouldn’t be getting another call from me.

 

So imagine my surprise when she rolled up on me out of the blue at the party like we never missed a beat.

 

She even remembered my name (it took me a while to remember hers).

 

We talked briefly before she, again, asked me if I’d like to dance. Soon she took my hand and led me to the floor where we danced for a bit.

 

But she excused herself after a couple songs: “I’ll be right back.”

 

Uh huh. I’ve heard that before. Nine times out of 10, they ain’t comin’ back., dog. It’s a common flaky chick brush off. I wasn’t about to stand there like a simp waiting for her to return. But before I left the floor, I was curious to see what she was gon’ do. Initially she walked toward the ladies room—then made a sharp cut (like a receiver running a comeback pattern) and disappeared into the crowd.

 

Did she really have to do all that? Was it that serious?
Was the Bourne Ultimatum-type espionage really necessary?

 

How hard would it have been to say, “Thanks for the dance. It was good seeing you again, Von”?

  

Wouldn’t that have been a lot easier than lying? Or playing kiddie games?
It’s ain’t like I would’ve started crying. Or balled up on the floor in the fetal position.

 

 

Hell, I was minding my own business when she asked me to dance.
And it’s just a harmless dance. It ain’t like I was about to propose.  

 

At this point in my life, I don’t even get mad no more. I’m just amazed at how these young women will make shyt so much more difficult—when in reality, it’s really simple. Just be honest.

 

 

But I guess if they were honest, I wouldn’t have much to write about…

 

 

Epilogue:  Later that night, I was dancing with another young lady when I happened to notice the young flaky chick. She was dancing alone—but eyeing me. A few moments later, she was still makin’ googly eyes at me.

 

 

What the hell do you want from me, dog?

 

Unbelievable. I’ll never understand.