Von

She’s definitely a keeper.

It’s what crossed my mind as I gazed into the eyes of the lovely young lady with whom I was having dinner.

 

It’s funny how quickly things progress sometimes; just a week earlier I’d noticed her profile online.
An attractive lawyer looking to meet someone new. Why couldn’t that new person be me?

I expressed my interest. She promptly replied, noting that she’d checked out my profile and the feeling was mutual.

She left her number and asked that I call.

 

 

 

Our first conversation went really well.
Her voice was light and feminine—really sexy. The dialogue seemed to flow effortlessly. We conversed for more than an hour; before ending the conversation, I asked if she’d be interested in having dinner soon.

 

 

 

That weekend we sat across from one another at my favorite local restaurant.

 

I was as impressed with her in person as I was by her online profile. She was short with thick, shoulder-length hair. Her skin was a dark, chocolate complexion. Nice, full lips. Her semi-low-cut top showcased her nice lil’ rack. When she excused herself to the bathroom, I got a chance to check out her other assets. Very nice!

 

 

Dinner went well.
She was relieved that my pics weren’t misleading. And impressed by my restaurant choice (“I really like this place”).
We talked about everything—from sports, to religion, to life in general.

At one point she told me about her volunteer efforts. In her spare time, she tutors grade-school kids and helps them with their homework. I was impressed that she devoted time from her busy schedule to help the kiddies (I, on the other hand, spend my free time on the couch watching sports).

 

I told her she was more than just a pretty face.
Corny, I know—but dammit(!), I meant it. And she seemed genuinely moved by the compliment.

 
I began to look for signs that she really was interested. Being an eternal pessimist—I never just assume that a woman will want to see me again. However, she dropped a few subtle hints (“we should work out together one day…”) that put my anxiety to rest.

There would be a second date. Hopefully many more after that.

 

 

 

Soon we decided to call it a night. I picked up the tab. She thanked me for dinner.

As we waited for the valet to return with her car, she asked if I’d like a ride to mine: “I guess it’s safe. You won’t kill me and chop me up.”
With a straight face, I replied: “You never know…”
 “Don’t say that!” she said. We both laughed.

A few minutes later I found myself in her car, parked beside mine.
We made more small talk; she ate a mint before offering me one.

Wait a minute: was this a prelude to an old-school makeout session?

I couldn’t be 100% sure. Some women forbid kissing on the first date. And while it looked like a golden opportunity—I decided to play it safe and live to fight another day.

 

Instead I gave her a big hug and sent her on her way.

30 minutes later I got a text:
Im home & back in bed…thanks for tonight, I really enjoyed meeting u

 

 

Any lingering doubts about her interest were once again extinguished.
I went to bed ecstatic that maybe, just maybe, my search for the right girl was over.
And that my time dealing with flaky chicks was a thing of the past.

 

 

 

I called her a few days later…

…and haven’t heard from her since (almost a month ago).

 

 

damn.

 

 

Now, maybe one day when I’m old and gray with a few grandkids and a loving wife—I’ll look back on this moment and laugh.

 

But for now, seems like I can’t win for losing.

 

I thought the email I sent her was HILARIOUS.

 

However, ol’ girl didn’t seem to share my sentiments:
“Obviously some one let you out of your play pen…I am not going to view your link and honestly not interested in conversing with you…So you know the rest…Peace”

 

Damn.

And just like that, my days of dating the young lady who inspired the Rodman Dating Theory were officially over.

 

This monumental fiasco began a few days ago.

I called the aforementioned young lady to confirm that she was coming over the next day (Sunday afternoon) for some home-cooked spaghetti.

During the course of our conversation, she began to tell me about her day.

About riding around all afternoon looking for a digital camera.
Picking up some awesome seafood.
The bad drivers on the road.
Buying some undergarments at Target.

About how—wait a minute…

*record scratches*

 

Did she just say she bought underwear—at Target?!

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that it really don’t matter where a young lady chooses to purchase her unmentionables. I have a hard time imagining that Target’s undergarment selection is any different than other major outlets.

Lace is lace. Cotton’s cotton.

Victoria’s Secret ain’t got a monopoly on bras and panties.

And I am by no means an underwear snob.

 

However, I saw this as a rare opportunity for me to clown.

You see, we’ve been programmed to believe that women only get their undies from lingerie stores.

When we think bras and panties—Vickie’s and Fredrick’s of Hollywood immediately come to mind.

And, uh, I ain’t thinkin’ about no women’s undergarments when I visit my local Target.

Plus, when dealing with a very attractive young lady (like the aforementioned one)—one who’s likely bombarded with compliments by every lame she passes on the street—it’s critical to occasionally give her a nice ribbing. Just to keep her ass grounded.

I saw my opportunity and pounced immediately.

Nothing obnoxious, just some subtle clowning: “Oh, you get your underwear from Target? Interesting…”

I chuckled. She laughed and told me that she gets them from Vickie’s and Frederick’s also. And the Target ones look just as good on her as the others.

And that if I got a chance to see them on her I’d never know the difference.

At that point, I could’ve transitioned to some light flirting (“Oh, I wouldn’t be able to tell if I saw the Target underwear on you? Prove it.”).

 

Instead I kept clowning.

We both laughed; I didn’t really get the sense that she was irritated. She did call me an asshole before we ended the convo— but I thought she was kidding.

 

The next day she texted me that the snowstorm would prevent her from coming across town for dinner.

I replied: “It’s cool. We can do it some other time. Have fun in your Target underwear.”

She replied with an “LOL.”

Everything was still cool. Or at least I thought so.

 

The next morning I took the joke even further. I searched Target’s website for the most hideous panties I could find. I sent her the link in an email with the subject line: I found your Target underwear online.

 

I checked my mail a few hours later, thinking she’d get a good laugh out of it. Because I thought it was hilarious.

Apparently I was mistaken.

 

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.