If I wanted an easy love life, I’d get a terminal disease, find the boy I’ve known my whole life who I’ve always been “just friends” with, tell him I have a terminal disease and live in blissful, romantic-dramedy style love for the remaining six to eight months of my life. Then I could die happy (despite my terminal disease) and he would later tell his grandchildren about our great love.
It’s not that I don’t want an easy love life because, believe me, I do. But it’s just not worth the whole “terminally ill” thing. Plus, those gross, off-white hospital gowns would clash with my complexion and wash me out like nobody’s business. And how can I have a carefree, beautiful love if I don’t look super glow-y and gorgeous?
I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t want a perfect or easy love life but I would love one with a little more clarity and ease.
For example: If I go out with a guy and we have a great time and not only does he walk a block and a half out of his way to walk me to my car, but also kisses me on the cheek and texts me half an hour later to tell me, “I had fun hanging with you and hope you did too. We should hang out again sometime,” and then doesn’t text or call me for the next four days, does that mean he’s not interested? And if he’s not interested, which is fine (I know I’m a lot to handle and not everyone is going to love my sassy personality as much as I do), why did he go out of his way to text me a mere 30 minutes after planting a big wet one on my cheek?
Don’t be so quick to roll your eyes at me, Aztecs. I’ve already come to the realization that maybe, just maybe, he’s not that into me. Which has only led me to replay all those painful things Justin Long’s character said to Ginnifer Goodwin’s character in “He’s Just Not That Into You.”
“If a guy doesn’t call you, he doesn’t want to call you. So trust me when I say if a guy is treating you like he doesn’t give a s—, he genuinely doesn’t give a s—. No exceptions.”
Maybe he doesn’t care, but what I don’t get is why he even said those things in the first place. So now I’m sitting here waiting for a text message I know will never come and thinking about the “rules” I’ve heard from countless people. You know, those weird texting rules people have invented for daters such as myself.
If you text him first, the next time you talk, he has to be the one to initiate the conversation or you’re being a nag. You don’t want to be a nag. You want to be nagged. You want him to text you. When I hear that “rule,” I have to keep myself from laughing because for the longest time I just found myself sitting around thinking, “If I want to say something to him, I’m gonna say it!”
Who cares if he didn’t text me first? Who cares if I started the conversation first yesterday? Why are there so many rules? Who made these rules? And why do I have to follow them? Will someone come to my studio apartment and arrest me if I don’t?
But then after a while of being the only one to initiate conversation, I feel kind of stupid and just give up hope.
Why does it have to be so difficult?
If you have lost interest, why is it so hard to just shoot me a quick text and say, “Hey I had a good time the other day but I don’t think it’s gonna work out. Take care.”
In a perfect world, all preconceived rules, ideals and games related to dating would not only be thrown out the window but thrown out the window into the dumpster, incinerated and then thrown in the Pacific Ocean.
I wish there was a way to just figure it all out; without mixed signals, without drama, without wondering why he hasn’t talked to me in four days. And I wish I didn’t play into it by writing about it. But here I am again, waiting for a text that isn’t coming, wondering what he’s doing, wondering if I’ll ever see him again and wondering why I think every time will be different.
Would dating even be as enjoyable without all the games, though? Let’s say it happens and all nonsense disappears. Everyone says what they want and texts who they want when they want and there is never a question. Would it even be fun anymore?
So, now I guess it’s the lesser of two evils: Do I send a simple “Hey, what’s up” text to this mystery gentleman or do I sit around and wait for the inevitable “the phone works both ways, you could have texted me” comment I know I’m going to get?
Screw it. Terminal disease it is.
