Saturday, around 11am: Thought I made dinner plans for Saturday night. I was reluctant to commit to anything, but did it anyway, even though I was fully aware I was probably making a bad decision. You see, this guy has a history of disappointing me. He tends to suggest plans that never actually come to fruition. And even though I’m consistently disappointed, I keep putting myself through it, time after time after time. This time around, I try justifying it to myself by convincing myself that he was the one who reached out to me, relatively early on a Saturday morning, and that he very easily could have gone through the day without bothering and I would have never known any better. So here I am, shifting my plans to make him fit in, all the while telling myself I have zero expectations for the night.
Saturday, 6pm: For a zero expectations night, my hair looks damn good.
Saturday, 7pm: Haven’t heard from the guy for hours. I text him because at this point, I’m getting hungry, and I’d really like to know what’s going on with my evening. He replies. He’s busy at the moment but will text me in 30 minutes.
Saturday, 7:30pm: Nothing from him. I start to wish I had wine.
Saturday, 7:45pm: Starting to panic a little bit. I try telling myself it’s not a big deal, that I have other ways to spend my evening. I start putting on makeup. I’m now really wishing I had wine.
Saturday, 8pm: Still nothing. I make plans to meet a friend at a wine bar down the street to remedy that whole not having wine thing.
Saturday, 8:30pm: First glass of wine is going down really quickly. Did I mention I hadn’t eaten because I thought I was going out for dinner?
Saturday, 9pm: Finally, a text… saying he’s not going to make it. It takes a lot of restraint to not throw my phone across the bar. I spend a few minutes fighting the tears that are trying really, really hard to come. I then get really angry at myself for letting this happen again. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into. The result was exactly what I thought it would be. And even though I thought I was prepared for disappointment, it hit me like a punch to the gut, and I realized that despite my best efforts, I’d had expectations.
Saturday, 9:30pm: Third glass of wine? Sure. We’ve now befriended the owner of the bar, and he offers us a glass on the house. At this point I have no interest in going home.
Saturday, 10pm: My friend and I decide to relocate. She lists some bars near her apartment and describes the vibe of each as “fratty.” I tell her “fratty” sounds like just the vibe I need.
Saturday, 11pm: I’m now speaking with a cute guy I’ve met at the fratty bar. Said cute guy is English, which means his sexy English accent automatically upgrades him into a very cute guy.
Sunday, 12am: I’m at Cute English Guy’s apartment. I’m drinking a gin and tonic. I never drink gin. I keep reminding myself to not do anything stupid in my slightly inebriated state, but I’m really, really enjoying the attention. Talking to a cute guy – with his cute accent – is making me feel much better about the developments from earlier in the evening. Have I forgotten about it? Not even slightly. But it helps a lot to know I’m not 100% man-repellant. There might be men out there who are interested in me, and they won’t stand me up for dinner, and they won’t treat me like crap. And if it’s not this guy, then it’s someone else.
Sunday, 1am: I’m home in bed with a microwave pizza. After a few very enjoyable kisses with Cute English Guy and giving him my number, I did the responsible thing and left. I don’t know if I’ll hear from him. I hope I do. He was interesting to talk to. I’d like to talk to him again. He didn’t make the other guy disappear, but he helped dull the pain a little bit. And who knows, maybe six months down the road, we’ll be dating, and I’ll call the guy who stood me up that night to thank him for being, once again, a colossal disappointment… but a disappointment that finally gave me the opportunity to have something that’s closer to what I deserve.