It pours.
I started seeing this guy last weekend. I'm not going to give him a fake name or call him by his first initial or SAY ANYTHING ABOUT HIM WHATSOEVER because I've finally learned my lesson. Writing about new romantic interests is now officially off-limits on the blog. This way, he gets to hear about my feelings from me; his ex-girlfriend won't send my blog to him in an attempt to undermine our relationship; and he won't later rub my blog posts in my face as he tries to get me to admit that I'm in love with him even though I'm not.
These are real life stories. Of men I've written about on the blog. Who I am, as you might guess, no longer chummy with.
I'd call them struggles, but to give them that much weight would be an act of narcissism too great for even me, a woman who blogs about the mundane minutiae of her life and hopes people will read it.
Back to the rain.
Prior to seeing said fellow, I was seeing "pie pan guy," which is what we'll call the medical resident I went on four dates with who was perpetually late and non-communicative and mostly interested in himself. It started off decently well with a nice meal and interesting conversation and a bizarre interaction with a questionably British pirate on Poydras St. But then it petered off, and I let it go on too long, first hoping to see him again to see what it was, and then just trying to get my damn pan back. Weeks after our fourth date, we settled on an Sunday afternoon meeting, which happened to coincide with his birthday. It would be super weird, I thought, to see him on his birthday. But I really wanted my pan back. I could break things off later. When it wasn't his birthday. The day before, though, after an awesome first date with the new guy who I won't say anything else about, I canceled it. I had some sleep to catch up on, I said. (Which was only sort of a lie.)
And then, when I didn't respond to his follow-up message, I must have set off some alarm inside him that goes off when he realizes a woman just doesn't care anymore. Within three days, I incurred more texts than I had in the four weeks before.
He hoped I was okay. He hoped I had a relaxing weekend. His most recent rotation was rough, but it was over, and his birthday had been busy but fun. He hoped my week had been going well so far. He apologized for being a flake recently. He'd really like to see me again if I was up for it.
It was too little, too late.
I tried to let him down easy. I'd been busy and then sick, I said, and I just didn't think he had time for me.
"Well wait a minute," he said. It was just one rotation. It was the hardest one. He'll get off work earlier now. Was I already asleep? He still had the pie pan.
Seriously? Now you care that you have my pie pan? (I didn't say that part.)
The next evening, after occupying myself with all that comes from being sick and working anyway, I sat down and explained in a series of too-long text messages that, essentially, he'd had his chance. I'd explained weeks ago that being 30 minutes late to two separate dates, texting no more than once a week, never asking questions about me, and never setting a future date did not communicate interest. He'd chosen to continue behaving that way, though, and I was done. I hoped he'd enjoy the pie pan.
"C'mon!" he said. "Give me another chance!" He'd lost 10-15 pounds over this brutal rotation.
"And a girl," I said. "But you'll survive both."
"Sheesh." He'd just moved, on top of it all. It was horrible timing. But he really does like me.
I considered explaining how a simple "Life is crazy busy, but give me three weeks" might have been appreciated three weeks ago, but it wasn't worth it.
"I'm sorry" was all I wrote.
He texted dejectedly that it was our loss.
Perhaps it was our loss, I admitted, but I was done, and only time would settle that score.
"Damn," he said. "Take care." But I had already muted the conversation. I got the messages the next day.
I know that I could have told him about the new guy, and that that would've brought a faster end to the string of one-more-chance pleas, but I refused to play that card. I wasn't turning him down because of that. I was turning him down because he'd been disrespectful of my time and then barely communicated with me for weeks on end. I need more than that from a romantic partner. I deserve better than that. And if he couldn't muster up sufficient respect and consideration in the first month of dating, how could I expect him to behave any differently when the glow was gone?
And to be truthful, the glow never really arrived. There was that, too.
So I've had a few days of respite since then--with occasional worries that he'll text again and I'll have to block him--and now Friday evening is here, and I can be sick in bed as much as I want and not have to worry about waking up early or sneezing in my elbow or surviving the last hour of work after my meds have run out.
And then, as I'm laying in bed in front of a paused Netflix screen, scrolling through Facebook on my phone, a notification panel drops down. I have an Instagram request. From no other than the guy that I visited this summer who had--in only three days--spurned me, insulted my religion, and rubbed a blog post in my face. "You wrote two posts about me." Yeah, I said, in February. I text my friend, "This guy barely talked to me while I was sleeping in his living room, and now he wants to follow me on social media. WTF?"
Needless to say, I did not accept his request.
I wonder if there's something out there in the universe that says, Hey, she's sick and tired and seeing someone. Let's pull a few people out of the woodwork and see how she juggles that into the mix.
I think I handled it okay, though. And now I'm going to go watch some Gossip Girl as my reward.
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