By HEATHER CATHLEEN COX
Staff Writer
reporter@sbnewspaper.com
Heather Cathleen Cox
I recently took a social media quiz titled How Big of a Player Are You? My results were as follows: “You are a respectable dater, the opposite of a player. You either don’t try to play the game, or you’re failing miserably at it.”
Truer words have never been spoken. Over the past two weeks, I’ve encountered such a string of unfortunate non-dating experiences, it’s a tossup as to whether my dating life would best be labeled tragic or comical.
For example, I know this guy—let’s call him Joe—with whom I grab the occasional cup of coffee or sushi. We’ve even had occasion to catch a movie. Joe has mentioned more than once that he’d be into me if not for the fact I dated one of his best friends, which works out for me because Joe has the reputation of a ‘player.’ I digress.
Two weeks ago, Joe invited me to a BBQ at his house. Although he and I only hang out sporadically, I had no reason not to go, so I showed up. I didn’t know anyone else at the party but was nonetheless having a pleasant time when Joe’s former roommate (henceforth to be referred to as Creeper) entered the residence and commenced creeping.
Unbeknownst to me, Creeper took it upon himself to ask Joe for some ‘alone time’ with me. Joe, who has a girlfriend of nine months that I didn’t know about yet, opted to honor Creeper’s request.
After Joe left the room, Creeper almost instantly accosted me. And just like that, my fun was over.
Totally clueless that my friend was privy to Creeper’s intentions, I promptly told Joe what had transpired. I wanted to leave, but everyone persuaded me to stick around, and Joe spent the next two hours apologizing for his friend, going so far as to label Creeper a sleazeball.
Over the next week, Joe sent a series of quasi-patronizing texts about Creeper, saying Creeper wasn’t handling my rejection very well. I did not appreciate the play-by-play commentary on Creeper’s feelings, and through thoughtful interrogation on my end (I’m an investigative reporter, you know), Joe let it slip that he had knowingly fed me to a shark, in exchange for anonymity with his lady friend.
Earlier that day, at approximately 2 a.m., my apartment’s air conditioner decided to die. I was too hot to fall back asleep. Exhausted, I still worked all day, and even used my lunch to address personal business. Right at 5 p.m., I left work to make an appointment with my eye doctor. It was only after waiting in the lobby for more than three hours—and eating my dinner from the popcorn cart in the middle of Valle Vista Mall (one of those fat, sour pickles)—that I was called in to see the doc.
Without my contacts, I’m so nearsighted I can’t even see the big E on the eye chart. I was blind as a bat when the doctor began asking me standard questions and penning my answers into a manila folder.
After a few moments, the questions turned personal—such as what do you do, how old are you, where are you from, what’s your phone number. I was slightly offput but answered anyway. Before concluding the appointment, he handed me his cell phone number, conveniently underlined on his business card, and said, “I hope I can get a private showing of your artwork sometime.”
That is so not okay.
As I was paying my bill, the doctor—around 25 years older than I am—approached the counter while using his phone. I heard him say he would be home late, even though he had his briefcase in hand and proceeded to loiter by the front door until I left. Although he had no wedding ring on, it was obvious he had someone, somewhere he was willing to stand-up if I had been willing to oblige. I was not.
I exited that office as fast as I could, only to be reminded of the following: my air conditioner was still on the blink, I hadn’t eaten all day, and I still had errands to run. After finishing my errands, I went to an all-night diner to write, eat, strategize for the next day…and for the free air conditioner.
As I walked in the door, a male server said, “Wait. I’ll seat you.”
I said okay, but when a waitress walked up and offered to seat me, I let her. She also took my drink order.
A minute later, the waiter approached with my drink and scolded me. He said, “I thought I told you to wait for me.” He then proceeded to give me the third degree because I hadn’t done as he instructed.
After serving my dinner, he sat down in my booth and started asking personal questions. Among other things, this waiter shared that he had only recently graduated from high school.
I’ve got to admit that it was nice to have seven drink refills and a free tea to-go (without even having to ask), but it wasn’t so cute when he actually sat down in my booth to do his side-work and repeatedly ask if he could see me again. I was thinking, see me again? On what planet is being a paying patron the equivalent of seeing someone? Sigh. I was never so glad to drive home to a ninety-plus degree apartment.
As I attempted to fall asleep that night, I couldn’t help but wonder. Can a girl who is purposefully not playing the dating game catch a break, or have good-hearted, age-appropriate men become as mythical as the unicorn?
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