Optimistic Snowballs, Boys with No Balls and Disappointing Booty-calls (Part One)

Snowballs

 

Dating can be very snowball-y.  A little bit of revved up enthusiasm here and a smidge of well what can it hurt there and suddenly you’re wading knee deep in a river of aww man what was I thinking!?!  Or at least that’s how it is for me.  And to be honest, I blame optimism…evil bastard that it is.

Cry Baby Romeo and I had gone out on Sunday night.  By Tuesday he was texting.  It was playful.  It was cute.  But I was busy.  He made jokes about coming over to my place.  I thought he was kidding.
He texted again on Wednesday.  It was tedious.  I’m fairly certain at some point I actually asked what he was doing and his response was staring at a wall.  And not to be one to let the conversation wallow or hold my tongue, I proceeded to ask then why don’t you seem more interested in this conversation?  His response not in the mood I guess.  Annnnnd I’m out.  Was he fucking kidding me?!?!
But here’s the thing of the thing.  I have a theory about bootycalls and how having one can drastically improve your dating life because it takes the pressure off the other dudes you are dating (and might actually be interested in) thus keeping you from doing any of the lust-induced ridiculous crazy-dater behaviors that we’ve all done once or twice before.  And so from somewhere deeply foolish idiotic ridiculous optimistic inside myself, I thought well I had found him to be cute, he was taller than me, the first kiss was good, and dammit if he didn’t have great teeth.  *cue the rolling of a snowball*
He texted again on Thursday.  And even though the behavior standard is lower for bootycall than date, he still needed to up the bar a little from the previous days pansy-princess/moody-maiden shenanigans.  He made cute chatter.  He suggested I come over.  I texted get a clue can’t…out with friends (which I was).  And then on Friday he stepped his game up and I clearly lowered mine to cockroach-eye-level.
Through some miracle of low points I agreed to let CryBabyRomeo come over and watch a movie.  But let’s not forget my eternal optimism.  You see somewhere in my mind I figured this could be fantastic.  This was really going to work out great.  And then I proceeded to spend the next 3 hours cleaning up my apartment which hadn’t had a good scrub in months since I’d been so busy with school that my mother had sometimes even brought me meals just so that I could simply spend the time doing school work instead of cooking.
Then, before I knew it, it was 7 o’clock and he was texting his arrival to my building.  What followed next was a series of disappointments that can only be attributed to my inch thick rose-colored specs and some reality-altering enthusiastic ability.  I was expecting the adorable cutie that had kissed me goodnight and I had clearly fabricated in my head since our first date.
*cue elevator doors opening*
Wasn’t he a lot taller on the first date?
Jesus he looks really thin?
Uh…take out your headphones asshole, I’m standing right here?
OMG…is he wearing sweatpants?
With leather shoes?
Am I being punked?
Am I being punished?
*crickets* 
*crickets*
*crickets*
This is so awkward…

*cue him mocking the size of my on-campus studio apartment*
*cue silence*
*forever silence*
*endless silence*
*the kind of silence that would drive even a mime crazy*
This is torture

And then he picked a Chris Rock movie.
*cue 2 hours of him laughing hysterically at all kinds of not funny things*
*cue him texting or messing around on his phone or things that are rude*
The movie ends.  He doesn’t get up to leave.  And this moment here…is really where the snowball effect comes in.  Because like I said…eternal optimist.  Sure, it turns out the whole first date was some figment of my imagination because this couldn’t possibly be the same guy I had had chuckles with.  Unless of course it turns out that our witty repartee was actually just me telling jokes and him laughing along.  Sure he turns out to be yet another dude who thinks it’s acceptable to wear jogging pants on a second date and no this trauma is in no way negated by the fact that the date was a movie night. Sure he turns out to be incredibly rude and boring and tedious and also kind of an idiot since none of the parts he was laughing out were ever actually funny.  But hey…maybe he’ll be a really good kisser…and maybe he’ll make an excellent bootycall and hey isn’t this what young guys are for?
And I know what you’re thinking.
She’s not going to, is she?  And though the very fact that I can’t actually post up all the details here should in fact give the answer away, if you want to find out what happens…CLICK HERE.

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

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Victoria Young

Writer. Dater. Masturbator. Don't worry my parents don't think I'm funny either. Grad Student. My breasts aren't ashamed of me either. You and me kid, we're going to change this world.

1 Comment

  1. Anonymous

    April 1, 2012 at 8:21 pm

    Gaaaaaaaah!!

    SSD, I admire your prose, your spunk and now, your uber-angelic patience with his utter lower-than-whalepoop-on-the-bottom-of the-ocean douchebaggerry. Personally I’d have whipped out a can of hairspray and a lighter to fry aforementioned douche to a nice crackling crisp.
    (In case you need an instruction video:
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jwCFFpcLQfw De nada!)

    Which reminds me… I’m soooo stealing this sentence for use when no hairspray should grace the bathroom counter:
    “And then on Friday he stepped his game up and I clearly lowered mine to cockroach-eye-level.”

    ROFL! ;o)