Do you remember that saying “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me?” Well, what happens if you get fooled a third time? You’re a goddamn idiot.
There’s this particular boy that I was introduced to about five weeks ago. Let’s call him Adonis. The first time I met him I was immediately floored. He’s drop dead gorgeous and is well aware of the fact that he is God’s gift to women. Granted, he’s an idiot, but with a face and a body like that, it’s okay that his IQ is somewhere down around room temperature.
Now, I am not looking for a relationship, but I do want somebody who I can start emotionally investing in. I thought Adonis would be the ideal candidate. He’s hot, he’s funny, he can cook, and we have a lot of mutual friends so I get to see him on a rather consistent basis. The one big downfall though is that it feels like I am dating a 12 year old. And he’s a bit of a flake.
We’ve been doing this bizarre little waltz for the past week or so now and I think my friends are getting tired of my pining. I’ll go out to the bar and Adonis will be there and for the first hour we’ll ignore each other completely. Instead, we’ll secretly pry the other’s friends for information. Does she like me? Is he seeing anybody else? What’s the deal? Then, he’ll make a weird gesture or remark and I’ll give him the ‘WTF’ look and from there, the evening is glorious. There will be promises made of him coming back to my apartment, witty banter, and a hand on my lower back. I’ll get my hope up and ask him to call me and he says he will and he’ll say he’ll be over in an hour and then…
Nothing. Zip. Zero. Me, alone in my bathtub with a beer.
I hate when I do this to myself. I hate when I choose to listen to my heart instead of my gut and I wind up looking and feeling like an idiot. I hate when I repeatedly allow a guy to take advantage of me and fall for the same line again and again and again. I am better than this.
Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do single, successful women sit around staring at a phone that is never going to ring? Why do we hope and hope that this time he’ll call when he says he’s going to? Why do we even want him to call at all?
Hope is a nasty little thing. It’s the air inside that keeps me afloat despite myself. Sometimes I wish that I could just pop the red hope balloon inside of my heart and drag it around behind me and mope.
Adonis won’t ever call me. We won’t end up having a love affair of epic proportions. I might see him again at the bar next weekend, and we may talk, and he may touch my cheek in that certain way, but he won’t call. And I won’t ask or expect him to.