A Letter To The Gentleman Caller Who Never Called

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Nice Move

To The Gentleman Caller Who Never Called

Hello again,

I haven’t heard from you for long enough to lead me to believe you’ve either gone missing (possible) or are never going to text me (probable). For your sake, I hope that you’ve been kidnapped by danger and end up on an episode of Cold Case, or else I’m going to have to be a real bitch the next time I run into you, which is always a drag. I’ll either MO one of your fraternity brothers because it seemed like a good idea at the time (when you’re drunk most terrible things do), or be a complete and total ice queen, along with the rest of my sisters. I apologize in advance for not being sorry.

I thought our date went perfectly. After all, you seemed more than enamored of me, and we stayed out long past last call. Plus, I cook like the Pioneer Woman (calories included), I’m hyper flexible in way I’d like to think is comparable to Shawn Johnson (a girl can dream), and my measurements rival Kate Upton (before she put on all that weight, hopefully). So, it was a surprise when Wednesday rolled around, and I didn’t receive a mid-week investment text to let me know that you’re thinking of me soberly, to ensure you get it in drunkenly. When Friday came and went without a midnight booty call, I knew to call the police and tell them to check the crime scene at your house because you’d been murdered. After all, what other explanation could there be for your lack of communication?

After you unexpectedly went MIA, it led me to do a little bit of soul searching. I think I found the answers at the bottom of my consolation cocktails, but I still have a couple of questions. Mainly…why? I’m cute, and fun, and great, but now, I’m left wondering.

Is it because I picked at my dinner in a way that would make an angry parent yell about starving children in Africa? Look, my sisters think my ability to count calories is impressive, and I just assumed you would too. After all, if I didn’t, I might be in the kitchen during recruitment. Honestly, I was far too nervous to eat, as I am on first dates in general (unless it’s a breakfast date, in which case I’m just too hungover to care). While you were perfectly content chowing down on that hamburger like you’d been locked in the hazement, I still felt uncomfortable going to town on my food. It wasn’t attractive when you did it (though I kindly gave you a pass), but last I checked, “I double as a dumpster diver” wasn’t exactly man bait. That didn’t stop me from doing the necessary but always-awkward fake-out wallet grab to show I was more than willing to pay for the wasted calories, though.

Actual apologies if I accidentally talked a little bit too much about myself, as I’m sometimes prone to do. I tried to talk about sports, and your job, and your weird hobbies with you, I really did, but they’re just…boring. The potent mix of nerves and liquor on first dates sometimes leads to word vomit (I guess it’s better than actually vomit). I know there’s no boy on Earth who’s actually interested in hearing about my little as much as I like to talk about her, so I may have gotten carried away in my attempt to explain my love for my lineage, but she really is the most precious munchkin alive. No? You still don’t care? Okay, moving on.

I have to wonder if, yet again, my gaydar is way off. My ability to go for boys who sometimes cross the thin border dividing preppy from metrosexual has led me down a not-so straight path time and time again. But Cher Horowitz had terrible gaydar, and she still ended up bagging her smoking hot stepbrother, which is proof that dreams really do come true.

My lack of phone vibration during a Candy Crush binge might have been because I ordered a few too many Jack and Cokes, only half of which I actually drank. And no, I don’t mean whiskey Cokes. I appreciate name brands, even when it comes to cocktails. You should’ve been impressed with my discriminating tastes (after all, I went out with you), but of course, my aforementioned lack of caloric intake ensured that I became increasingly buzzed as the night wore on, and I may or may not have had trouble walking, which I guess was less fun for you than it was for me. My B on that one.

In the end, first dates are a double-edged sword. It’s cool to get to know someone new and it’s possible I got ahead of myself imagining you were the one (or at least “the one” this summer). I mean, while I love A.) receiving huge amounts of attention and B.) when everything is paid for, I hate learning all sorts of information about a boy I may or may not ever talk to again. I now know your favorite color, what scarred you most when you were eight (snakes are not that scary), and all sorts of minutiae I’ll someday recall at random moments. In the end, you’ll be given a hysterical and memorable nickname by my friends and me, and forgotten the second I find my next victim boy. While you’re but a blip on my dating radar, I’m still offended I didn’t even warrant a midnight text — but dating you would’ve been settling, and not in the cute Charlotte from Sex and the City way, in the sad Charlotte from Pride and Prejudice way.

When a boy goes mysteriously MIA, it’s beyond frustrating, because there are questions that need answers. While I wasn’t waiting by my phone for you (although I’m naturally attached to it anyway), because this isn’t the 1950s (did ladies wait at home for a messenger on horseback from their gentleman caller before that? Unclear), you should still be required to explain yourself to a judge and jury for not getting in contact after what seemed like a perfectly pleasant evening. Fair is fair. I’d say we’ll talk later, but I know better by now. I guess it could just be that you were too scared to man-up, because you didn’t have quite the equipment for the occasion, but now I’ll never know, and since you’ll never prove to me otherwise, I can believe exactly what I want.

See ya later,
Fleur

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