In case you missed part one, click here – where I talk about standoffish men and my attraction to long-distance relationships.
Getting hit on is … weird.
Especially when it’s by creeps. Where men say weird things and make bad jokes on account of trying to impress you. Meanwhile you’re wondering what happened to their social skills and who let them out of elementary school that way.
So you try to get rid of them as
quickly nicely as possible.
There have been some classics in my day, the “No thank you, we don’t want any,” the, “Thanks for the cookie,” the “Why don’t you grab your own ass instead?” and for the super terrify-ers, a straight, “Pop off.” Each of which has had a varying range of leave-me-alone success.
Because, let’s face it. You know as soon as you see the guy whether or not you’re interested. Personality can change your mind, but they aren’t going to get better looking. Or better dressed.* As soon as you see them walk down an aisle, enter a house party, or hand you a 20-foot beverage tube, you absolutely know. And you tell yourself, “I’m going to put my mouth on his mouth.” Then intoxicated you makes it happen. Even after you singlehandedly carried two out of the three at beer pong.
Flattery vs. Follow Through
On some level, is getting hit on by the randies a little flattering? Only kind of. Because guys are shallow and acting on what they see – which is a series of smoke and mirror tricks. Except rather than actual smoke and mirrors, it’s make up and hair … and whatever booze they’ve self-ingested. A series of illusions. Then when the eyeliner comes off and the ponytail goes up, they’re out. Like any true magic fan who just realized their on-stage entertainment is a lie.
But rather than hearing multiple lines from strangers, really, all you need is one to stick around … who you want to stick around.
By now, I’ve considered stealing and mixing parts off each of them, in true Frankenstein fashion.** Where I take only the best assets and conjoin them together. With my sewing machine. That way I can pick the most attractive legs, the smartest, funniest, and least pretentious brain, the most car fixing abilities, and viola! I’d also do away with those pesky neck bolts, which seem like they’d be really awful for cuddling. Six to eight weeks later, depending on how good I am at crafting, Mr. Outstanding is ready to go.
All from a plan that sounds less exhausting than actual dating.
The Nickname Factor
All of my potential suitors earn nicknames, whether or not they know it. (Most don’t.) And then I list them in my phone that way. Because it is fun. Whether the moniker be location-based (Tampa Tom), occupational (Boyfriend), or differential (Mark III) – when I’m texting or calling them, it shows up as so. But at some point, after the “relationship” has taken the Jenga game-iest of tumbles, they’re demoted back to their original names. The boring ones their parents gave them. So as to show just how on I’ve moved.
It’s a tactic I started in college, when I broke up with my boyfriend from an actual closet … on account of him being far away and me living in an apartment with thin walls. Immediately after hanging up, I edited the contact from “Lovey Dovey Name” to “Marvin Underbakker, Jr.” And it felt like I had won the damn lottery.
I’ve done it ever since.
In case you’re wondering if anyone is allowed to switch back from formal name to nickname, I’m not sure. No one has successfully made the leap. It’s a guideline that’s not as concrete as my two-beer knitting rule, but also not as flimsy as my two-beer driving rule.
Maybe I’m still hoping one of the locationally challenged will appear with the world’s best apology. Maybe not. Maybe I’m still not sure.
Because I’m a woman and I’m allowed to change my damn mind.
*Exception: I once met a guy on Halloween who was dressed in 70s gear. He soon after changed into Superman/Clark Kent – the fro didn’t do it for me, but the fake glasses definitely did.
**Yes, it’s technically “Frankenstein’s monster,” but considering Dr. Frankenstein is his father – or as close to a father as he’ll ever get – his surname too, is Frankenstein. Lawyered.