Douche-bagging. A term that two of my best friends, Robby and Heather and I use. It began for Robby who is the ultimate king of the online dating world. If I had ad dollar for every time I catch him swiping left or right instead of answering his work emails, I would be able to quit my job. It began with a business lunch in a classy restaurant when I was in a brand new relationship, and was convinced that I knew everything about love, which could not be further from the truth. I was mocking his dating profile and trying to help him step up his game. Unbeknownst to me, he already had game. He was pulling so much ass that he had dates lined up for days on end.
After my short love affair, which you will hear about in the future, Robby and I began to share our stories of what others would call “serial dating.” The idea of serial dating is exhausting, but I want to find someone worth dating.
One Friday night I joined two of my good friends, who are married, for Happy Hour at Hooters. They were asking me what I was going to do that night, as they wanted to live vicariously through me, however at 6 that evening, I still had not made any plans — but was confident I could change that.
On the way home I was exchanging POF messages with a guy named Howard, which should have given me reason enough not to go. As I got home, he texted me and asked me if I wanted to get dinner and drinks, I replied with a yes at 7:26, and as he responded, “Cool, how about 8,” I was already passed out watching the Sopranos, curled up in a blanket. At 8:15 I receive a text that says, “At the bar.” I rolled over, saw it, and then fell back asleep. When I woke up and realized what I’d done, I felt awful about accidentally standing someone up, but I still did not get up and go out. The next day I felt like such an asshole as I told my friends what I did and as Howard texted me, and when I apologized, he was surprisingly super sweet about it.
Sunday morning he texted me and asked me if I was up for “Sunday Funday,” which in my mind brings me back to being a ski bum, drinking morning cocktails, smoking a bowl and snowboarding all day. Because I am a responsible adult, I realize it’s not winter, so that means we stick with the drinking, maybe a bowl, but no riding — not on the first date, anyway, because like you know, I am a lady, ass face! So, we deiced to get brunch, my favorite basic white girl move.
I meet Howard downtown for brunch and immediately see that he does not look exactly like his pictures online. He was much taller and thinner–which does not sound like a bad thing, but it was almost in a lanky sort of tall and thin way. As we waited for a table he told me that his parents wanted him to go to Tahoe in a month and said, “Do you want to go? We will even get our own room!” Ok, here is another flag. The name Howard was #1, inviting me to a family vacation with his parents was #2, and the need to point out we could get our own room, well that was #3. Of course we would have our own room, but more importantly, you’re psycho if you think we are going on vacation together in a month, as we have not even been seated yet.
We make it through brunch, enjoying the different breakfast cocktails they have. He then tried to get me to skip church with my mom later and go to the Rockies game with him, do yard work, or just go to his house. The answer to all of these suggestions was no, for I had not had so much champagne that I was ready to make irresponsible decisions!
A few days later he asked me if he could make me dinner, which was very sweet. As I pull up to his house I realized that I must have had more to drink on Sunday than I thought–because he was not as cute as I had remembered. That’s when I had a sudden ‘migraine’ come on. For the record, I get real migraines and they suck: I cry, I puke, and I cannot have any noise around me! So I know full well that I will get paid back for this lie and the next migraine I get will be a killer one, but that’s how bad I did not want to be at his house.
I tell him I have a migraine and he thinks I am lying, but as mentioned, I do get them, so I know how to fake them enough. I finally leave his house after a strange fight and at first I do not feel as douchey as anticipated, because he was being a dick, but that didn’t last. As I was leaving he apologizes, tells me he believes me, and then hands me flowers, because, quote, “I wanted this night to be perfect for you!”
I leave to go home and naturally immediately call B. She is with her friend Jerry, and I proceed to tell them both everything via speakerphone, saying, “All I want to eat is spaghetti.” B says, “Anytime you would rather eat spaghetti than sex with someone you need to leave and go get spaghetti…or bagel bites!”
I realize her advice is solid, so stop and get bagel bites, and then see the string of texts from Howard. I think about responding but decide ghosting him and eating bagel bites in my bed would be the best thing to do for the evening!
Was I a douche bag? Yes. I think this was douche-bagging at its finest. To top it off, I call Robby to tell him this story and although I am in the middle of the grocery store sharing this — which is inappropriate enough — he is in the middle of a family dinner, and answers the phone as I ramble on and on. Then, he laughs and tells me to say hi to his parents! Because that is the way this story should end!
As Heather later told me, “If you do not want to be out with someone, then leave! I am proud of you!” So, stay true to yourselves and only go out with someone if you want to be out with them! And if you only realize you don’t want to be out with them once you’re already out, then still leave!
With love, J!