So three days ago I met two guys: one of which I liked, one of which was a schlump. I gave them both my number. Because the cosmos takes great pleasure in making my love life as difficult as possible, of course the guy I actually liked has not called. The schlump, however, has called eight times and sent at least five text messages.
The schlump also thinks I'm Jill Scott. I have had to tell him three times that I, indeed, am not Jill Scott: I do not sing, I do not act and I am not from Philly. I do have big hair and hips, but the resemblance stops there.
During our first twenty-five minute conversation, I got a bit concerned. First, he told me that he planned on being married in the next year and that he was tired of having girlfriends. Then, he told me that he wanted two more kids. Yes, more. He also thought I was twenty-five, which was a bit unsettling after he told me that his daughter is twenty-one.
He told me that the Lord had brought us together. He said that, "The Bible says that when a man finds a good woman, he finds a good thing. See, you was just sittin' outside the valet, waiting to be found and I found you." I stopped myself from retorting, "I wasn't lost."
He then told me that he had gotten into an argument with a friend of his--also 41--who idolizes Jill Scott. He idolizes her so much that he has posters on his wall, "like a thirteen year old girl." Sigh. The friend tells the schlump that he'd better be careful and that I'm still fair game, because we're not a couple, yet. Sigh. This is the point where the schump tells me that he's going to make an honest woman out of me. Sigh again.
Fast forward to our second conversation.
The schlump asks me to go out this Thursday. Sticking to my rules, I obliged. He suggests a Neo-Soul lounge. I oblige again. Though this would not be my first choice, I'm going along.
That's when the conversation went from bad to worse:
"Um, I need to tell you something," the schlump says.
"Yes?" I reply, wondering what could possibly come next.
"I don't have a car. I"ll have to take the bus." He answers.
Alas, he will have to take the iron pimp to meet me on our first date. At forty-one.
Long, lingering sigh. I reach for a bottle of Pinot Noir.
M
Been there, done that, don't plan on doing it again.
ReplyDeleteAhhh, the ol' "butter the woman up, only to let her know that she'll have to support him throughout" game.
ReplyDeleteI CAN say, however, that I have NEVER heard the term "iron pimp" before. Quite interesting.
ReplyDelete