Open Mic for the Men

Last year, while volunteering at the annual Martin Luther King Parade (five hours of my life that I desperately want back but will never get), I met a gentleman. To be honest, he was absolutely not my type: I found him a bit painful to look at. Of course, that mean that he was completely smitten with me. While he tried to get the digits, I ducked and dodged, slid in and out of marching groups, and kept my head buried in the pile of paperwork on my very official, parade issued clipboard in order to look busy.

At the end of the parade, I managed to slip away, sight unseen and into my car. I breathed a loud sigh of relief, as I had escaped the clutches of what had the possibility of being a very uncomfortable conversation.

A month goes by. And then two. And then three. I'd forgotten about the behemoth ogre. I was involved with trying to escape someone else. Life was good.

Until we ended up at the same stop light at the same time.

He looked over at me and I looked at him. Immediately, I knew that we knew each other.I hoped he did not recognize me. He didn't. Life was back to being good.

Well, we kept catching the same stop light on a stretch of highway. By light number three, he'd worked up enough courage to roll his window down and ask for my number. This time, I thought I'd give fate a chance and give him my number. Perhaps he would like my suggestion to wear a paper bag over his head during dinner--you never know.

Over the next few months we had a couple of riveting conversations. He's an electrician, so I was finally able to ask all the questions I've been harboring since elementary school: What really happens if you stick a fork in a working toaster? What should I do if my car is struck by lightening while I'm driving? Why can birds sit on live power lines? He actually turned out to be interesting to talk to. But, that's all we ever did--talk.

This went on for a few weeks, at which time he would remind me of how beautiful I am, but never follow through with an invitation to meet again. A few weeks stretched into months and we ceased talking. But, I kept his number because it's just good practice to always keep an electrician and a plumber in the digital rolodex.

Now, thirteen months after our initial meeting, I get a text message. It reads, "Good morning, beutiful! :)" Aside from the egregious spelling error, the message it self was nice. I reply, "Good morning 2 u 2"

Nothing.

That was last week.

Seriously, what am I supposed to do with that? For the men who read my blog, I need you to answer this question: Why?

Why go through the trouble of talking to a girl, risking extreme embarrassment and confidence-shattering rejection by asking for a number, taking the number, texting and calling the girl, and failing to follow through?


Evelyn Parkside