A Follow-Up

So I know you have all been waiting anxiously for me to share the details from my date this past Saturday.  You've been sitting on the edge of your virtual seats, checking the blog every hour, anticipating a new post.  Which option did I chose?  Where did we go?  Did I tell him off?

I have good news: your wait has come to an end.

So when we left off, our heroine (me) had been contacted by a former paramour regarding a date for last Saturday.  Though he had blown off the heroine-not once, but twice--more than eight months ago, he saw fit to reconnect and ask her "what happened between us?" 

He called Friday (the heroine promptly sent him to voicemail each time), asking the heroine to return his call.  He sent multiple text messages, quoting poetry and what appeared to be text from the Book of Solomon.  He demanded that she meet him on Saturday.

So, what did I do?  Well, I called back Friday evening and left a pretty non-descript voicemail message:  "Hi ___________, this is me.  I got your message, returning your call.  Please call me when you receive this."

Saturday morning:  no response.  Somewhere around noon on Saturday, I sent a text reading, "so, what's the plan?"   No response.  This is starting to look mighty familiar.  Saturday evening:  I  went through the phone and commenced to deleting all of the most recent forms of communication.  I was having dejavu.

So, somehow, I've been blown off not once, not twice but THREE times by the same man.  Somehow, I managed to fall into an alternate universe where I keep getting the shaft without the chance to tell the man--to his face--exactly what I think of him.  Somehow,  I keep getting screwed. 

Now, gentlemen, please answer this question:  What was the point?  No, seriously, what was the point?  I'm really ok not dating this person, but I have yet to understand why he keeps setting up dates with me and doing the Wesley-Snipes-IRS disappearing act.  Please advise.

So, here's the deal: I'm upper East side.  Prime real estate.  Seriously.  I'm a catch.  I'm warm, and caring and I cook.  Small children love to wrap their arms around my thighs and hips.  I'm gainfully employed.  I jog.  I've kept my fish and my aloe vera plant alive for almost a year now. I'm not on the lam from the law.  My laughter brings to mind the sound of silver bells.  I'm submissive. ish. 

What I'm not is a fool.  Or desperate.  Or unhappy.  Or worried about missing my soul mate.  Or willing to be treated as such.

What I really want at this point is to tell this man--to his face, with a smile on mine--to fuck off.





Evelyn Parkside