The Boyfriend Graveyard

There are not enough words to explain boys and what goes on in that tiny little space between their ears. And there comes a time in every woman’s life when she must come to terms with this. For some of us, this realization happens a bit too late and then seems to be confirmed a bit too often. Enter the subject of this blog, “The Boyfriend Graveyard." (And let’s be honest, this will really be more of a column since there are undoubtedly too many obits to post at one time.)

And for the record, I’ve really taken some liberties with the term “Boyfriend” here. It is actually a catchall term for any and all relationships I’ve had with the opposite sex, regardless of duration or devotion. You have to admit, “The Boyfriend/Fling/Love-of-my-life/F*buddy/Secret Affair Graveyard” is a bit cumbersome.

Also of note, since some of these male subjects may actually resurrect and read these entries, I’ve masked identities as much as possible without diminishing the undoubtedly heinous nature of whatever they did to cause the demise of our relationship. (Smile boys, this is a joke.)

So begins the regurgitation and rehashing of the multitude of disasters that I so pathetically call a love life. Some of these entries might be kinda long, so pour yourself a cocktail and get comfy.

Column #1
Nickname: McDreamy
Timeline: MasterCard was celebrating its decade-long “priceless” campaign, Grey’s Anatomy was at the height of its popularity, and I still believed in tall, dark, and handsome.

McDreamy was a 42 year old executive, never been married, no kids. In theory, this guy was the perfect trifecta: tall, dark, and handsome. Not to mention smart, established, and wittily sarcastic. He's the kinda guy a woman meets and can't help but immediately ponder, how the hell is this guy single? Then without even trying, said woman rationalizes something along the lines of... he is clearly focused on kicking ass in his career during the week and then is simply too busy building homes for the underprivileged on the weekends to weed through the masses to find a good woman.

Sigh. I should have known better. Guys like this only exist in a parallel universe; you know, the same one where chocolate has no calories and a woman's IQ is more important than her cup size.

Ok, sorry, I digress. Let's get back on track.

So McDreamy and I met at a party, flirted shamelessly, and after several weeks of emails and phone calls, mutually decided to get together (even though we lived several states apart, the chemistry was too electric to ignore). After calendar checks, we decide that I'd fly to see him. And I happened to have a girlfriend who lives nearby, which I immediately interjected into our conversation as to avoid the whole sleeping arrangements discussion. (Which was doubly good because he had just relocated and was living out of suitcase. At a motel. Gross.)

>> Fast forward to day of departure.

I call him to confirm the plan for that evening. Our very cute, very flirtatious convo goes something like this.

Me: Hi… don’t forget to pick me up tonight.
McDreamy: Oh, gee, that was tonight?
Me: Had no idea you were so funny.
McDreamy: You have no idea. Blah blah…flirt flirt… Did you get the directions (to your girlfriend’s)?
Me: Yes, sir. Just like I was told. Enter my infamous blonde sarcasm.
McDreamy: Something tells me you are better at giving orders… I’ve heard.
Me: Wow. There’s a zinger. Who have you been talking to?
McDreamy: Oh everyone knows you. I have heard really good things. So-and-so says great things about you. Blah blah... See you in a little bit.

Sexy voice, playful remarks…I haven’t boarded the plane yet, but was already flying.

I land a few hours later and to find McDreamy patiently waiting at luggage claim. A warm welcome, a hug, and we are off. He schleps my luggage to the car and insists that I wait so he can open her door. “I am big on (opening) doors” he says.

We navigate through this godforsaken airport; which, for the record must be at least six miles across, and head off to grab a drink. I suggest we head toward my girlfriend’s and find a place along the way. I am surprised (and delighted!) to hear that he actually has scouted a place already, Bahama Breeze. Fun, laid back… a great choice I think.

Over Mojitos I pepper him with questions about life, travels, work. Great banter, although I'm fairly certain that some of my wittiness is drown out by the cheesy electric guitar player. We debate whether he is really playing the guitar and move on with our sparkling conversation.

I prep him that the next night (Saturday night) my girlfriend and her hubby will be joining us out. He jokes that he is really shy and he will try to come out of his shell. I argue that he doesn’t seem very shy to me, but he insists. And I believe him.

He, very responsibly so, has only one drink that night. He is driving after all. I stop after drink #2 and confess that I never like to be more than one drink ahead of my date. It’s just bad manners. He is seemingly amused by this charming commentary, pays the bill, and we leave. And after a brutally long day, we hug good night and agree to meet the next afternoon for beers and Final Four action.

[NOTE: He calls the next morning and leaves the following unprompted, cutesy voicemail: "Hi, just wanted to see how shopping is going with your girlfriend. Blah blah. I’m waiting for the real estate lady. Blah blah… Will see you soon!”]

>> Fast forward to Saturday evening.

He meets my friends and engages in a seemingly healthy dialog about college football, house hunting, etc. Upon arriving at bar #1, he orders iced tea. (The universal drink of "I don't want to be here.") In true form, I have a few Bud Lights. At this point, my girlfriend's hubby is drinking with me so I quickly discard aforementioned rule referencing that I should only be one adult beverage ahead of my date. (Plus I drink when I get anxious. Or nervous. Or feel uncomfortable. Or feel rejected. Come to think of it, I'm shocked I could even walk out of that place by the end of the night.)

After a short while, I engage McDreamy in action on the game. If figured if the notion of gambling and sports won't loosen this guy up, what the hell will. I give him 4.5 points, he reluctantly accepts. I then spend the balance of the evening defending my “party lifestyle” job. They gang up on me. I laugh it off. Seemed like a good thing.

By beer #3 I am getting worried. My girlfriend and I regroup in the ladies. I am convinced something is awry. She says he is just shy, nervous, blah, blah. I can hear nothing but the faint echoes of “he’s just not that into you.”

For what it's worth, my team won. By a landslide.

We head to bar #2 to watch second game. I am thinking… change of scenery, change of attitude?

We sit in a booth near the bar. Yes! a booth. Where one can easily show some sign of interest without being considered too forward. You know, the touch of a hand, brush of the leg. This may seem like silly commentary, but let me clarify the dreadful nature of the situation: we had been out for nearly three hours and there had not been anything resembling physical contact from him. Whereas I had been trying the entire night to cautiously flirt, including a few friendly “hits” here and there. And for those of you who don’t remember middle school, hitting is a good thing.

Another beer later, I am winning our second game bet by 12 points. Given the blow out, the group starts to decide where the night will go from there. We are collectively discussing, when McDreamy leans over and says that he is just going to take off after this bar. Given that he is driving everyone, the night seems to be over for all of us.

I vow to have a poignant discussion with McDistant once he drops us off at my friend’s house.

>> Fast forward through the awkward drive back.

We arrive and my dear friends, right on cue, exit the vehicle immediately. I turn to McDistant and delicately phrase something to the effect of “Is everything okay…maybe it wasn’t a good idea to have the four of us go out? Too much? Too soon? Maybe I misread this weekend….blah…blah.” I purposefully set myself up as a little unsure, a little vulnerable. If he has half a brain, this is a Nerf toss.

He gives me nothing. No body language. No facial expression. Certainly no verbal cues.

Finally, he asks about the plan for tomorrow (Sunday). I say that my flight is at 6pm. He says he isn’t sure how long house hunting will take. I, in a stroke of sheer bitchiness, tell him not to worry about taking me to the airport. I am fuming at this point. Fuming and really confused. Not a good combo for this Blonde. He insists on taking me to the airport, out of guilt I image. I told him to call me the next day and we'd figure something out. He manages to blurt out one more sentence before I exit the car, “I just have a lot going on and I don’t know you that well.”

What the f* is that? “I don’t know you that well”!?! Hey buddy, I’m not asking to sleep with you! I am just wondering what the hell is going on since I hauled my cookies all the way down here and you have managed to avoid any sign of remote interest in me for the last five hours straight!

I shut the car door and walked inside the house feeling dejected, confused, and just plain pissed. Once inside, my friends confirm that things were indeed a bit bizarre that night.

>> Fast forward to Sunday afternoon.

McDistant calls as I am enjoying some much needed retail therapy. Being that planner that I am, I have a very distinct plan of attack. I act as though I really could care less if he takes me to the airport. Although deep down I really wanted some clarity, and if there was a chance I was going to get that en route to the airport, then so be it. So eventually I acquiesce.

En route to the airport I am doing my best to be my charming self and not drown in the memories of the prior night. I lead the conversation. I ask the questions. I tell witty stories. I foolishly thought that if he felt comfortable with me (again), he might actually open up a bit about what was going on in that tiny space between his ears.

I had already vowed to myself that I wouldn’t play the “what does this all mean?" girl card. No matter what. So I subtly hinted at the nagging question on my brain. Apparently, it was so subtle that he did not get it at all. Shocker.

We were pulling into the airport when he shared with me some cockamamie story about how he was going to take off a week in the summer to do charity work. Seriously? I don’t give a crap if you are planning to rebuild the entire city of New Orleans by yourself, why the hell are we talking about this? Are you still trying to impress me? Is that your game? See how far you can lead them (unsuspecting women) on before they just fall at your feet?

And if that wasn’t bad enough. After I thanked him for driving me to the airport and he says, gulp… “that’s the least I can do since you came all the way down here.” (I believe that’s what you call the proverbial last straw.)

I wanted to scream, “No, jackass, the least you can do it treat me with some friggin’ respect and let me know what the hell is going on here.” You just acknowledged that I flew my cookies all the way down here, but you can’t manage to verbalize one single sentiment that might be trudging through that thick head of yours? McClueless had really gotten to me at this point.

He pulled up along the curb. I wanted to jump out and run for the hills. But alas, I had a suitcase of new clothes in the back (abovementioned retail therapy) and couldn’t abandon them.

He then proceeded to tell me that he had a good time, blah, blah. I didn't believe him. When he was done with that drivel, I said my goodbye. I even left a very purposeful awkward silence in the middle of my goodbye. Hoping so much that he would fill it with something. Anything...

“I’m really sorry things are kinda weird. I don’t date much and wasn’t sure how things are supposed to work…”

“I’ve been thinking… since you live hundreds of miles away, it’s probably best that we don’t pursue this…”

“You are too fat for me”

“You are a great person, but I am queer as a two dollar bill”

But alas, I got nothing. And I walked off into the sunset (well, into the terminal).

>> Fast forward to the asininely painful flight home.

I resisted the urge to drink all the free wine they would serve me in first class. Instead, I spent the entire flight home trying to decipher the weekend. How could Friday night be so nice and Saturday night be so awkward?

And then it hit me like a ton of bricks… He didn’t even think this was a date.

(Urge for wine gets much stronger.)

I wrestle with this thought for the next couple hundred miles. Am I in the wrong? Was I too assertive? Was this trip too much too soon? Maybe he just isn’t interested in me? I drown in these thoughts all night.

>> Fast forward to Monday morning.

I immediately find myself combing through old emails from him (what girl wouldn’t save the good ones?) and start to feel better. Or maybe worse?

These old emails are just as I remembered: forward, flirtatious, and fun. As I read passages from his emails, I became more certain that I in fact did not misread the weekend. This was indeed a date.

Exhibit A:
Me: Was that you? (Who text me last night with new phone number.)
McDreamy: Yes. That was me. Are you having trouble keeping all your admirers straight??? Must be rough. Just wanted you to have the new cell number.... to add to the long list! Hope that you had a great day!
Me:…we should get together…
McDreamy: …I have some execs here Mon, Tues, and Thurs this week. Then I desperately need to look at houses. What are my other options?
Me: Other options are slim, as I am traveling rest of month. Are you playing hard to get?
McDreamy: I am "hard to find,” "hard to follow," often "hard to understand" but never described as playing "hard to get"! :) … How are you at looking for houses???
Me: I don’t date a lot, but I am not sure I have ever heard of a first date predicated on house hunting ;)
McDreamy: Awe, c’mon…
Me: Who says real estate can’t be fun… I’m in.
McDreamy: Probably need to discuss details… blah, blah…I will make sure that there is a (enter my nickname) wing in the new pad. :)

I’m no expert, but I would say in the court of dating, this would be “case closed."

So given my feminine nature, I really felt like I needed some closure. I hated feeling like he had played me. So after one email from me to him, he sends this response: “Glad you came down. Sorry I am a little crazy right now.”

Now this is the time when every woman needs to make a decision. Do I accept this lame ass, over-used cop out as an excuse for his behavior? Or do I stand up for every woman who has ever been jerked around by a career-obsessed, self-indulgent, middle-aged loner.

I vowed to never contact him again.

Epitaph
He's Just Not That Into You paperback: $12
Roundtrip ticket to find out exactly how “not that into you” he actually is: $700
Self-esteem: priceless