Sunday morning, 1:37 a.m.*
Allison: Do you want to hang out tonight?
*Please note, Allison does not receive a read receipt until late Sunday night.
To say that I had given up on last weekend’s date would be an understatement. I had no intention of ever talking to “Allison” again, and honestly, when I woke up for work on Friday morning, all I really wanted to do was get blacked the fuck out.
I drank myself into a stupor on Friday night and was hitting on everything that walked in front of me. I had no conscience, basically walking up to anything that had a pulse and saying whatever I felt like saying. This approach works sometimes, but it’s high risk, low reward.
I did not get laid on Friday night. My weekend plans had gotten thrown off when my parents called me mid-week to inform me that they would be driving in early Saturday morning to stay at a hotel a few miles from my apartment. I love when my parents come to visit me. They pay for everything, my dad crushes VO Manhattans with me, and my mom tells me every other minute how I’m too cute to not have a girlfriend. It’s a nice confidence boost, even when it’s your mom.
If only you knew how hard it was out here, Mom. I never tell her that, of course. But in the back of my mind, it’s a little bit disconcerting to think that my mom and dad were already married by my age. Times have changed, of course, but whenever I’m out on a date, I try to keep things in perspective.
The technology that has allowed me to be on said date… do I deserve it? Absolutely not.
The job that I hold? I wouldn’t have gotten it without the internships in college that I got through the help of my dad. My little sister and I grew up spoiled, spending summers “Up North” with extended family, where we learned how to interact with adults, play croquet, and most importantly learn table manners (I had to go to cotillion for a year as well, but that’s another story for another day).
So let’s move past Saturday with my parents for a moment. I woke up at 8 o’clock Sunday morning with a splitting headache, reeling from a night out on the town with my parents. We drank, we ate, and we were merry. My dad and I had several Manhattans spread out over the course of the night, while my mom switched between Absolut-sodas and sauvignon blanc.
We had breakfast reservations at a spot near their hotel for 9:30, so I dragged my ass out of bed, took a shower and got dressed. In my hungover state, I actually forgot to bring my phone with me, so the next four hours were nothing short of bliss. I didn’t even know where my phone was that morning. I hate my iPhone. It’s an evil necessity, and unplugging was a nice reprieve.
After breakfast, my parents took me grocery shopping and got back in their car to drive home to Michigan before nightfall. I followed grocery shopping up with a champagne campaign (I hate myself for typing that) at a friend’s apartment. Before I knew it, it was 6:30 at night and I decided it was time to go home to mentally prepare for the work week ahead. Mind you, I was phoneless the entire time. Fairly drunk and now buried under several blankets and some new flannel sheets, I found my phone hiding underneath my body pillow to see what I had missed during my day of no technology.
A few snapchats from friends at brunch, a missed phone call/voicemail combo from my mom letting me know that they had made it home, and two text messages from Allison at 1:37 a.m. Sunday morning. My heart rate increased. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. My stomach twisted itself into several knots. I was legitimately scared to read these texts. There is no way I texted her last night, I thought to myself. Not possible.
Everyone knows the feeling of waking up after a long night out and knowing when they did one or both of the following — 1. Texted someone they definitely shouldn’t have and/or 2. Said something to someone in person they definitely shouldn’t have.
You’re not sure what you said or when you said it, but you wake up in existential dread because you know, in your heart of hearts, that you did something cringe worthy.
I knew I was in the clear this time. I was off my phone most of Saturday night just shooting the shit with my parents, and although I did have too much to drink, it was a relatively tame night compared to the bullshit situations I thrust myself into on weekends out with friends. I opened the above text messages from Allison, and palmed myself on the forehead.
Nobody sends you a “want to hang out tonight?” text at 1:30 in the morning unless they want to bump uglies. Not entirely my fault, though, as I was in bed by 12:30 that night. I texted her back, apologizing for the late response, and asked her on date number two, which we went on last night.
8:00 p.m., Wednesday night. I meet Allison for drinks at this jazz club eight blocks from my apartment. I took an Uber there as it’s been colder than a witches tit outside the past few weeks, and promptly ordered a Maker’s, neat. Allison showed up ten minutes late, but the whole vibe was different from the last time we went out.
Conversation was flowing, the live music was awesome, and we had calamari. Everyone loves calamari. That’s a fact. It should be classified as an aphrodisiac if it isn’t already. We actually joked about how badly our first date had gone, and I even apologized (something very foreign to me) for being totally aloof the first time we met up. The bottom line was that the jazz club was an absolute home run for me. As I asked for the check around 10 o’clock, I thought about my next move. I could invite her back to my place, or I could kiss her and send her on her way. But just as I was handing my card over to pay the bill, I got a text from a friend of mine, urging me to meet him and a crew of degenerates out at a bar that sells fifty cent Bud Lights on Wednesday nights. I looked at the message and sighed. Allison looked at me and asked me if I’d be up to go to another bar.
What I should have done in this instance was say something like, “No, I really shouldn’t tonight, I’ve got a lot on my plate tomorrow at work,” kissed her goodbye, and gone home.
That, of course, did not happen because I have shit for brains and a penchant for not being able to say “NO” to an invitation.
What I did say to Allison was something to the effect of, “Yeah, my buddy just texted me, he’s at [name redacted] and wants us to meet him there.” I texted my friend “en route” and everyone there is absolutely shithoused. I bought my date and I a pitcher each, and the next two and half hours become very hazy. Drunken, sloppy makeouts. Giggling. The whole disgusting nine yards.
1:30, Thursday morning. I’m awoken from a deep sleep by a glass of water getting poured on my head. Allison stood next to the bed, fully dressed, yelling that I had fallen asleep while we were having sex. Falling asleep mid-coitus is not something I’ve done since college. I was a little upset I had just been drenched in cold water. I struggled to remember what had happened, and all I could mutter as I gradually adjusted to the lights getting turned on and cold water on my naked body was grunts and half-assed attempts at “Waaaaait, what? I’m sorry, don’t leave.”
I did remember both of us disrobing and climbing into my bed, but the act of having sex was foggy at best. I do remember her on top of me, but that must have been when I fell asleep. When you get blacked out on a Wednesday night like a 21-year-old pup in college, you should expect something bad to happen. Allison stormed out of my room and presumably back to her place, while I, still a little shell shocked from what had just happened, grabbed a towel to place over the part of my bed that was now wet. I had no time to deal with this. I had to be up in 5 hours for work, and I told myself I’d deal with the consequences later.
As I sit at my desk this morning contemplating my life and where it’s headed, I’m thinking maybe I should just become a cat guy. Cats don’t pour water on you when they’re angry, and they sure as hell don’t care if you say or do anything stupid because, well, they’re cats. That might be my lack of sleep talking. An animal isn’t going to solve my dating woes.
I’m planning an 8 p.m. phone call tonight to try and smooth things over. My opening line for said phone call? “Look, mistakes were made.” Only time will tell if that’s the right way to go about this. At this point, I can’t really do anything but laugh at the dumpster fire that is my dating life. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again in case you’re new. I always find a way to fuck things up.
If there’s a Johnny D, there’s a way. .
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