The Process Of Waiting For Your Girlfriend To Get Ready

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The Process Of Waiting For Your Girlfriend To Get Ready

You lie there staring at the ceiling. A song by The Chainsmokers that you’ve heard a million times plays from her phone. It comes from the bathroom where the door is half-open, and the only other sounds are the sink running, ping noises that cause the music to cease for two long seconds, and bare feet clambering on marble.

“What time is it?” she questions.

“Eight fifteen,” you say in a manner that you think is louder than necessary.


Eight fifteen!” you yell back.

“Okay, what time do we have to be at the restaurant?”

This is at least the fourth time you’ve heard this question tonight, and never once did you anticipate it actually mattering to anyone who was included on the reservation. You reiterate that you’re supposed to get seated at nine o’clock, but deep down you know it’ll be about 9:15 and you’ll fake apologize to everyone for being late. The fact of the matter is, they’ll probably be even later.

You pull down your Instagram feed expecting to miraculously see a photo of interest. It doesn’t happen, so you resort to sending a “Sup?” text to a friend you haven’t talked to in a while. No read receipt appears, so you have to assume he’s already out.

You get up from the bed and take a peak in the bathroom. It looks like a sorting facility for a Goodwill geared only towards fans of the show Girls.

“Shit, I should text everyone and let them know we’re going to be late,” you think to yourself.

“Should I text everyone and let them know we’re going to be late?” you inquire.

She turns her head and you immediately worry she’s going to get a third-degree burn from what appears to be an irresponsible wielding of her curling iron. You then remember she’s been doing this every night since she was sixteen, and you remember what you had just asked.

“Yeah, should be fine.”

She’s the expert and your name isn’t on the reservation, so really, you don’t have a pony in this race. You grab the plastic cup off the bed stand and empty the bottle of wine onto the melted ice. It’s a strong pour, but it’s all that’s left in the apartment. You take a long sip and the dew from the cup drips onto your pressed pants. You’d care, but you’re going to spill at least one more drink on yourself before the night is out so you move on to checking the time.


Lying back down on the bed, you adjust the pillow to make sure the back of your head isn’t pressed against it causing your hair to do an Alfalfa. You cross your feet and pull up the ballgame on your phone. But not the actual ballgame, just an app that has little squares running the bases and a box score that’s at least ten minutes behind real time.

“What can possibly take so long?” you ponder as you glimpse into the bathroom again only to witness makeup being applied to parts of the eye you didn’t know existed. “Eh, fuck it, I’m just going to get drunk.”

As the minutes pass, the thought of calling an Uber lingers in the back of your mind. How long will you have to wait? How far is it to the restaurant? Is it surge pricing? How can you somehow commandeer her phone and convince her she should get this one? Glancing over at the plastic cup half-filled with wine, you realize the price of the Uber doesn’t truly matter because you just drank three-quarters of a bottle that her roommate actually bought last weekend.

“Okay, these shoes or these shoes?”

You look at two pairs of shoes that you can’t fathom actually go with what she’s wearing, but you’re no expert, so you choose the low-key pair. She listens to you which surprises you both.

While bending down to adjust her heel while also somehow fixing her earring, you witness a circus-worthy balancing act that should end in a twisted ankle. She looks at you.

“Alright, can you call an Uber?”

He’s five minutes away and you enter the location of the restaurant before taking the last hard gulp of the watered-down wine. You sit on the side of the bed while she makes last minute hair adjustments to ensure she looks perfect even though the air conditioning in the Uber is just going to undo any improvements. You slide on your loafers and walk towards the door as she piles her life into her clutch.

Walking out of the room, you set the cup next to the kitchen sink without washing it out.

“The Uber is here!” you cry as she immediately responds she’ll need a minute. “Alright, I’m going to go out there.”

You walk down the stairs and know the driver is wondering if you’re rolling solo out of the apartment. You slow your pace because the only thing that waits in the Kia Sorrento is too much air freshener, an awkward conversation, and some dude named Lenny who was laid off a year ago and is still acting like being an Uber driver is a transitional gig. Opening the back passenger side door, he looks back at you.

“Todd?” he asks.

“Yeah, she’ll just be a second.”

Image via Shutterstock

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