Recently I’ve been on some pretty great dates. Only, there’s a catch. He’s moving in a couple weeks. And it’s not one of those chill ten minutes away move; it’s a life move. When we went out last week we talked about how the next time we’d see each other would be our last date, and probably the last time we ever saw each other.
It was early spring and he planned for us to have a Saturday pool date. Come Friday, though, the forecast for Saturday showed rain with a high of 60, so I suggested we see a movie instead. He responded, “We’ll make the decision about whether or not we go to the movies when you arrive. Hopefully by that time the sun will be out and I can see you in a bathing suit.”
This is the story about the time my life was almost as cute as a cheesy romcom. Except instead of kissing Price Charming at the end, I side hugged an average guy.
He was cute and charming and I was flattered by the attention he was giving me. And so even though the first text he sent me that day after getting my number was cringe-worthy—“Hey ur pretty sexy”—I responded saying it was fun meeting him.
I had just talked about how horrible it is to be sober and how desperately I needed alcohol to hang out with friends. This guy who didn’t drink must have thought I was a raging alcoholic.
That awkward and shitty place in between butthurt and heartbroken.
(is an unwanted DFMO)