“Excuse me, excuse me,” I say repeatedly to the girls who make no attempt to let us through the crowd.
“We have competition,” I say in jest to Kaitlyn, although my declaration is apparently true. The posse of girls immediately heads towards the cute guy with the smile dimple. The alpha girl of their group wastes no time as she pulls him and his friend to the dance floor.
As the night progresses, the ratio of men-to-women sadly flip-flops. Gone is my hopeful night of fun. Instead, I feel like a spectator at an event to which I have not been formally invited. Kaitlyn and I watch from the sidelines as females and males mingle with drunken flirtations, exchanging phone numbers and kisses.
There are a few instances of being welcomed into their world like when a group of guys dancing motion us to join them on the dance floor. Only the guys look like they are the recipients of fake IDs and the only purpose of our dance invitation is to eliminate the taboo of dancing alone. There is also the guy who asks me to be his wingman while he attempts to hit on another female.
“As if,” I say, doing my best imitation of Cher from Clueless, although I do contemplate the idea.
The lights flicker just before 1 a.m. to indicate the bar is about to close. I look around, surveying the damage brought on by too much alcohol. A couple in the booth across from us are making out as if their tongues are tangled down each other’s throats.
“Can we go?” I ask Kaitlyn.
Our hopeful Lyft ride to The Bayou is a juxtaposition of our ride home. Tears fill my eyes as I watch couples stroll down the street while a sea of cars makes its way uptown. I am tired of being single, feeling rejected, and trying to figure out the secrets of dating.
“What’s wrong with me?” I ask Kaitlyn.
“Absolutely nothing,” she answers in her attempt to console me. “We’re just too intimidating.” That is her standard answer for disappointing nights out on the town.
Whoever thinks that dating is fun is obviously full of it. There is a reason that shows like Sex and the City exist, only Sex and the City is clearly a work of fiction. In that world, the New York nightlife is glamorized and there isn’t a shortage of decent members of the male species.
Dating, for me, is a chore. It is a necessary evil that is required in order to find Mr. Right, if such a person even exists.
I thought that I had found Mr. Right years ago. His name was Chris and we met my junior year of college. We both had World History together and, although there was no assigned seating, he always ended up sitting next to me. He later told me, when we started dating, that it was intentional—he had been working up the nerve to ask me out.
Our first exam was what prompted his bravery. “Any chance you would like to study together?” he asked me.
I knew who he was in terms of being the guy who always sat beside me, but I had never looked at him—really looked at him. In class, Chris always wore glasses, but when he asked me about studying his glasses were off. Staring straight at me, waiting for an answer, was a set of crystal-blue eyes. I caught myself before gasping.
Chris smiled shyly at me, giving way to a smile dimple—my personal kryptonite.
“I, uh, sure,” I had responded—or something to that effect. Chris and I spent the first hour studying and the next four hours talking. I would always be thankful for that exam. Sure, I ended up getting a C on the exam, but also a boyfriend in the process.
Chris lacked the cockiness of the fraternity guys that paraded across campus causing girls – me included – to lust from afar. Those guys didn’t even have to work to get a girl, which was a turn-off to me. Chris could have easily been one of those guys, but he didn’t seem to know it, which was a turn-on.
He finally worked up the nerve to kiss me during our next study session. That was when we confirmed our dating status and continued dating that entire year. The summer break could have jeopardized our relationship, but we continued talking via text messages, emails, and even old-school letters. Chris loved writing me letters; he would send music playlists and share why each song reminded him of me. I have since burned a lot of those letters in anger after our breakup, but I did keep a few personal favorites.
Our relationship lasted through our senior year and a little bit after. Chris had gotten a job in Chicago, which meant decisions had to be made, such as whether or not I should follow Chris there. Not having a job yet, I decided to do just that. The plan was for Chris to go out first, find us a place to live, and get settled. My parents were not thrilled about the idea of us living together—you know, being Catholic and all.
As a compromise, I decided to stay put until I got a job out there myself. I feverishly sent out resumes, but my English degree and lack of work experience did not produce rapid results.
“Maybe I should go out there for a few weeks and apply for jobs in person,” I said to Chris one day in frustration.
To this day, I can still remember the excruciating long pause that occurred after I suggested that Chicago visit.
“I’ve been thinking, Ashley. Moving out to Chicago is a big deal. I mean, I don’t want you moving to Chicago just for me. It has to be for you—do you really want to move to Chicago or are you just moving here because I’m here?”
What the heck kind of question was that?
“I want to move to Chicago because you’re there. So that we can be together.”
“Yeah, I know, but what if we don’t work out?”
It had been the first time in our entire relationship that I had ever heard Chris express doubt about us.
“Why would you even say that? Are you thinking we’re not going to work out?”
“I don’t know; we can’t just assume that we will. And, if we don’t and you’re here in Chicago too, what then?”
“What then?”
“I mean, you’ll probably just end up hating me – resenting me – for getting you to move so far away from home, from your family, your friends.”
I didn’t know how to respond.
“Do you want me to move to Chicago?” I finally asked.
Another ridiculously long pause.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
That day marked the demise of our relationship. There was a month of pleading on my part, of me trying to convince him that moving to Chicago would not make or break me, that it was my choice and I knew what I was getting myself into.
My lack of job prospects did not help my case. Each call had Chris retreating more and more. He would be quiet and withdrawn, a far cry from the Chris that I had spent the last few years loving.
Loving. Yes. He was my first love. My first “real” boyfriend. My first-first (you know). He was also my first heartbreak and as the song goes: “First Cut is the Deepest.”
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Do Nice Guys Really Finish Last?
In a recent survey, women were asked to describe two men based only on their names. Man #1 was named Nice Guy Ted and Man #2 was named Suave Seth. Women described Suave Seth as handsome, debonair, confident, and sexy. Nice Guy Ted was described as boring, reliable, respectful, and average-looking. When asked whom they would prefer to date, the majority of women (ages 35 and younger) selected Suave Seth. Women over 35 years old significantly favored Nice Guy Ted.