Thursday, September 30, 2010

Best of the BLOW OFF: the running man BLOW OFF

Everybody has those moments in life they aren’t proud of — moments that play on repeat in your head as you hope and pray any minute you’re going to come to and realize it happened to somebody else.

But this one did happen.

I did go on a date to a wine bar with a guy I’d been into for weeks. I did invite him back to my apartment after the two of us polished off a bottle (me on an empty stomach). I did leave him sitting on my living room sofa while I went into my room to frantically make my bed, pick shit up off of the floor and pull that old “slip into something more comfortable” move. And, when I returned to my living room to find he’d gotten up and left, I did run down three flights of stairs to the street, only to find him peeling away from the curb in a 1984 Volvo.

That’s when things got ugly… for me at least.

I don’t get left… at least not like that. That sort of thing happens in movies. I’ve had guys not call me back. I’ve had guys tell me they “just want to be friends.” Hell, we’ve all had that happen to us. But to have a guy say, “Yes, I’d love to come upstairs,” and then run the second you leave the room? Oh no. I was so not taking this lying down.

I was taking it on foot… full sprint in fact. No shoes, the stupidity of which didn’t really compute until I noticed the bleeding toe later in the shower.

Maybe I figured an ’84 Volvo would take a while to get up to speed, or that he was really just moving his car… but I ran after that guy like I was chasing the Olympic torch. And I’m not completely sure, but at some point I think I saw him clock me in his rearview mirror, because that’s when I heard the squealing of tires and got a waft of burning rubber.

“Come back, come back… your forgot your sweater,” I screamed.

He hadn’t.

Didn’t matter. He clearly wasn’t turning around. And it’s a good thing too, because standing there in no shoes, gym shorts and a tank top, I have no clue what I’d have given him.

No, he was gone, and I was alone. In the middle of the street.

So not alone.

The familiar cackle of friends broke the silence. Not the, “oh that’s so funny, I can’t believe you just did that,” cackle. The, “Say hi to the camera because this shit’s going on Facebook” cackle.

Why is that when you’re at your lowest, you can never just wallow in self-pity alone? Why must there always be an audience?

I guess it’s fitting. In low moments like these, you need your friends — first to convince you it wasn’t “as bad as it seems.” Then to remind you there are “other fish in the sea.” And finally, to scream at the top of their lungs when they see the guy making his way toward you in a crowded bar so you can dive behind a table and escape further humiliation.

My friends frequently attempt to make me feel better about the entire situation by reminding me that two months later, on a night when their humiliation alert clearly didn’t sound on time, we ran into each other in a bar. He greeted me with a, “Hello Ross,” a hug and a, “we should hang out some time… let me give you my number.”

I took it. And never used it.

4 comments:

  1. who in their right mind would blow you off???? His loss. Loser!

    ReplyDelete
  2. this story is hilarious, that guy is probably kicking himself to this day.

    ReplyDelete
  3. My friend actually pulled a similar move; however, the reason was understandable. The week before he he spent surfing and partying in Rosarito, and has a bad habit of frequenting transient food vendors after the bar. One thing leads to another, the following night State-side he found him self playing wingman, bar hopping despite "having an upset stomach." Though the Girl that brought him home that night was more than eager to share her diseases, he "really needed to go." Deciding against "letting loose," and risk a Hazmat clean-up, he bolted the second she walked into the other room.

    ReplyDelete
  4. OMG, so maybe the poor guy just had a bad case of explosive! i guess the only thing worse than a blow off is a poo off.

    ReplyDelete