I made it 24 years, 6 months and 18 days before having endured the inevitable young adult experience of being stood up. If you ask me, I would say that’s a pretty damn good run. Since fourteen (the age at which I grew boobs, thus realizing their magical powers) I have been dedicated to the rat race that is “dating.” I can safely say that a ten-year track record without a horrible dating experience is pretty fair.
It should be stated that I am painfully aware that my dating skills are less than desirable – maybe satisfactory (maybe). It was probably for the best that this poor, unsuspecting soul was saved from, or rather saved himself from, the clutches of my over-sharing, over-drinking and over-eagerness. Typical next day friend re-cap conversation: “What? He mentioned that his dad ran for the cure so, naturally, I mentioned that half my family died of cancer, seriously, I don’t get why that’s inappropriate.”
Being someone who has experienced quite a bit of “loss” in her life – I once lost my childhood doll at Ontario Place for a solid five hours, it was rough – I found the whole experience a little too familiar. And then it hit me…
The Five Stages of Being Stood Up: Your Inner Monologue
No way am I being stood up. I’m way too charming and beautiful and funny for that to happen to me. Whatever, I’m just going to call my friend, smoke another cigarette and wait a few more minutes. I mean, he is probably just stuck on the TTC. That shit ALWAYS shuts down at the worst possible times. That’s totally it. He is probably stuck at St George Station, fretting over his tardiness and the fact that he is unable to call me from the subway while some moron with a “medical emergency” holds up humanity. It will take him exactly ten minutes to get from St George Subway to here, so I’ll just wait a few more minutes (looks at watch) – okay one more cigarette and he will totally be here.
What the fuck!? Where the hell is he? Do I even want to date an asshole that keeps women waiting for him late at night at sketchy bars in the market? Is that really who I want to spend my life, or at least a few evenings, with? No. Definitely not. You call a friend: Hannah, what the FUCK! It’s fucking cold, and I’m all fucking dressed up. You’re friend on the phone, who clearly knows that you’re being stood up but doesn’t have the heart to tell you, will now give you some sage advice, assuring you of your hotness. I know, but seriously, one more cigarette and then I’m leaving!
I’m pretty sure this is covered over the span of the waiting game with the “one-more-cigarettes” and the “I’m-just-going-to-sit-here-and-talk-to-my-friend-on-the-phone-because-I-don’t-want-to-look-like-the-loser-who-is-being-stood-up.” I even bought a fucking chocolate bar at some point, just to have something to do with my hands that wasn’t smoking.
Well, all right. This is happening. This is a thing that is happening. I totally deserve this, it’s completely my fault. All my bad karma from not recycling and lying about my sexual orientation to avoid being hit on has finally caught up. He is never, ever, ever showing up. Upon realizing that you’ve waited forty-five minutes and smoked seven cigarettes: I’m going to get cancer. I’m going to get cancer because I smoked too much while waiting for some asshole to meet me for a date. Then, no one will love me, because who loves the cancer girl? No one – that’s who.
Note: While I was barely invested in this date, I realize that other people (with feelings) may find this step more difficult. However, I met this dude on OkCupid, and fuck if I care that he’s the moron who didn’t get to hang out with me (I’m awesome, by the way). Therefore, this step was experienced almost instantly upon leaving.
Well, you know what? I’m going to walk home, it’s a nice night, and I have the new A.S.A.P Rocky mixtape on my iPod, and I can buy some more cigarettes, and I have a few beers in the fridge. Oh, and I have like, fourteen movies in my Netflix queue to watch. Boys are stupi – Oh look, another OKCupid message.
Cue: On to the Next One by Jay-Z