Guess who’s back, back again. Shady’s back, tell a friend.
…ok, you caught me. It’s not the iconic Slim Shady. It’s just me, Lo. And, while I am iconic and slim*, I am not shady. But, I am back with a story about one particularly shady motherfucker.
*A diet of tacos and margaritas keeps you slim right?? I swear I read that in a Cosmo somewhere!**
**Ok, that ‘somewhere’ may have been my dreams. It is likely the same place where I am married to my favorite Senator and am low-key running the White House, Olivia Pope style.
This is the story of the guy who stood me up. Twice.
Football* and I matched on Bumble was back in the beginning of ‘Summer of YAAAAAS.’ We quickly exchanged numbers and made plans for a dinner date at Mari Vanna** later that week. On the day of the date, I sent my usual confirmation text around 2:30 PM for our 6:30 date. And then I waited… and waited… and waited. Silence.
*Dude was an SEC football player and now has a very cool NFL-related job. Husband goals.
**Channeling my inner Karen Walker for alllll the vodka.
Right around 6, Football sends me a flurry of apologetic excuses. Something about being sent away on last minute travel for work, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Work is work and he did seems genuine in his apology for essentially standing me up, so when he asked to reschedule, I hesitantly agreed.
And then I waited. And waited. And, YOU GUESSED IT! Waited. More silence. UGH.
Not one, not two, but THREE WEEKS later, I get a text from Football as MC and I are laying on the floor of my parents’ living room, rendered immobile by the excess of Wawa and Rose we had just consumed.
At this point, I diagnosed him with a case of textbook fuckboyery (n), chose not to respond, and continued to swipe away on my search for Prince Charming. NOBODY keeps Lo waiting.
Fast forward 2.5 months to a lovely August evening with J and MC at El Rey. I’m sipping my marg and flirting with two lovely Princeton boys when a tall, dark, and handsome gentleman approaches me.
Boy: Oh my gosh, Lo! How are you?!
Lo: Oh… uh… hi…?
B: How’s your family? Do you still love your job downtown? Aren’t you moving down the street soon? How’s your grandmother’s pet bird? Have you been back to NY?
B: *smiling charmingly*
B: *still smiling, SO charmingly*
Lo: *trying not to melt into my margarita while simultaneously trying to figure out if I acquired an attractive stalker during a recent blackout bender*
Lo: MC! HI! *grabs MC’s arm and yanks it out of socket* This is my friend MC!
B: Hi, I’m Football!
MC: Ow, what the hell, my arm!
B: *Still smiling charmingly and looking more and more beautiful by the second*
Although I’m normally aware that fuckboyery is an incurable disease, I decide that perhaps my diagnosis was wrong. Perhaps behind that tall, fit, beautiful exterior and witty, charming, graceful personality, there isn’t a fuckboy! Perhaps I was too quick to judge?
He texted me the next day and invited MC and I to pregame and go out with him and his friends. We spent the evening dazzling each other with our charms and wits (have I mentioned how charming he is??) and chatting about our family, ambitions, life goals, travels, hopes and dreams, our future kids’ names, the house we will purchase, how he plans to propose… ok, so I may have a flair for the dramatic, but you get it. He then literally puts me in an Uber (opens the door, says hello to the driver), but does not give me a goodnight kiss. Instead, he makes me promise to text him when I return from a week of work travels.
I subsequently decide that I’ve met my soulmate and spend the next week trying not to gush.
Upon my return from a week on the not Best Coast, we make plans. On the day of, remembering his past as a fuckboy, I send a confirmation text around 2:30 PM. And wait… and wait… until about an hour before our date is supposed to begin. He has decided to change the location, since it’s NCAA kickoff week, and he wants to meet up with some of his alumni buddies. Not ideal for a first date, but I’m easy, breezy, beautiful, COVERGIRL, so I roll with it and banter about how much his team sucks.*
*They do. Sorry not sorry.
And, guess what, guys?! SURPRISE, SURPRISE, I end up not getting a location until 45 minutes after our date was scheduled to begin. The beautiful pedestal I had built for my soulmate came crashing down, right before my eyes. Stood up again.
Luckily, the red Cabernet I brought home from Napa Valley turned out to be the perfect cure for my bruised ego.
Football tried again twice over the long Labor Day weekend, but – as I said before – nobody keeps Lo waiting.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Fuckboyery is an incurable disease. Don’t question the diagnosis. Don’t try to cure it. Steer clear. If, like me, you fall into the trap and find yourself at a loss, I highly recommend excessive amounts of wine, dancing, cheese, and several long and frantic phone calls with your best friend.
If y’all need me in the meantime, you can find me taking shots and making out with strangers at Wonderland Ballroom.