Clearly, I Didn't Think This Through : The Story of One Tall Girl's Impulsive, Ill-conceived, and Borderline Irresponsible Life Decisions (9781101612255)

by Goldfarb, Anna

  All I wanted was to stay over and snuggle this cute nerdy dude, but now I’m rummaging around his nightstand flicking various electronics on and off like an irritated zombie at Best Buy. Thankfully, I managed to hit the right buttons and shut everything off. The room was silent. Finally.

  Just as he’d told me, he woke up early and made a ton of noise. He opened dresser drawers and banged a few pots around making coffee. I rubbed my eyes and tossed my clothes on.

  “Patrick, I’m gonna get going.”

  “You sure? You wanna grab brunch?”

  “Dude, it’s”—I checked my Swatch watch—“seven thirty A.M. No brunch places are even open yet. I’m just gonna head home.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you later.” He gave me a quick kiss as I headed out the door. Fuck. I slept over. Kat was going to be pissed at me.

  “Dude, I stayed over.”

  “No!” Kat gasped.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well, how was it?”

  “Dinner was good. His house was nice.”

  “But?”

  “But, he slept with the TV on.”

  “Oh, I hate that.”

  “Me too.”

  “And, he got up early. Like, super-early.”

  “You hate that.”

  “Dude, I know.”

  “Let me guess, you’re over him.”

  “Well, I have a plan. I’m gonna have him stay at my place next time to avoid the whole TV-being-on-while-we-sleep thing.”

  “Okay. I’m sure that this will totally work.” She chuckled.

  “And I’m gonna hide the clocks so he won’t know what time it is, to thwart the early-rising thing.” I was pleased with my craftiness.

  “You’re gonna do a thwart attempt?”

  “Yes, I’m gonna give him one more chance. I feel like he could be the one. This guy is, like, marriage material.”

  “You are ridiculous.”

  “This will work! Just you wait and see.”

  “Who talks like that? Are you a villain?”

  “Yes. I’m the clock thwarter.”

  “That sounds like a medical condition. Not a good one.”

  I invited Patrick over to my place the following Friday. In preparation for his arrival, I stashed all the clocks in my house into my hall closet. My place was like Vegas: a clock-free zone. We were going to sleep late and in silence. There was no way for this to go wrong.

  For dinner, I made him seared scallops and mushroom risotto. He finished his plate, which made me smile. Then we watched a movie because there wasn’t much else to do in my apartment. As the night wound down, I invited him to stay over, which he eagerly accepted. As we drifted off to sleep in my silent room, I was pleased that I had both my quietude and my man.

  So, I totally didn’t see this coming.

  “Where are you going? What time is it?” I rubbed my eyes. It appeared that Patrick was trying to leave my bedroom undetected.

  “Oh, hey! I tried not to wake you but, yeah, I should really get going.” He semi-whispered, darting around the room, fishing for his clothes that were scattered on the floor.

  “Get going? Where do you have to be at”—I checked my nightstand, where my clock was noticeably absent—“what time is it?”

  “It’s six forty-seven,” he whispered.

  “How do you know the time?” I had hidden all the clocks!

  “It’s here, on my phone.” He held up his iPhone and showed me the time on his home screen.

  “Where are you going this early? Do you have a paper route or something?”

  He finally stopped his scrambling and stood still. “I didn’t want to tell you about this. Jeez, this is pretty embarrassing.” He sat down on the edge of my bed and put a sock on. “I’m meeting my friends in Jersey.”

  “Okay.” I propped myself up on my elbows. “That’s not too embarrassing. Who’s in Jersey? What are you going to do there this early on a weekend?”

  “I really didn’t want to tell you this.”

  Oh man. What was this guy about to tell me? Please don’t let it be something Lifetime would make a movie about.

  He took a deep breath. “I’m going to play Dungeons & Dragons with my friends. Go ahead and laugh. I know it’s silly, but I’ve been playing with these guys for years. They expect me to be there. In fact, I’m already late.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re leaving a warm bed on a Saturday morning to go play Dungeons & Dragons? No, wait. You are leaving a warm bed with a woman in it to go play Dungeons & Dragons? Are you that interested in eating Doritos in a social setting? I think I have some in my cupboard; you’re welcome to ’em.”

  “Well, when you say it like that, yeah, it sounds pretty crazy. But, I promised the guys I’d be there.”

  “This early?” He had to be kidding.

  “Well, it starts at eight A.M. and we go all day. I was supposed to stop off and pick up snacks beforehand. Don’t hate me.” He checked his watch and his eyes bulged out when he realized how late he was. “I really should go.”

  He tossed his clothes on. His other sock was under my bed, so that held him up for a minute. He gave me a quick kiss on my cheek, then left.

  The early-morning light hit my eyes like sharp knives. I collapsed back onto my bed and pulled my covers over my head. I just got ditched for a game of Dungeons & Dragons.

  What a fucking dork.

  CHAPTER 11

  You Aren’t My Ex

  Looking over my life, I notice that I tend to get dumped a lot. If I had to put a number on how many times it’s happened, I’d guess maybe a few dozen guys have pulled the trigger. I’ve never kept count. In fact, I do my best to forget about the dumping almost immediately after it happens. I just pretend it never happened. But now that I think about it, I’ve been dumped a ton of times. I don’t know if I was born under a bad sign or I’m absolutely terrible at dating or what, but I’d say that I get dumped more than your average woman. Dumping me almost qualifies as a national pastime at this point. I’m talking, like, Jennifer Aniston levels of dumping.

  And I get dumped all sorts of ways: by text, by phone, by e-mail. I’ve been dumped by letter, by him just fading me out and disappearing on me (that’s called ghosting), and even by just suddenly changing his status to single online so I’m left to put the pieces together like an investigative journalist. Not to toot my own horn, but I think I’m good at getting dumped. I don’t cry, I don’t argue, I don’t plead, and I don’t beg. I take the news like a champ.

  So, it was a strange thing for me to dump a guy for the first time. Guess how old I was when it happened? Fifteen? Nineteen? Twenty-one? Nope. I was twenty-eight the first time I properly dumped a guy. Twenty-eight. Let that sink in for a minute. Twenty-eight. I already had gray hairs sprouting on my head the first time I officially said “nope” to a suitor. I had already been legally driving a car for twelve years. I’d already voted in three presidential elections before I told a guy to buzz off.

  Sure, I’d turned guys down before. I’d lost interest in casual flings and just ignored advances. But what I’m talking about here is realizing that a person is expecting to create a life with me and having to break the news that I didn’t feel the same way. It was a big deal! I’d suffered several broken hearts over the years, so I knew that I was going to crush his soul. I had to come to terms with the fact that I’d be responsible for inflicting that kind of heartbreak on someone. It’s a tough thing to rip out a guy’s heart.

  I didn’t want to do it. My first instinct was to change my phone number, move to a new apartment, and drastically change my appearance like in Sleeping with the Enemy. But then I realized that I didn’t feel like doing all that just to avoid an abrupt three-minute conversation.

  I had some options to consider and some ground rules to set. I asked Kat to help me work out the dumping details. I promised her I’d make us strong-ass margaritas in an effort to sweeten the deal.

  “Welcome to the official Dumper Direct
ive Meeting.” We clinked glasses and took a sip of our drinks.

  “I hereby call our first meeting to order. First issue of the day: When should I do the dumping?”

  “Soon. Definitely soon. The sooner the better. There’s no point in leading him on.”

  “I know, you’re right. It has to be soon. I agree. Next question: How should I do it? In person? Over the phone? By courier pigeon? What say you?”

  “It has to be in person. That’s the best way.” Kat nodded, sipping her cocktail. “In person is classiest.”

  “Honestly, there’s no way that I want to do this in person. I’m not cut out for that sort of thing. Can’t I just send him a text? How terrible is that on a scale of one to—I don’t know, what’s something terrible?”

  “Morning breath?”

  “Morning breath is terrible. We’ll go with that. So, on a scale of one to morning breath, how terrible is it to break up via text message?”

  “Dude, it’s beyond morning breath. It’s dragon breath after eating a tub of garlic washed down with anchovies. You can’t do that. Bucky is in love with you. Don’t be a dick. You can’t break up over text message.”

  “Kat, I know. But I can’t do it in person. He’d probably cry. His lip is going to at least get wobbly. I can’t deal with that,” I protested.

  “Yeah, maybe the phone is better. He does seem like the kind of guy who’d cry. You’re right, you’re right. Phone it is.”

  “Okay, it’s settled. I’ll call him. What’s the reason I’m going to give? How about, ‘It’s not you, it’s me?’” I waited as she mulled it over for a few seconds.

  “That’s too cliché,” Kat said. “You hate when guys say that to you.”

  “I do hate when guys say that to me, but it’s not that far from the truth. It is me in the respect that I don’t want to do any further dating.”

  Kat shook her head. “What else you got?”

  “How about, ‘I just don’t see a future with you.’”

  “That will crush him. You can’t do that.”

  “How about, ‘I don’t want to waste your time.’ That’s good. It’ll make it seem like I’m concerned about him and somehow this breakup will be in his best interest, too. I like it. I think that’s the line to use.”

  “I’m lukewarm on it. What if you just said the truth?”

  “The truth? The truth is that I don’t think that I could ever fall in love with him.” I took a gulp from my glass.

  “Yikes. Don’t say that.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  “Just say, ‘I don’t see this working out. We’re looking for different things.’ The key is to be firm, but vague.”

  “Firm but vague,” I repeated. “I can do that.”

  “Are you guys even a couple?”

  “No! We’ve only been out twice. I’m not even technically his girlfriend, but he thinks I am.”

  “Double yikes.”

  “I know! He’s falling hard quickly and I have to step up and break his heart. Fuck! You know, now that I think about it, I resent having to be the dumper here. All I wanted was to get a cuddle on and make out a bit, not ruin anyone’s life.”

  “How are you ruining his life? Can’t you just do the fade?”

  “Nope. He wants me to meet his family next week. He’s already told everyone in his life about me. He said that I was the best thing that’s ever happened to him. I think he’ll notice if I don’t return his calls.”

  “Oh shit! He wants you to meet his family already? Yeah, you gotta dump him.”

  “I know. That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Cheers! To breaking hearts!” Kat raised her glass.

  “I think I’m gonna puke.”

  How do you break up with a guy whom you aren’t technically dating but who thinks that you are? We never had “the talk” saying that we were a couple. No online statuses were changed. He is a great guy, very handsome, too. But, I had to pull the plug.

  Like most things, my relationship with Bucky started out as promising as ever. I had met a dude! He seemed cool! And then, we were going on our first date to a fancy restaurant that he picked out. However, as I waited for him to arrive, I had a minor issue: I had no idea what he looked like. I barely remembered meeting him and I certainly didn’t remember giving him my number. I was pretty surprised that he called in the first place.

  When he called to arrange our first date, I was in the middle of a nap, which just added to my confusion over his identity.

  “Hey, Anna!” he squeaked over the phone. I tried to sound like I was awake, but I was severely disoriented. I have no idea why I didn’t let this call go to voice mail, but for some reason I picked up.

  “Hello? Who’s this?” I said in my daze. My Caller ID had blinked with the name Nuvkt, which in retrospect was my drunken attempt to quickly type his name into my phone when we exchanged numbers the weekend before.

  “It’s me! Bucky!” he chirped.

  “Who?” I rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Bucky! From the other night. Remember? You told me to call you. And, according to my watch here, it’s five forty-seven P.M. Is this a good time to talk?”

  “Yeah. Yes! Sure. I can talk.” I was starting to wake up a bit. “Bucky. Right.”

  “You said, and I quote, ‘You’re totally gonna call me, right?’”

  “I did?”

  “You’re hilarious! In fact, you made me promise you that I was gonna call. We pinky-swore on it. Ring any bells? So, here I am, calling. Just like I said I would.”

  “Okay. Hi, Bucky.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m good. You?”

  “I’ve never been better. I just bought a new pair of shoes today. So, that went well. Good times. Good times.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Awesome.”

  I can’t think of a more inane, grating filler expression than when a guy says “Good times” for no apparent reason. It’s awkward and meaningless, much like our conversation. [rimshot] And he usually doesn’t say the phrase just once; he’ll repeat it a minimum of two times for extra effect. Guys who say it usually are known to buy gag gifts, wear shorts well into November, and heckle people from the away team at baseball games; they’re horrible!

  What can I say? I have an irrational hatred for this phrase. Is he wearing a What Would Dave Coulier Do? (WWDCD?) bracelet, because I’m pretty sure Dave would say “Good times” during a lull in his stand-up routine between his Popeye and Bullwinkle impressions. I don’t want to date Dave Coulier and I don’t want to hear him say this phrase to me. Ever. For anyone who chooses to say it, I have only two words: Bad times.

  “Are you free Friday night for our first date?”

  “You don’t waste much time, do you, Bucky?”

  “We already talked about this. Don’t you remember? After you made me promise to call you, you made me promise that I’d take you out next week.”

  “I did?” I must’ve been wasted when this all went down.

  “Is this the right girl? Anna? Tall? Brown hair? Big bazoongas? Hello!”

  “Bazoongas? Ha! Is that even a word?”

  “I think I heard it once in Revenge of the Nerds.” That made me laugh.

  “Okay. Where are you taking me for this first date?”

  For some reason, I agreed to meet him there at that Mexican restaurant before it dawned on me that the only thing I knew about Bucky was that he was a male under forty. I had a feeling that he was cute, but I really couldn’t explain why that feeling was there. I remembered thinking he was cute at one point during the night we met, but I didn’t remember why he caught my eye. Maybe he had glasses? Or a beard? I wasn’t sure.

  Let’s start with the things that I did remember about meeting him: I remembered dirty dancing with him behind a speaker at a club while the band played onstage. I remembered promising that we’d hang out soon. I remembered my friends waiting impatiently for me to say good-bye as the club was letting out. And, la
stly, I remembered a general feeling of happiness washing over me when he kissed me before we parted ways.

  Here’s what I vaguely remembered about his appearance: He had dark hair, he was wearing a T-shirt, and he was definitely wearing shoes. Oh, and he had eyebrows. That’s it! That’s the composite I was working with. He could’ve been anyone with a pulse and a head of hair. That really narrowed things down.

  As guys filed into the restaurant, I squinted my eyes, wondering which one was him. Wait, is that him? No, I think he was shorter. Is that him? Nah, he’s too preppy. Honestly, I had no freakin’ clue what Bucky looked like. I looked around the restaurant like a nervous squirrel.

  Well, if there was any doubt about which guy was my date, when I saw him walk through the door, it all clicked into place. That guy must be my date. He had a huge grin from ear to ear.

  “Anna!”

  “Bucky!”

  He leaned in and gave me a quick hug.

  “You look great.”

  “Thank you. So do you.” I looked him up and down and smiled.

  Now I remembered him. Parts of the night flashed through my mind: I remembered him catching my attention as he walked past me on the way to the bathroom. I remembered liking his vintage Nike sneakers. I remembered grabbing his arm and saying, “Hey, have we met before? You look familiar.” That was my go-to pickup line; it’s an instant icebreaker.

  I remembered him stopping for a second, then shaking his head no.

  “What’s your name?” I shouted over the loud music.

  “Bucky.”

  “What is it? I thought you said Bucky.”

  “That is what I said. Bucky. My name’s Bucky.” He pointed at himself when he said it and stared at me. I remember laughing when he told me his name, because he did not look like a Bucky at all. His frail frame and pointy elbows were better suited to a name like Cullen or Seth; something introspective and delicate, like the kind of guy who’d keep a journal and wear thin cardigan sweaters.