only so many excuses

“I’m sorry, but I’m busy.”

I’ve used that line more than a few times. Sometimes I am; sometimes I’m not. That makes it difficult for the guys to figure out if I’m trying to get out of another date with them by using a polite excuse, or if I’m really am busy and I just can’t make it this time.

The best excuse I give is “I’m sick.” That excuse is always legit. I don’t like about feeling poorly, either from actually being sick or from staying out too late and partaking in too much alcohol. Either way, I’m not trying to dodge those dates. I just can’t make the effort to get out of my bed or off the couch. And, I don’t particularly want the guys seeing me in less than my best form.

But the busy excuse, when it’s an excuse, has gotten me into at least one awkward situation. I ran into PMR Guy after using the “I’m busy” line at Hay Merchant (bar with extensive beer selection in Montrose). I suppose I’ve actually reached the point where I’ve gone on enough dates with enough guys that it’s possible to run into them when you least suspect. I happened to be on my first date with The Norwegian when I saw PMR Guy at the bar on a date of his own.

I couldn’t believe it, especially when I just texted him a few hours ago. If I could have wiggled my way out of there, I would have. I don’t know why I felt so embarrassed, so mortified, but I did. Maybe because in being nice, I got caught in a lie. I felt moderately pathetic, but I got over it.

It wasn’t like I ever intended to go on another date with PMR Guy again. I’d been making excuses for the last two weeks, hoping he’d get the point and like stop texting me, but he hadn’t. I guess that’s my fault. I’d re-initiated conversation when Mrs. A (haven’t mentioned her yet, but she’s become a good friend recently) stepped on my foot with her stiletto and my foot became swollen enough to be a concern. As musculature and bones are somewhat in the scope of his medical specialty, I asked him what I should do. He didn’t give me any advice I didn’t already know: rest, ice, compress, elevate. So, it was kind of pointless, really.

The most mortifying part was that PMR Guy texted me afterwards, saying “haha.” I deserved that, I suppose, getting called out. I didn’t know what to say in return, so I just said “lol.” It’s funny, in retrospect, especially now when I’ve some months of distance from then.

PMR Guy isn’t the only guy I’ve run into when I’m out. Apparently, I’ve been spied upon at a grocery store by Awkward Asian. And I actually ran into Irish Guy while out for the night with my friends. We talked, weeks after the weird collapse of our thing, and it was a pleasant conversation. He told me about going back to Ireland for his flatmates’ wedding. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it could have been a lot worse. A part of me wonders, what he thinks and feels?

I’ll never know. That’s part of the fun.

I hope one day that I’ll know exactly what a guy is thinking because he wants me to know exactly what he’s feeling. That’ll be the day.


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