The Writer’s Blocked!

My phone went off as soon as I walked into work and it automatically connected to the WiFi.

I looked down – just as I suspected: my many a chat groups asking about my third date with the writer from the night before.

There was a big line-up at the elevators so l just drafted a message and copied and pasted it to all.

But before I get to that, here’s the backstory: Exhausted from a very stressful and long day at work, I walked home in the freezing cold. I had two hours until I had to meet my date at a dive bar in the west part of the city. Excited to meet up with the cute writer for a third time, I decided to change into a dress even though my work clothes were on point. Then I thought my hair would look better with the dress, if I wore it down.  I’d have to wash it because it had been up in a ponytail all day – even though that would totally throw off my hair-washing cycle.

From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of my folded pj’s on my bed and for a second, I wanted nothing more than to just crawl up in bed and watch something silly. “You’re stronger than this.” I told myself. “Put yourself out there if you really want something to work out” I heard the ghost of my friends and family telling me.

It was minus 20 degrees outside with the wind blowing at a speed of ripping off your face, and the last thing I wanted to do was to leave my comfortably warm apartment to go on a date.

“You can do it.” I tried to psyche myself up. I then tried to shower without washing my makeup off my face. Do not try this at home! As I was avoiding getting my face wet by dodging the big shower head above my head, I felt my mascara running down my face. Fuck it. I’ll just redo the whole thing. I wiped all the make-up off – but not in the way that you’re used to seeing in face-washing ads on TV: think more a tired, 30-year-old woman in a hurry, minus the professional soap and towelettes . I squeezed-out the last drops of my baby shampoo and watched as the black tears dramatically dripped down my cheeks. I peeked at my non made-up face: it’s definitely a clean slate but also a chore: a big undertaking. Let’s stay positive: maybe my eye-liners will magically look the same shape and size this time! Damn, did I leave my cynicism at work? Can’t seem to find it at the moment.

Positive. Po. Si. Tive. Ok here we go…. He’s a cute writer! And this is a third date. And I have put quite a lot of effort into this. It’s going to be amazing!

Before I knew it I was in my red dress, and my long hair was blow dried and silky smooth. The last thing I put on was my red lipstick. I looked at my phone: I was 20 minutes early. Twenty minutes… I looked at my bed -so familiar, so comfortable, so… So I set my alarm and laid in bed like Dracula. Hair, make-up, red lips, red dress. 20 mins. I closed my eyes and dosed off.

*Buzz.

Time to get up… ahh why is this so hard?? Stay positive… Knowing that I was 15 minutes away from a gin and tonic was the kick in the butt I needed to get out of my slumber and put my boots on. I ordered an Uber and it told me that I’d be at the bar at 7.28! Fashionably 2 minutes earlier than the date- it was going to be great!

So now I’m in the bar with my drink in front of me – and it’s not the same

Somehow our amazing, flirtatious, hilarious and smart conversations are really lame

He spends the whole time telling me how exhausted he is while yawning and complaining about how he had to work late (until 5 pm…?!!!!!)

“Cool… I’m gonna Uber home then?!” I say half a question/ half a stating fact.

He doesn’t object.

“Cool… talk soon!”

 And then… we didn’t. He never messaged me again. He didn’t even care if I made it home OK/alive after that date! He didn’t say sorry for being a total piece of crap and most importantly, he didn’t apologize for THROWING OFF MY HAIR-WASHING CYCLE.

“Girl – the whole date, including my Uber rides there and back home lasted less than an hour. It took me waaaay longer to get ready! I was home before 8.30 pm.

I got home and slipped into my pj’s as quickly as humanly possible. Ugh…What a waste of make-up. What a waste of a night out. What a waste of time and what a waste of a human being.” I texted back my friends.

It’s been over two weeks since I’ve heard from the writer (if we can even call him that… ok that’s not cool… we’ll still call him a writer. His craft has nothing to do with how shitty a person he is as a date. But we’re definitely not calling him cute anymore THAT’S FOR SURE). I didn’t bother following up either because truthfully that was one of the most disappointing and frustrating dating experiences I’d ever had. But in the spirit of staying positive, let’s pretend that no feelings got hurt in this exchange. Let’s pretend that the writer has gone to live on a farm (yes, we’re telling the same white-lie about ghosts as the one that parents tell their young children when their pets die). Let’s pretend that he’s on a beautiful, happy farm where all the other Bumble dates that ghost go to live on.  Let’s pretend that he’s in a better place now – that fucking pig.