My butt. I know that’s what he wants me to say. I just know it.
I refuse to give into that. We’re not 17 years old anymore. We’re adults. We talk about work, movies, books, food, sports, politics. Ya know, adulty things.
However, Richard ins’t on the same page as me. Clearly. Instead of having a normal adult conversation on this dating app, he’s asking the dumbest, most baited question on Earth.
“So what three phsycial features do you get complimented on most?”
That was his introductory question. And it was bait. He wanted me to answer butt.
“That’s a weird question to start a conversation,” I reply.
But I give in and answer anyway. Just not with the answer he was wanting.
“People say I have really pretty eyes, so I’m gonna go with that,” I type.
“Oh okay gotcha. What else,” he responds.
Now I’m kinda ticked off. This guy, Richard, hasn’t even tried to get to know me. He goes straight for physical features. And he’s baiting me for an answer. I think of another phsycial attribute.
“My wenis is pretty nice, too,” I type out. I wanna say that for grins and giggles. And to be a smart ass. And to show that I don’t put up with bull shit baited questions. But instead, I delete my response and type, “Geez, I don’t know, why?” I ask. And wait.
“Well I was gonna ask if you got complimented on your ass? I mean I’m not an ass man or anything ;)”
I knew it. Richard wanted me to say that. Why do guys think it’s okay to do that? To “flirt” or talk to someone like that? I know the answer. Well an answer I’ve heard before.
“Well, one of your pictures on your profile is sexy so that’s just asking for it.”
No. No, dumb ass, that’s not how this works. I picked that picture because I like how I look. Not because I wanted you to compliment me or be disgustingly forward. It’s like when people say, “Well she dresses slutty so she’s just asking for it,” when it comes to sexual assaults. News flash. I do stuff for myself. Because I like it. Not because I think YOU will like it. I like my hair blonde because I like it blonde. I like that picture of me because I think I look pretty, not because I think my ass looks big. I don’t do things to be liked by others or socially accepted by others. I do them because I want to. Hell, that’s why I bought a cat suit for Halloween. I didn’t want to shave my legs. So I didn’t. And covered them with a latex Harley Quinn body suit.
I don’t start off conversations by saying, “Wow, you’re picture makes you look like you have big balls; I’m not a ball gal or anything ;)” I actually try to get to know someone.
And I don’t wanna hear, “Oh, well, Lisa, that’s a guy thing.”
No. No, t’s not. It’s a douche thing. And “guy thing” is just an excuse. And I hate excuses. Excuses are for people that can’t be adult enough and admit their mistakes. It’s time to grow up Richard.
“Can I help you?” the quiet receptionist asks me.
“Yes, I have an appointment with Raul,” I tell her.
I’m almost embarrassed to say his name. I feel like I’m about to go meet a drug lord.
I’m at the Chrysler dealership. Not for a service. But for a new car. Why, you ask, because I just got a new car a year ago. Well, I’m a sucker for deals. Or what sounds like deals. Raul called me last week to let me know that Chrysler was running a promotion and that they would buy back my car from me and I could drive off the lot in a new 2016 model. Well I’m in. So I’m now at Chrysler trying to find Raul and a new car.
“Mam, he’s in the other building,” she tells me.
I march over to the neighboring building looking for Raul.
“Hi, can I help you,” a gentleman asks as soon as I step in. He’s muscular, a little on the short side, tan and wearing a nice watch.
“Yes, I’m here for Raul,” I alsmost whisper in case he really is a drug lord.
“Well, I’m Josh, Raul is no longer with us, follow me back,” he says.
Holy shit. I knew it. Raul was a drug lord. They fired him.
“Where’s Raul?” I ask.
“He had to leave because of a family emergency. But what can I help you with?” he responds.
Well I go into the whole long story about what Raul offers me. Josh tells me he can help with that. We go over numbers, makes and models and features I want in a car. He tells me he now needs to go look at my car and get it appraised. I’m mortified. My car is like my second home. With working three jobs, I don’t have time to clean. Well I shouldn’t say that. I just made up an excuse. And I hate those. I don’t like to clean. So anytime I eat a snack on my way to work, I toss the wrapper in my seat. Disgusting I know. Or if I change in my car, I leave my old clothes in the floor board. Or if I eat Zaxby’s for lunch and rush to a car dealership appointment I still have my leftovers in the seat. You catch my drift. So I warn Josh of what he is about to encounter and begrudgingly hand over my keys.
“I’m sorry,” is all I can manage to whisper.
As he exits I check out his office. Not Room Raider style, but I gaze from my seat. He has a child. I see it in a picture frame. He was in the military because the baby is dressed in camo and he has a flag framed. He also has a military backpack with his last name on it. I know it’s his last name because it doesn’t say, “Josh.” He can speak Spanish. I know this because his business card says, “Habla Espanol.”
He’s back.
“Well, that wasn’t bad as you said! I’ve seen worse,” he says.
I know he’s lying. How sweet.
So he goes over my car value, we look at a variety of cars, we crunch numbers, and long story short, I’ve decided to keep my car. As he’s walking me back to my car he hands me his business card.
“Definitely call me if you change you’re mind!” he says.
“I will. And thanks for all your help,” I say.
I’m now at my car door. I feel like I’m leaving a date because this is so awkward. Do you hug your car guy? Is that normal? Does he normally walk you to your car? I don’t know.
So I open my door and get in and smile goodbye through my rolled down window. And it happens.
I’m sitting in my hot ass car that now reeks of Zaxby’s and I hear him whispering. I can barely understand him because he’s talking so low and the window is only cracked two inches.
“What?!” I scream out of the window.
“I don’t think you heard me in there. About my business card,” he says.
Now I look like a lunatic because I’m leaned all the way against the cracked window with my eyes popping out and my forehead grazing against the window ledge. I start my car and roll down my window all the way.
“Yeah, I heard you, I have your card, thanks.” I say.
“No. I mean what I said about it,” he says.
“Oh. What did you say?” I ask him.
“Well, you have my business card which has MY personal number (yes, he put the emphasis on my).” He says.
“Okay?” I questioningly reply.
I’m still dumfounded and leaning against my window.
“Well, you know, you can call me, and I can take you out to dinner,” he says.
“Oh, definitely! Thanks!” I reply.
“See ya!” I whisper right back out the window and reverse as fast as I can.
I call my mom immediately and burst into laughter. Not laughing at Josh. But laughing at my situation. I go to look for a car that I don’t need and end up leaving with a guy’s phone number, that again, I don’t need. It’s funny what turns up when you’re not looking for it. No, I never called Josh. And I don’t think I ever will. But I appreaciate the effort. That honestly made my day. A genuine person that talked about me. Not my ass. Or wenis. And asked me on a date. And I know it must have been hard. Because I’m super awkward. I was literally hanging out of my window screaming, “What?!” as he was trying to delicately ask me out.
Dating sucks. Or tyring to date sucks. You spend time swiping left and right based on looks and end up disgruntled with their responses. You wonder if you said something wrong. Or if you came across awkward if you don’t hear back from them. Josh probably wonders if he did something wrong because I never called. Y’all didn’t do anything wrong. Josh didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from someone. Don’t worry if you did or said something wrong. Don’t worry about what other people think. Don’t shave your legs. Do what YOU want to do. And do it for YOU.If something doesn’t work out, it’s not because you did something wrong. It just wasn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to work. Or they were like Richard. And he can kiss my fat wenis.
