Funny how I didn’t think I had enough of Reed’s story in me to write a manuscript, yet I feel compelled to write her story constantly. I’m up to over 10,000 words with her now. Maybe there really is a manuscript there. For now though, I like writing her here.
I hate Mondays. Getting up after sleeping in for two days, going back to work, staring at the long week ahead…Monday has no redeeming qualities.
This Monday also marks the fourth day with no call from Chris. But who’s counting?
Why do men ask for your number if they’re not going to call? A guy friend once told me it’s either to make the woman feel good about herself or for the guy to prove to himself that he can get it. Seriously? As for the former, I’m damn good catch and I don’t need some guy to ask for my number to prove that to me. In terms of the latter, find some other way to bolster your weak ego and quit wasting my time.
I closed a multi-million acquisition for a client today, so I think a celebration is in order. Staring into the contents of my refrigerator I have a tough decision to make. Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio?
My old buddy Chardonnay is always a safe bet. I pull a glass from the cabinet and pour the cool, golden liquid. Taking a small sip, I immediately feel my nerves ease. Who cares if that loser calls? Not this girl.
After all, there are hundreds of men just waiting to hear from me on eMatch. Despite my lack of luck so far, I have an urge to go glimpse through pictures. It’s like online shopping, and I love to shop.
Logging in, I wait for the mailbox to reveal how many messages have arrived since my last visit. After I met Chris, I completely forgot about eMatch. Surely after four days of not checking it I must have mail from some eligible bachelors.
Sure enough, there are seven new messages. I scan the pictures and decide to open Jason from Marietta first.
Fourteen pictures. That’s a good sign. One or two pictures means that out of the dozens of pictures he’s had taken over the last year or two, he only thinks he looks appealing in one or two. Not a good sign.
The first picture of Jason is a nice casual shot by a lake. Only he’s so far away he could look like Brad Pitt or Billy Crystal, who could tell?
Next up is one of him skiing. Points for enjoying one of my favorite activities, but they’re negated by the fact that all I can see under all the layers of clothing and gear are his eyes.
Picture number three is him with some friends in a bar. I have no idea which of the five is him and, again, they’re so far away I can’t tell anything except that they appear to be male.
He gets one more picture to show me what he looks like. I click next and get another picture by the lake. From roughly a hundred yards away. Bye bye, Jason!
I scroll through the mailbox for bachelor number two. Craig from Lawrenceville isn’t drop dead gorgeous, but at least I can tell what he looks like from his headshot.
His profile says he’s in real estate finance and loves football. It’s not baseball, but it’ll do. I head back to the top of the page for the pictures.
There are seven. A fair number, enough that I can probably get an idea of what he looks like. Clicking past the headshot I’ve already seen, I find one of him with a little girl on his lap. She looks about three and has curly blonde hair. If it’s his niece, we’re still in business. If it’s his daughter, we’re done. I’m not looking to become anybody’s mommy anytime soon.
The caption on the photo says niece, so I go to picture three. It’s him with the little girl again and a slightly older brother. They’re playing in a yard.
Photo number four is him playing football with the little boy. Taking the last sip of my wine glass, I sigh. Nice knowing you, Craig.
I wish someone would tell these guys that I’m not shopping for the father of my children. I do not need to see multiple photographs of you with your nieces and nephews. I don’t care that you’re good with kids. I’m not even sure I want children. They want all of your attention. So do I. You probably can’t handle us both.
I pad back to the kitchen for another glass of wine. Maybe I’m not meant to find love. My life is pretty fabulous as it is. I have a job I love, a beautiful house, a nice car, loyal friends, and a family that lives far enough away that I can see them when I want and avoid them the rest of the year. What could a man possibly add to my life?
There are still five men in my inbox though, and I have nothing better to do. I grab my glass, put the bottle back in the fridge, and head back to my home office.
As I walk across the thick area rug to my desk, I notice something is blinking. A new instant message.
Phil275864: hi there beautiful, what are you doing tonight?
I scrunch my nose at the screen. There’s something a little too cheesy about using “beautiful” as a noun versus using it as an adjective when you’ve never spoken to me, much less met me. Picking up the phone and hearing “Good morning beautiful” on the other end from a boyfriend? That’ll give you warm fuzzies all over. Getting it in an instant message from a stranger? Cheese ball.
I click on Phil’s profile anyway. He has one eyebrow, not two. Someone should introduce him to some wax. All three pictures were clearly taken with a webcam. He’s looking intensely at the camera in all of them. Like he’s trying to melt it with his mind. Not sexy. Try again.
I hit the X on the instant message box and go back to my mail. Trey from Atlanta has a picture that appears to be in front of an elaborate fountain. It looks European, so I’m curious to see where it was taken. When I enlarge the picture to get the caption, I’m delighted to see it was taken in Italy. One of my favorite places to travel.
The second picture is in France. A world traveler, huh? I love seeing new places. Aubrey and I used to travel every year, but I bet this whole marriage thing is going to derail that. It has for our other friends. Maybe I need a man after all, even if just to have someone to jump on a plane with.
Photo three is Trey in Spain. Fourth is in Germany. Fifth is in London.
Okay, I get it. You like to travel. You’ve been all over Europe.
Six is in Amsterdam. Seven is with a pint of beer in Ireland.
I head back to the mailbox. I feel roughly the same about too many travel pictures as I do about too many photos with kids. One or two pieces of evidence is sufficient. I don’t need you to give me an entire album to prove your point.
A quick scan through the rest reveals they’re all either too old or too unfortunate looking. I logout and grab my half empty glass.
Settling in on the couch, I wonder if maybe I could call Chris. He did text me after he left Thursday night, so I have his number.
It’s too bad I love the movie He’s Just Not That Into You, otherwise I might convince myself to give him a ring. Instead, all I can think of is the overwhelming advice in the movie that if a guy likes you, he’ll call.
The guy in the movie would tell me that no, he’s not intimidated by me. He hasn’t lost my number either. If he had any interest, he would find a way to get in touch.
I click the tv on in frustration, draining my glass while the surround sound fires up. I replay the events of meeting Chris in my mind. We had such good conversation. He could have left without getting my number, because I was busy talking to Aubrey and had my back turned to him. If he’d just turned and slipped out, he wouldn’t have had to go through an awkward goodbye.
Instead, he asked for my number, and even texted me that night. I gave him all weekend, sure he would call, and nothing. Then I thought maybe he was sticking to some ridiculous three-day rule. Today rolled around and made it four days, and still not a peep.
As thoughts of texting him, just to test the waters, creep back into my mind, I leap up from the couch and go hunting for the movie. Clearly I need a reminder about why I can’t contact him.
I find the DVD tucked away neatly on my shelf and pop it in the player. Back in the kitchen, I grab the rest of the bottle (leftover wine is never good anyway) and head back to the couch. I pour another glass and sit back just in time to see the words flash bright and white across a black screen: He’s just not that into you…
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