48 Hours
Here’s one of my key dating rules: If I give you my number, use it within 48 hours or lose it. Plain and simple. Leave it longer than that and I will have lost interest.
A few weeks ago, I met a guy called Greg when I was waiting for the streetcar. He struck up a conversation with me. Ahh, finally, I thought, a man with balls. As we know, men with good testicular action are a rare breed in this here land of Toronto. He was a fine looking man too. I’m talking 6 feet 4 inches of straight out of GQ magazine fineness. And lets face it, a pretty face always holds attention longer. Even though he wasn’t initially going in my direction, he boarded the streetcar with me and rode along Queen street to my destination. He waited with me until my friend came. As we stood outside the bar, conversing, he finally got around to asking for my number. Sure! I said, as I waited for him to pull his phone out. Nothing.
‘Do you have a phone?’
‘Yes, just not with me,’ he said.
‘Ooookkkkkk. Do you have a pen?’
‘No.’
‘You really didn’t think this through, did you?’
‘Just tell me your number, I have a really good memory.’
This was warning sign number one. There was no way Mr GQ was going to remember my number. I knew there was a catch to him being that fine. I told him it, kissing the numbers goodbye as they left my mouth and drifted into the night air. My friend came and Mr GQ left to go about his original plans for the night. Obviously, I was never going to hear from him again.
My standard 48 hours came and went, along with my interest. Then, the following Saturday, a full week after the initial meeting, my phone rang. It was a blocked number. I have major issues with people calling me from blocked numbers, which I won’t go into here, but if you’re the kind of person who does that, you may as well change your name to Shady Shadester from Shadesville. Anyhoo, I answer the phone, already pissed off, to hear some guy with a weird voice saying ‘it’s John!’.
‘I don’t know anybody called John,’ I say.
‘John! I met you last week,’ this ‘John’ insists.
‘I’m sorry, you must be mistaken because I don’t know a John.’ I’m less interested in this conversation and more intrigued with the notion that I may be the only person on the planet who doesn’t know anyone called John.
Then the voice changes. ‘I’m just kidding, it’s Greg,’ he says.
I had zero desire to continue this exchange with this psychopath. Who pretends they’re someone else the first time they call you? I’ll tell you who; a jealous freak who wants to know if you gave your number out to anyone else the night you met him. Frankly, I could have given my number to twenty dudes that night (except for the fact that there aren’t 20 dudes in Toronto with balls enough to ask me for it) and it would have been none of GQ’s business.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, he tried to get over the awkwardness of that by spending the rest of the conversation asking if many guys hit on me the night he met me.
Umm, how about we fast forward a few months and wait till we’re actually in a relationship before you start acting like a jealous, possessive boyfriend?
Clearly, in this case, even if he had called in my 48 hour zone, we were never destined to make it to the first date. But one thing is for sure – it is frikkin’ amazing that he remembered my number.
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Tags: dating, Lame dudes, toronto
