To be honest, I haven’t been in the position of rejectee very often. I dated this guy in college for a couple months who one day showed up at my window in the middle of the night, rapping on my window, asking to be let in, because he was running from the cops. (I’m still not sure why). The next morning when I drove him home, I called it off. I was 19 and in college. He was 27, working at a crappy seafood restaurant, and had no problem running away from the cops in the direction of his girlfriend’s house. It was not going to work. I told him that, and he got very upset, but I felt a huge weight lifted off my shoulders.
Another time I had a torrid, two-week affair with a man who was 12 years older than me and a pathological liar. When I found out, I had no problem screaming at him and telling him to never contact me or breathe my name again, lest he want me to ruin his life. That one was easy. But, in general, I find letting someone down to be a difficult thing to do. Maybe that’s why I should be a little more sympathetic towards men when they give me the runaround rather than telling me straight up: “I’m not interested in you like that, despite coming over to your apartment after our date and touching your boobs.” But I’m not sympathetic. Because sometimes in life you have to do something that is uncomfortable but necessary. Telling someone straight up how you feel in an honest but gentle way is one of those things, and giving him signs, pulling “the fade,” or just disappearing altogether are not acceptable substitutes. I forced myself to remember that today, as I told Mr. Plaid Glasses that it wasn’t gonna happen. Keep reading »
