I don’t usually read texts while I’m driving. I am constantly sneaking quick glances at my phone to look for the text icon, though. And I get mad at myself every time I do it. The easiest way to get me second guessing myself and freaking out is radio silence. When I go for any halfway significant period of time without contact, I start to worry, wonder, doubt, generally assume the worst.
I’m a little embarrassed to admit that the length of time to freakout mode isn’t even necessarily very long. For instance, if I don’t hear from a girl when I am leaving work, by the time I am through dinner I am thinking, “Well I guess that’s it. She doesn’t want me anymore. What did I do? Did I say something? Did I do something? What happened?” I try not to plummet straight into freakout mode, but it’s so hard not to.
I know I am super cool and wicked awesome. I’m a catch. I’m a fantastic boyfriend. I know these things. If I directly receive a negative comment I can process, learn, disregard, and resume. But when I don’t hear anything… Holy shit.
Right now, I am tapping away at the keyboard and I can’t stop myself from looking over at my phone. I have two questions about date plans out and pending and in the ether, and I am very afraid that I will not get answers or that those girls don’t like me anymore. It makes me angry that I can’t just roll with it.
My self-assured, rational brain tells me in his best Niles Crane voice, “PMW, these are not boring do-nothing girls. They are fabulous, busy people with rich and entertaining lives that do not revolve around you. If they didn’t like you, they wouldn’t spend time with you. Calm down. You are asking about something 7 days in the future. She likes you. She wants to be with you.”
My scardey-heart, on the other hand, is much more conniving. He sounds like Tim Curry sneering in his wicked performance narrating the audio book of Dune: House Atreides. “Well, you tramp, maybe she’s finally gotten sick of all of your shit. She has better things to do than to pull out her phone every time it chirps when you deign to text her. She can see right through you. You wrote something that upset her. You are terrible in bed. You are so indecisive when you try to choose a restaurant that she doesn’t want to deal with you anymore. You deserve that feeling in your stomach. Maybe you should stop thinking that you are impressive and go play in the sandbox with the other retarded boys.”
I’m sure we all know which voice is easier to believe. Doctor Crane may be right, but Tim Curry is just so… smooth and believable. So here I am, wrapping up my writing, glancing at the phone even though I didn’t hear the ding, waiting for the slightest confirmation that I am still wanted. I guess I’ll put the condoms away in the big boy box and get my little shovel and my bucket now, and sit with those other boys just wondering, “Does she still like me?”