And 30 minutes later, the ring of my doorbell tells me that
eager-to-please Harry is here to take me out for the night.
ILLUSTRATION| JOSEPH NGARI
It’s 8:30pm and against my better judgment I have dressed up,
put on my make-up and sat around my house waiting, “just in case” Alex
calls. I feel like a right idiot, I think to myself as I walk into my
...
kitchen and pour myself my third glass of wine this evening. I should have known better than to believe him when he called me on Monday to set this up, and I should have moved on with my life as if he didn’t exist.
kitchen and pour myself my third glass of wine this evening. I should have known better than to believe him when he called me on Monday to set this up, and I should have moved on with my life as if he didn’t exist.
“When
will you ever learn, Liz?” I say out loud as I plod back into the
living room, settle down on the couch and wonder what to do with myself.
This is the second time I have put myself in a position to be let down by Alex – and why is that? I ask myself.
Why
am I so vulnerable to his playboy ways? I thought I was doing so well
avoiding his type, but for some reason, every time I see him he melts my
defenses and turns me into this trusting pile of gullibility. I need to
stop.
No one to hang out with
I
pick up a stack of DVDs and flip through them despondently, thinking
that perhaps I could fetch a bar of chocolate from my stash in the
pantry and watch a movie along with my wine, then it hits me that I am
way too dressed up to sit around in the house on a Friday night in front
of the television. I should call someone and make some plans.
I
pick up my phone and flick through to the phone book, not entirely sure
who to call at this hour: I’m pretty sure everyone will have made plans
by now. Nevertheless, I look through the phone book with determination.
Jo’s number comes up first; I can’t call her, obviously, she’s just
given birth. Mariam’s number is next. I could get in touch with her, but
I’m almost certain she is going to make me hang out with her creepy
boyfriend – and I don’t want to inflict him on myself. Up next is
Fatma’s number, which I dial.
“Hey girl, what are you up to?” I ask her when she picks up.
“Me and Steve were just going out to catch a movie,” she says. “Why?”
“Oh…” the disappointment in my tone is obvious.
“I thought you had a date with Alex,” she says. “What happened?”
“I’m
not sure, I think he got caught up.” I don’t want to actually say the
words ‘He stood me up’ because they might bring home the situation to me
and cause me to feel desperately unhappy. So I try to glide past her
observation. “So what are you going to watch?” I ask her.
“There’s this new romance comedy out, I’ve forgotten the name,” she says. “Do you want to come with us?”
As
if being the third wheel on a date with her and Steven is my idea of
fun. “You guys go on and enjoy yourselves,” I sigh. “I’ll talk to you
tomorrow.”
“Or maybe we can meet up later for drinks?” she says.
“Nah, you guys have fun. Say hi to Steve for me!” I say, and hang up.
Wow,
this is depressing. It has finally just hit me that all my best friends
are no longer single and searching. They all have men in their lives!
No more random, last-minute Friday evening plans made on the assumption
that we will all be free for each other. Now I have to call them up and
pencil myself in if I want them to make time for me. And they all have
babies, too. I am definitely starting to feel some sort of pressure
here.
Drastic action must be taken to
correct my single status – even if it means simply finding a
placeholder guy to take me out to dinner and be my date for parties
while I wait for all my friends’ relationships to fall apart (as they
inevitably will) so we can go back to hanging out the way we used to.
I pick up my phone and look through it, this time with determination and focus.
A few minutes later when I hit on the name, I know I have found my placeholder.
Harry.
Sweet, gentle, geeky, utterly boring Harry has been in my friend zone
for more years than I can count on one hand. Despite the fact that I
rarely call him or pay him any real attention, he has always held a
torch for me. I find this torch useful – especially at times like these
when I need a man I will not miss when he is not around – and this is
why I call him every now and then to keep him sweet and interested. And
tonight looks like a Harry night to me.
“Hey you,” I trill seductively when I call him. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing,” he says, sounding so pleased I feel sorry for how I am about to use him. “Did you want to go somewhere?” he asks.
“As a matter of fact I did…” I say.
And 30 minutes later, the ring of my doorbell tells me that eager-to-please Harry is here to take me out for the night.
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