Dating is just like taking the S.A.T.’s. Everyone asks how you did, and you’re either too embarrassed to say or you want to scream it from the rooftops. The S.A.T.’s don’t really measure much of what you’ve learned or accurately reflect your intellect. They expose how well you can take a test. You drive to Kaplan and listen to a coach.
We all know there are rules to dating. “Play it cool” is right up there with “eliminate as many wrong answers as possible.” The man is the gas; the woman is the brakes. A woman sets the pace of a relationship. Men like the chase, so make him work for it. I despise rules.
We all fcuk up. It happens from time to time—I certainly chick out, and shake my head in my lap come morning. Jesus, what the hell was I thinking? Sometimes it’s wine. Sometimes I’m just out of my mind. Sometimes, though, we’re loved for our irrational fcuk up—our Jerry McGuire Mission Statements. I’m left holding flipper wondering who’s coming with me.
I wear my heart on my sleeve, even though red isn’t my color—and, yeah, I know I shouldn’t have. I should have played it cool to increase my chances. Consistently circle answer B. The playing cool of it guarantees a leg up, even if it has nothing to do with you, and only a little to do with your legs. You know it’s really nothing to do with your eventual compatibility or success and everything to do with preying on another’s insecurity and fear of loss and rejection. You test well, but you get nowhere in the end.
At the end of the day, you end up with me, without the games. I might have gotten you there with games, but no one stays for the games. We all go home eventually. So, is it so unwise to throw yourself into something, to follow your red heart and just ignore the rules? Yes, boys will grip their balls and run. Good. Let ‘em. A man, the right man, will stay, lift an eyebrow and watch in awe. He’ll stare, most likely because he’s terrified. Well snap out of it. There’s shite to do. Kids to make. We’ve got to begin researching S.A.T. prep classes. Chop. Chop.
