I didn’t show up to his Saturday night party because I was “chicken shite.” He phoned me at 5am on this Sunday morning to tell me so.

He was right.

For the most part, I like to avoid situations where I foresee myself getting upset, feeling rejected, and leaving feeling uglier than when I came. It’s like being a plus sized woman walking into a fashionable upper east side boutique. The sales lady pretends to hunt for a size 14 pants, though she knows they don’t carry anything upwards of an eight. Even approaching the store you feel worse than if you’d stayed in bed.

In this particular case, chances of the aforementioned scenario were in my favor. He’s a flirt for one; and it’s his party so really that has to be okay. Cause when it’s “your” party, “you” can do whatever you want. “For the most part” is mostly yours. I would have left defeated, feeling alone, and certainly our correspondence would have ended. I expected the worst.

“I can’t believe you didn’t come. And I’m calling you now to give you shite for it before I forget tomorrow.”
“I told you I didn’t want to come.”
“See me this weekend then.”
“The weekend is over.”
“See me Wednesday.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
“You’re such a chicken shite. I have to go.” Click.

The question becomes, why would I put myself in a situation where the odds were stacked against me. The probable risk was higher than any reward, but perhaps by not even showing up, I lost it all before I even had it. I don’t know. Isn’t it a sign, when I fear that much that the guy will disappoint me that there must be signs cluing me in that there’s a reason I feel that way? Aren’t I better off with a guy I’d never worry was kissing some girl at a party other than me? There are men I’ve dated where I’ve always felt safe; it had nothing to do with looks, and everything to do with devotion. Any man who makes me guess is guaranteed to have a shorter show list, a list where my name won’t be crossed off. I’d rather be with someone I trust from the start than someone I worry about from day one. And it’s not in my head; it’s in the signs. In the way he surveys a room when you’re together, muttering a bit about his ADD. I know I want a gentleman, someone true to his feelings, who shows loyalty, even before there is a cause to. It’s just something you feel. It’s gut. And not following you gut instinct is chicken shite… or at least it leads to a dead alley of “wrong” and “I told you so.” Still what do I want with a guy who waits until 5am to tell me I’m chicken shite. “I really want you there” goes a long way. I guess putting it on the line makes us all a little chicken shite sometimes.