They seem to think we don’t know.
When a man is confident, he responds to your text messages within minutes…at the latest. If left to his own devices, he’s responding before receiving yours.
When they want us, they’re worse than us when we want them. Don’t let him fool you. He sits on his hands to keep from texting you, too.
I’m the worst kind of guy. I have a half dozen frustrated men twisting in the wind of the uncertainty that floods my inbox. I know they’re waiting. Hell, I know I’ll get an instantaneous response at any of the hour of day or night if I throw ’em a bone.
But they aren’t the one I want… so they’re probably going to keep twisting. I’d say sorry, but I feel like it’s karmic for some poor knot they tied one of my sisterfolk into along the way.
Because when he doesn’t really care… he can blow you off for days. Spoiler alert… if he can wait a few hours and he’s not a dad or at work, he isn’t that into you.
Dr. Miles is a perfect example. This man is a board certified anesthesiologist, and doesn’t miss a beat in texting me. Noon, no problem. 3:30 in the morning, he wants to know what I have on. I send him one word responses. Never more. Not a picture, not a single sentence. Nada. And the poor man is dying on the vine, waiting for a simple “k”.
The Contender is equally as ferocious and I spend more time annoyed that all the wrong boys have all the right things to say, than I do responding to him. I hardly acknowledge him, if I’m going to be honest. For the record, ignoring them only makes them more passionate about getting a response.
Anticipation is the spice of life and men are equally as passionate over something that lights their souls on fire. Unfortunately, lighting them on fire is a hell of a lot easier if you’re not interested.
Which explains the forest fire currently raging out of control on my phone.
I’ve had to learn new features on my iphone to silence the most diligent of the bunch. He has a tiny grey moon by his name and it allows him to run wild and me to sleep peacefully while he’s on a texty bender…all without disabling the sounds that delight me when the right one sends me a “k”.
I was mid run when my phone started shouting “YUMMY” at me. The text tone that paints a delighted grin across my face. I almost don’t care what his text says. It’s that delightful. Go buy it for yourself and give it to the man you find most delicious. You’ll thank me.
I have them sectioned off by ringtones, so that I know which messages can wait, indefinitely and which are the ones I’ve been waiting for. Welcome to dating.
The boys I like: a wolf whistle.
The boys I don’t: the jaws theme.
The one I crave? Yummy.
The one I want to go away? Silence.
In the same way I hate to be on the receiving end of radio silence, I am quite adept at dishing it out. In some odd way, it’s been comforting wanting most of them to leave me alone, because I’ve realized how easy it is for them to do and feel the same. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work… and no amount of hope or desire is going to change that. It’s either there or it’s not, and it can be there for one person and not both. It’s love, not justice.
To quote my favorite beautiful man: “This isn’t rocket surgery.”
It’s supply and demand. Cause and effect. Necessary tools for the hostage negotiation that is meeting someone you could end up wanting to spend your life with.
I miss love letters and voicemails. I miss the genuine gestures that are far more of an investment of your time and attention than typing on a mini keyboard and hitting send. This technological yawn fest doesn’t hold a candle to seeing his handwriting on a page of wrinkled notebook paper, expressing his undying love for you. Hell, even if it was a booty call memo, at least he had to find paper and a pen to get his point across.
Who knew those junior high boyfriends would forever outshine the adult men in my life. Oy vey.