Hit Me With the Seven Digits
There is one question that every girl struggles with: Real Number or Fake Number?
Each has its pros and cons.
The pros of the the fake number are obvious. You never have to see this douchebag’s “clever” nonsensicals pop up on your Blackberry screen/or think about him again.
The cons? He pulls the let-me-call-you-right-now-so-you-have-my-number card. This is awkward. And unnecessary. If you are a dude, don’t do this. Ever. Also, offering to give a girl your number, thus making her think she’s in the safe zone, and then telling her to call you so you have her number is just plain mean. We’re trying to be polite, limit the length of the conversation, and avoid any slash all unpleasant altercations. Please just let us depart as painlessly as possible, and stop cluttering the pathway to our future husbands.
This is why I normally end up going with option B. Well, option A if we’re sticking with my original order. The Real Number. It has proven to be the most efficient way out of these uncomfortable situations. Unfortunately, it also leaves your Blackberry open to assault via text message, ie: “So when are you taking me out to dinner?”
…
How did I meet the sender of this charming text? Oh. Well. It all started when I went to visit ithinkironyisSOfunny. It can be tough to find parking on her street. I circled. Twice. Suddenly, a spot appeared! I stopped in the street, waiting for the driver to exit the space. Enter A-hole in his Range Rover. I watched, enraged, as he barreled in from the other direction to steal my spot. Livid. I treated him to a full five seconds of my most meaningful look of death, before proceeding to circle the block for a third time. A tiny spot opened up two cars ahead of douchebag-extraordinaire. I had not yet acclimated to Riot’s proportions at this time, thus my parallel parking skills were not at an all-time high. Dude stood on the sidewalk, watching my several failed attempts with a condescending smirk plastered across his face. I hated him. He came over and asked if I would like him to give it a try. I hated him even more for forcing me to need him.
After he parked my car, he hung onto my keys as he attempted conversation. He told me that he could tell I’m not from LA, because I’m different from girls around here. I have a real personality. He then informed me that he is an LA native. See what he did there? He didn’t.
As I reached for my keys, he asked for my number. Well. ‘Ask’ might not be the correct word. “Let me get your number. We should hang out sometime. You’re a cool chick.”
1. Don’t tell me what to do.
2. Why?
3. Because you know me so well. (I mean, I am, obviously, but I just don’t think two and a half minutes of unwanted discourse serve as a true indicator of one’s general state of being.)
The moral of the story is that I gave him my real number, exited stage left, and 3 phone calls, 1 voicemail, and two text messages later… he was out of my life for good.
Cue knock on wood.
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