Sex and the Capital City: What if the pursuit means more than the payoff?
This isn’t an advice column. As you very well may have surmised at this point, I’m no expert when it comes to dealing with the “stronger” sex. Yet, you’d think that I’d at least practice what I preach when it comes to these things, right? Think again, because I’m fixated on the flake and I can’t shake it.
But I’d be lying if I said I’m really trying that hard.
As I said before, “the chase” is as strangely appealing as the sky is blue. When things are easy, interest wanes. I wish it weren’t so, but it is. While I’d tried to convince myself that no more effort would be put forth with Mr. Can’t Commit, cutting it off completely snuffs the flame of excitement altogether. So I slipped back into the groove of the casual correspondence, and his wishy-washy behavior is validated once more.
For as soon as I delete the texts, as soon as I vow not to fuel the fire, there he is, resurfacing with a slew of sappy correspondence. It’s as though there’s some sort of honing device that picks up on the signal of my feigned indignation, like a siren of Destiny’s Child’s “Independent Woman” ready to be silenced.
And silence it, does he ever.
Because as much as a meaningless text from a hard-to-pin-down suitor can send a lady’s heart aflutter, one with feeling and sentiment has the ability to get us weak in the knees. Throw a little emotion in there and I’m putty in your hands. That’s right, folks. I’m the embodiment of a lady cliché, and this should no longer come as any surprise.
But for every halfway heartfelt message that comes my way, a fire of frustration is slowly ignited. Words are just words. If you sincerely want to see me, then make time. If actual interaction is what you desire, make it happen. While a briefly flattering shower of attention is flattering, it can also be as cruel as a playground insult between children.
I’m not talking trivial things, here. If he said “hey, girl” and I flew into a rage, that would be wholly irrational, even for me. No, I’m getting some pretty heavy stuff sent to my inbox, stuff that you send someone you’re interested in legitimately connecting with. Stuff about family; stuff about feelings; stuff about trips together; stuff about life choices. Fluffy, it isn't. Still, it's nothing but talk.
He's the conductor of the all-talk express, and he's not making any unscheduled stops.
Why must a guy throw so much out there, only to run and hide behind detachment? I realize this is the epitome of the “he’s just not that into you” mindset, but didn’t that distinction die with the television retirement of SJP and the gang? (And no, the irony of my subject matter’s similarity to hers isn’t lost.)
While I’m being driven to the mad house over this hot and cold cad, I’m afraid that by letting things go dark, I’m bringing the boredom back into my love life. What’s worse — being toyed with, or a phone that doesn’t ring?
I know it’s time to throw in the towel. It’s a tricky situation, one that probably has me appearing as a bit of a doormat, but I’m okay with word getting out. Because I know I’m not the only one.