Are takebacks allowed? in On loves.

So I might be a little bit of an idiot.

That guy I’ve been seeing? The one I’m pretty much (ok, it’s a little more than “pretty much”) in love with is not quite so in love with me. Or at least not quite in love with me enough to make sure to pick up the pile of workout shorts, shirt, bra from his bedroom floor before inviting me over. Not quite in love with me enough to not be fucking other girls.

Le sigh.

I find it in the morning as I’m about to leave for work, when I’m unable to locate my clothes in the dark. I grab at dim piles of clothes, find a soft swath of fabric whose lightness in my hands makes me pause. “I can’t find my pants,” I say as he sleeps. “Do you mind if I turn on the light?”

I turn the light on and he pulls my sweatpants from the tangle of blankets, tosses them to me, and falls back into bed. I use my foot to move apart the articles of clothing, things I don’t want to touch with my hands. There’s a shelf bra, GAP, size small. I have the same one, but whereas mine is stained with self tanner, this one is clean white. I separate it from the other girl clothes, next to what I will later realize is a pile of his workout clothes. I will paint fantasies of the story that preceded this scene, different variations in an attempt to make it mean something other than the inevitable ending: clothes were removed, sex happened, someone left with intentions of returning.

He knows I know. He texts me at 11, a picture of a puppy being held up next to an almost identical teddy bear. “This is why I want a Goldendoodle,” he writes, and I wonder if it’s more of a poke to see how I’m going to respond, if I’m upset. He was off the night before, we were. Distracted, texts coming in while he fucked me against the wall, joking, but in a way that was less affectionate than usual.

I talk to some friends about what to do. The girlfriend who inevitably fucks up every dating relationship gives me advice that I know better than to take. My friend in Hawaii gives me some solid advice. My Arizona BFF seconds that advice, but with a minor change. My FB boy BFF says that if I take the Hawaiian’s advice (which he doesn’t think I should do, for the record), I should make another minor change.

He asks me out for Valentine’s Day while I’m sitting in the Vegas airport, two hours into a flight that will ultimately be delayed 3.5. “Let’s go out to a bar and do that first date roleplaying thing we’ve talked about,” he says, more or less. He asks me out six days in advance - for Valentine’s Day - and surely that means he likes me, my Hawaiian friend reminds me.

At worst it’s playing manipulative games; at best, it’s a result of both over-thinking and pragmatism. My my Hawaiian friend and I come up with a course of action. We’ll see how it works.

In other dating news, I’m currently at a cafe waiting for a first date in 30 mins nearby. It’s not really a first date, though. I mean, technically, maybe. It’s the result of me randomly friend requesting a cute guy on Facebook who was a friend of some friends. He started chatting with me. I figured out he’s 24 to my 33. He asked me to hang out anyway. I’ve dated with far more than a nine year age difference, but they’ve always been older. Nine years younger is a first. If I’m lucky, he’ll tell me that I don’t look a day over 30 ;)