By Kierstin Richter.
“Hey there beautiful.”
I roll my eyes and walk away.
“Hey babe, wanna dance?”
Nope sir. I do not.
“Darlin’ you wanna drink?”
I held up my bottle of moscato as to say “Nah I’m good” and continued on.
Mimosa Monday. Taco Tuesday. Wine Wednesday. There’s something to look forward to every day of the week. What isn’t there look forward to? Sloppy boys that spill drinks on your brand-new white, off-the-shoulder top and continually ask why you aren’t interested.
It’s amazing what boys can get away with – peeing in the bushes, running without a shirt on, having the option to become a priest. It really does sometimes seem like it is a man’s world. Another thing they somehow get away with? Handling rejection like a pro. It’s like boys were bred to be rejected. Girls? They can’t handle it in the slightest bit. If I even hint that I’m interested in a boy, and he doesn’t pick up on my subtle attempts of trying to telepathically let him know, I take it as a hard rejection and spend three days with a jar of Nutella and powdered donuts. Boys, however, can put themselves out there multiple times in one night and still end the day thinking they’re God’s gift to womankind. Why this is, I still do not know. However, my experiences tonight have shown how resilient a boy can be. It’s almost as if they can just walk around and say, “Want some of this? No? Okay… How about you? No? Alright… On to the next one!” They don’t understand when a girl isn’t interested.
The house shook as the bass of the speakers pounded and echoed like gunfire. I cradled my bottle of pink moscato and slapped away freshman girls that asked for some. They saw pink bubbly and swarmed. I swatted them away, and as a rushee appeared, he slipped his arm around me and asked for my name. I peered around with the snarkiest stank eye I could muster and ignored his advances, darting away. I took a swig of my cherished wine and sat down. I knew my peace wouldn’t last long. There is something magnetic about a girl sitting all by herself. I think boys have a radar that starts beeping in their minds when they see a girl all by her lonesome. One rounded the corner and slid to my side.
“Would your boyfriend want me sitting this close to you?”
I peered to my left with the same stank eye as before. Every time I speak with him, we have the same conversation because he’s normally too drunk or high to remember the previous one. It’s like one of those movies where the main character relives the same day over and over in a continuous time loop and has to figure out how to escape. In this movie, however, the only escape was sarcastic replies and attempts to run before the time loop repeated.
“I’ve told you before. I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Oh that’s right. Well you look awfully beautiful tonight.”
“Thanks,” I cradled my pink moscato and inched away.
“So why don’t ‘ya tell me… Why don’t ‘ya like me?”
If I ever asked a guy why he didn’t like me, I think I would die of humiliation.
I sat there in silence. Maybe if ignore it, it will go away. Like a bee. Or a feral cat. It didn’t.
“Am I ugly or somethin’? Is that it?”
“Then why not? I really like you.”
Persistence is key, apparently, because somehow this guy was still here and has not yet been punched in the throat.
“I just don’t want a relationship right now.”
“Ah… I see how you are then…” he gave a smirk and inched closer. I gagged a little and jumped out of my seat.
“No. I’m not like that.”
“Then what is it? Why won’t you just tell me?”
I swear these boys were like the love-bugs that swarmed the August of 2017. Even if you swat at them, they just sit there – unafraid.
In efforts to make myself seem intimidating, as creatures do in the animal kingdom, I perched on top of the rail that surrounded the dance floor like a tree branch of safety. I thought this was a good plan, as it would place me higher and therefore, less attainable. Wrong. It was like putting a gazelle in predator’s view. A lanky, scraggly bearded guy drunkenly tried to leap up to the railing, and he woefully failed. (See? I was safe from predators reach, at least.) I felt like Katniss in The Hunger Games. As he made multiple attempts to climb up, in my horrified view, he finally gave up and just craned his neck up to talk to me.
“So, do you have a big bad boyfriend that’s gonna beat me up if I talk to you?”
“No, but I’ll kick your ass if you do.”
In an almost perfectly timed motion, I grabbed the hand of my roommate on the dance floor, and slid down from the railing, twirling away from a perfectly executed rejection, escaping the time loop once again.
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