The Dithering of a District Diva

It was a fairytale beginning, as these things often are. It was my second day at work and I was lost in D.C. with not a dollar’s worth of cash or a clue about direction. Cursing my sense of direction and armed with only an address, I scoured South East D.C. in search of help. After asking a homeless man and a garbage man and still being no closer to North West, I was moments away from sitting down in the street and crying. (It was a stressful time, don’t judge me)

Then, out of no where, this tall, muscular, well-dressed, beautifully brown man appeared. “Excuse me, Miss,” he shouted from behind. I turned and sized him up. Cute, but not my type. I quickly dismissed him, but he was persistent. “Miss!” He said again. I stopped this time and allowed him to catch up. “Those are very nice shoes,” he finally said. Gay. “Thanks,” I said as I returned to my aimless wandering. He proceeded to ask me a random question about parking tickets. Didn’t he know I was in a state of emergency?! “I’m not sure, but I’m probably not the person to ask. I’m trying to find the DMV to pay a parking ticket myself so I can make it to work on time but I am lost. I’m at 3rd and C SE and I need to be at 3rd and C NW.” He flashed a gorgeous, dimpled smile. “Well that’s easy.” He directed me but my face must have clearly expressed that it was no help. “Are you in a hurry? If you can wait, I can take you there myself. My car’s just right here.” He whipped out his keys and the alarm on a beautiful charcoal gray 5 Series BMW sounded. I laughed at that, but ultimately didn’t mind. It was a nice car, after all. “Yes, I’m in a terrible hurry, but thank you.” I started to walk away. “Wait, I’ll get you a cab.” And like in a romantic movie, a cab suddenly appeared and he flagged it down. “Take her to 3rd and C NW,” he said, like a man. He paid the driver in advance, and I thanked him sweetly, gave him my card, and off to the DMV I went. Within seconds of driving away, I called my bestie to tell her that I had just met my future husband on the streets of D.C.

We dated for a sometimes-blissful 6 weeks. He was a political junkie, like me, and we could talk for hours. He was very well read, and a double-doctor, it turned out, since he was both an MD and a PharmD. Ten years older at 34, I thought I had hit the relationship jackpot with this beautiful, dimpled, smart, Christian, muscly Double D. Except for a few flaws, of course.

He showed up 2 hours late to our first date. He apologized immensely and we had a grand time and kept seeing each other, but his unreliability did start to be a problem for me. “I’ll call you right back,” he’d say. “I’ll call you at 7.” “I’ll call you tonight.” “I’ll call you tomorrow.” No matter how he phrased it, he just couldn’t seem to stick to his word and sometimes wouldn’t call me for days afterward. It wasn’t that I wanted to talk to him every day, or even every other day. It wasn’t that I wanted to talk to him on a schedule at all. I just couldn’t fathom why he would say–without any prompting from me–when he would call again. Particularly if he had no intention of doing so. I no longer trusted his word and I definitely did not expect anything from him. After all, we weren’t serious or exclusive. He was just a pretty man who bought me dinner a couple nights a week.

But after we had gone nearly a week without communicating, I was ready to write him off. (They have an internal alarm for when you’ve decided to write them off, and suddenly they have an urgent need to be near you). “I MUST see you!” His voicemail proclaimed. Playing hard to get, I texted back that I’d be available in 3 days. I told him the place of a lovely French restaurant I’d discovered in DuPont and gave him the time of 7:00 to meet me. “I MUST be there!”

And there he was…just not at 7. Nor at 7:05. Nor 7:15. Nor 7:20. This is after he calls me at 6:59 to tell me he is “right around the corner.” After warning him on the first date that I don’t usually wait, like any sensible lady, I got my food to go and left. He calls at 7:30 to say that a waitress said someone was waiting and then left and he hoped it was not me. “Of course it was me. You are 30 minutes late.” In the place of an apology for lying about his proximity to the restaurant and for keeping me waiting, I was met with a barrage of insults and name-calling. The facade of the classy gentleman quickly faded into something shockingly ugly: I was immature and arrogant, (you’re arrogant for thinking you could show up 30 minutes late without calling and I’d still be there!), that I’d be sorry because he had wasted his money buying me flowers and that was why he was late (keep your flowers, honesty and respect are the only gifts I need.) and the increasingly popular, You are the reason black men date white women (please, knock yourself out!)

“Lose my number!” I said after attempts at diplomacy failed. “Oh yeah?! Well, YOU lose MY number! I’m deleting you from my phone right now! See, you’re gone! You’re just a bad, bad memory!” Talk about Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing.

I couldn’t believe it. The sheer balls on this “man” to be so completely rude and inconsiderate and then blame me for his lack of common decency. I scoured my mind reliving every date trying to remember what it was I did or said that made him think that I was a desperate young woman willing to put up with nearly anything to be in the presence of a hot BMW-driving Double D. Besides, I am much younger and much hotter, educated and successful in my own right; he should have been thrilled to be dating me. Maybe it was being lenient after his 2-hour tardiness to our first date. Maybe it wasn’t anything I did or said at all. Maybe I got lost in looks and stature, once again, and ignored the fact that I was dating a dishonest, disrespectful, and apparently childish man.

But what I do know is that as I sat in that restaurant alone, I made a decision. It’s a decision I’ll probably have to make again and again. I decided that I was worth more than what this man was willing to give me. And I am. And based on his reaction to this news, I am so glad to have ended it before it got serious. “God watches over fools and babies,” as my grandmother says.

So my first dating adventure in the city was a bust. It happens. Next time I won’t ignore the red flags and I’ll be more clear in communicating what I am ok with. But two things are certain: this city is entirely too big and I am entirely too fabulous to settle for less.

One man down.

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