Approximately 36 hours, one glass of wine and one overpriced salmon filet later, I receive an email from eHarmony alerting me to a new “communication” in my inbox. It’s from PSM#3. It contains the words “interesting,” “dynamic” and “unfortunately.” In short, it’s a rejection letter.
“Wait a minute!” I shout, refreshing my screen. “Wait just one minute. He can’t do this.”
He can’t do this because I’ve already done it; I’ve already rejected him. At least, I planned to, via text, lest there be any confusion as to just how truly “lacking in chemistry” we were, but then I got all distracted by the Hugh Grant film he’d suggest and never got around to sending the message.
It was going to be friendly but curt: Thank you for recommending “About a Boy” and thank for dinner last night. Best wishes.
The “best wishes,” of course, was going to convey subtly and without unnecessary insult my resolute disinterest in ever subjecting myself to another dinner with PSM#3. But then Hugh Grant got involved, and got me thinking, well now, people do change. Just because my latest potential soul mate arrived nearly 40 minutes late to our first date, began texting before we’d even placed our orders and spent the majority of our meal unable to look me in the eye doesn’t mean that he’ll always be that way. Indeed, maybe he was just as intimidated by me as I was by him. (I was wearing my new heels after all, and was having the best hair day I’ve had in a very long time.)
But I never sent the message. Instead, I left myself wide open to the sting of an eHarmony rejection—a rejection I could have beat to the punch if I hadn’t been such a sucker for Hugh Grant flicks and tall men with dimples and advanced degrees.
Fortunately, I’m the sort of girl who can tell her salad fork from her dinner fork (unlike a certain someone) and as such, I’m also the sort of girl who has been raised to resist the urge, no matter how tempting, to stoop to the level of a man who cannot even be bothered to offer his arm while “escorting” his date across a particularly icy street corner.
As such, I did not send any of the scathing responses that came to me while I was on the elliptical at Planet Fitness on Monday morning—and I assure you, there were a good many things that came to mind. Instead, I simply responded with a variation on the text I’d initially intended to send: Likewise; thank you for dinner and best wishes.
Unfortunately for PSM#3 I am the sort of girl who has a blog and, on rare occasions, a way with words. And so, without further ado, here is what I would have written to PSM#3 if I hadn’t been raised better:
Listen, you ill-mannered halfwit, you can’t reject me because I’ve already rejected—
Wait, sorry, I did say I’d been raised better, didn’t I? Let’s try that again:
My dear sir,
I am at lost to discover the reasons you felt it necessary to prolong our correspondence with a final communiqué. Your sentiments were made abundantly clear to me when you left me standing on the street corner to hail my own cab.
For the record, I do not hail my own cabs. Nor do I open my own cab doors, especially when I’ve endured your talk of ice cream and kosher marshmallows for the past two and a half hours. And although you’ve assembled a rather impressive collection of letters after your name, you’ve obviously failed to grasp the very rudiments of courtship.
Shall I enlighten you? If a woman wears heels in the snow for your benefit, you had better offer her your arm when crossing the street. Furthermore, you might actually want to look at her while you’re speaking (and while she is speaking, but for such an event to occur, you would of course have to take a break from your interminable monologues on the merits of Moose Tracks ice cream and in the inconveniences of camping). Finally, if you agree to meet a woman at 7:00, you ought to meet her at 7:00, or 7:15, or even 7:20 but not 7:39.
In short, it’s no wonder that you’re still single. With your good looks and academic credentials, you might have had any number of women but instead, you persist in subjecting poor unsuspecting souls to your awkward conversational “skills” and your equally awkward leave takings. I’d have expected better from a man born and bred in the Main Line but obviously your family’s fortune and your extensive education do not guarantee good manners.
Nonetheless, I wish you the best of luck in your continued search; you’ll obviously need it because dimples can only take a man so far in life.
She-who-rejected-you-first (even if your inbox would suggest otherwise)