Where were we? Right: Monday night, last week. It’s three days before my show and having just completed a marathon rehearsal with my co-producer, I’m in the mood to let loose. Date #6 has been obliging enough to accompany me to the official Fringe Festival Bar in Northern Liberties and I’m several drinks in.
To explain what happens next, I need to borrow a page from the Nice Guy’s Playbook. How do I know that this playbook exists? Well, let’s just say I’ve seen this particular move before—and it works.
Date #6 offers to drive me home and since my parents are out of town, I invite him in for a drink. I should note that I’ve been puttin’ the moves on all evening, and that I’ve been thinking about puttin’ the moves on for some the better part of the summer but on account of Date #7, I’ve resisted. Plus, I always end up drinking with Date #6, so I never trust my judgment and the last thing I want to do is hook up with a friend I have no business hooking up with.
But Date #6 is smart. He’s been biding his time, or so it seems. He lets me pour him a drink and I spend the next fifteen minutes or so sending him telepathic messages that amount to little more than “Kiss me! Kiss me! Kiss me already, you damn fool!”
Eventually he gets the message. Or I simply plant one on him. Who can be sure?
I found myself in a similar situation the winter before I moved to London, which is how I know that Date #6’s next move is straight out of the Nice Guy’s Playbook. In order for this particular move to work, you need to be a Nice Guy (obviously), and you need to have a friend who’s prone to occasional lapses in judgment, for which she will feel terribly guilty about in the morning (right around the time when her hangover kicks into high gear).
You also need to be very patient. Sure, you could probably coax said friend into bed the moment she finishes her fourth glass of wine, but if you put her to bed instead— by herself (and yes, this is crucial)— she’ll wake up thinking, “Hmmm… that So-and-So. He’s such a nice guy. Maybe I really ought to give him a chance…”
The crucial part, of course, is figuring out how and when to take your leave. If you’re dealing with someone who’s a bit high strung, there’s a good chance she’ll resist your attempts to put her to bed (what sort of hostess would that make her?) no matter how many times you tell her “Kat, you’ve got a long week ahead of you and you really need to get some sleep.”
(Not that I’m talking about myself here. This is all purely hypothetical. It’s just that lots of girls are called Katharine or Katrina or some derivative thereof so “Kat” makes sense in this context.)
You can rub her back, and bring her a glass of water and literally tuck her in, blankets and all, but she’ll still spring out of bed the moment you turn your back. She’ll toss and turn until 3:00am, at which point she’ll awake to find a text from you, her new knight in shining armor, and she’ll spend the rest of the night thinking, “Hmmm… that was lovely. He was lovely. I am lovely. Lovely, lovely, lovely.”
The last time this happened, I found myself in a relationship with said knight a few weeks later. It didn’t last (in fact, it never should have happened in the first place), but I felt compelled to make an awkward phone call to Date #7 over the weekend nonetheless: Hey, it’s me. I’m… well… I’m no longer not seeing other people, okay?
- The Full Scoop (Almost) (katrichterwrites.wordpress.com)