Dating 101: The Power of the Little White Lie (or, enormous whopper, depending on your needs)
Creepy Neighbour Guy asked me out again.
I knew it was coming–we’ve been “accidentally” running into each other a lot lately, in the laundryroom, the elevator, the mailroom. The kind of encounters where a bit of casual conversation is required, where it would be rude to simply ignore him and go about my business, which is what I’d like to do. In fact, I try to, pulling my tried and true trick of making sure to involve the Ladies in conversation to avoid the encounter, but Creepy Neighbour Guy ignores my signals as studiously as I attempt to ignore his. I’m generally pretty clueless about these things, but not even I can mistake his interest; maybe it’s the scent of desperation mingling with his cologne. I desperately want to avoid this situation. Avoid his interest. Avoid the moment when he finally works up his courage and makes his move. Again.
At least The Ladies weren’t with me last time. Unlike this time. This time, they are milling about in the entry way, eager to see who has knocked on our door at 6 pm on a Wednesday (and no doubt hopeful that it will turn out to be the Pizza Man). It’s Creepy Neighbour Guy, returning the mitten I lost in the elevator earlier today, and taking the opportunity to make his move.
Last time, I let him down gently, a polite yet kind refusal (I am, afterall, Canadian.) This time, I grasp wildly at a reason to explain my refusal. A reason that will put an end to this. A reason that does not contain the phrase “Creepy Neighbour Guy.”
“I’m sorry,” I hear myself saying. “I’m already seeing someone.” I see the skeptical look on his face and realize he doesn’t believe me. After all, the only man who visits this apartment on a regular basis always arrives carrying a pizza. And so, I find myself elaborating, “He lives out of town, so he’s not around often. And when he is, he arrives pretty late and has to leave fairly early. You know, the commute. I’m not surprised you’ve never seen him.”
“Well, you can’t blame me for trying, ” he says, accepting the lie.
“You have a boyfriend???”
Busted. I’d completely forgotten about Diva Girl, lured to the hallway by the possibility of the Pizza Man, and rooted there by the drama playing out on her doorstep. But at least, at nearly 8, she had the tact and the patience to wait until I’d closed the door to question me. Last year, she would have said it right in front of the guy.
(To be fair, I’m sure that Creepy Neighbour Guy is a perfectly nice man–in a potentially “he was such a quiet guy; no one ever would have thought” kind of way. But he’s a weird sort of agressively milquetoast that just skeeves me right out. I imagine he’s the kind of man who rather pompously orders for you in the restaurant, but has a limp handshake. And if I’m going to go to the trouble of getting a sitter and shaving my legs, the last thing I’m looking for is to spend the evening with a limp handshake kind of guy.)