To illustrate how badly this guy failed, here is just one example of the things they talked about. This particular example came in the beginning of the Phillies game, while he was still at his lowest point of drunkenness.
She mentioned that she was reading the series A Song of Ice and Fire, upon which the (amazing) show Game of Thrones is based.
She expressed how much she loved the books.
He said, “Isn’t that the shit with elves and shit?”
She then gave him a basic education of the series, doing so in such an accommodating and easy-to-understand language that made it easy for any second grader or drunken 28-year old to comprehend. And she described it in such an adoring and tender tone that made it clear that it was something near and dear to her heart.
I, myself, happen to love the show, and when she had finished her eloquent description of the books, I wanted to immediately pull out my iPhone, purchase it on iTunes, and begin reading it, right there in my expensive seats at the Phillies game.
“You really should check out the books,” she said to her date. “They are great.”
“Nah,” he replied. “I’m not into that shit.”
My mom is a hardcore Phillies fan. One of her most prized possessions is a gift that I got her a few years ago — a walkman. If the Phillies are playing, you can bet your ass that she has those headphones on and is listening to the game. Anytime we talk on the phone or I go to visit, she is always complaining or rejoicing about the team, whatever the case may be. Recently, it has been mostly complaining. But even when they are losing, she is a die-hard fan.
For such a big fan of the team, however, she rarely goes to any games. Maybe once a season. And when my parents do go to games, they typically sit very high-up.
So this year, my sister and I decided to splurge for Mother’s Day and get her super-close-to-the-action seats. Being the second-biggest Phillies fan in the family, I would accompany her, a task that I was pleased to fulfill.
And that is how I found myself a few rows behind the Phillies dugout, next to my mother, when a beautiful girl sat next to me.
If you’ve read my blog before or know me in real life, you know that I am not much of a go-getter when it comes to hitting on girls or trying to get their phone numbers. My quiet and seemingly unemotional persona caters to more of a love-him-once-you-get-to-know-him type of courting. And I’m fine with that.
But that’s the problem — the fact that I’m fine with it.
Because the real world isn’t like college.
In college, a missed connection is simply the first step to a relationship. The only piece of information needed is that the girl actually goes to the same school as you. At that point, it is almost customary to not exchange information. As a part of the courting process, it was better to leave them hanging… to let her become a little detective for the next week to find out about you (and you, her). Then you would find out what party she was going to be at the next weekend, where you would make an appearance.
And if you didn’t see her then, you knew you would have countless opportunities throughout the year.
College was filled with second and third chances, and my type of personality thrived on such a scenario.
But in the real world, a missed connection is nothing more than a missed connection. On a night out, it is a guarantee that I only have one shot to find a way to continue communication with a girl, and when I simply don’t try, the only thing I am left with is regret.
The regret of never knowing more about this girl, this person who was pretty or interesting enough to catch my eye. The regret of never knowing if she was actually interested in me, too, and just waiting for me to approach her, since it is the guy’s duty. The regret of never knowing if the two of us would hit it off on our first date, and maybe eventually turning into something more.
The regret of being a wimp.
Last month, before going to bed one night, I felt a slight discomfort after taking my right contact out. There was very little pain, but just enough that I said something along the line of “owchies!” and took note of it before going to sleep. Nothing out of the ordinary.
I woke up at 6AM and could not open my eye, which was not ordinary.
I actually couldn’t open my left eye either. When I forced my left eye open to try to see, it felt as if a thousand piranhas were eating away at my right eye.
It was not pleasant, to say the least. I said many things, much much worse than “owchies!”
I ran back to bed, wrapping a blanket around my head (so as to escape any form of light) and, naturally, assumed the fetal position.