I have a confession.
While I agree with Chiara on nearly everything (seriously, it’s rather creepy sometimes), I just can’t get behind her “One Date Rule.” Because sometimes you just know that one date would be one too many.
For example, on Friday I attended a fundraiser with a few friends. And a guy approached me.
His first line: “I speak both French and English, in which language shall I speak to you?”
“JOY SPEAKS FRENCH” chirped my very unsupportive friend.
Within three minutes he asked for my number. Not asked, but told me that I’d give it to him. He’d pulled me away from my friends and I felt caged and cornered. I knew there was no possible way I wanted to date this man. In fact, I knew there was no possible way I ever wanted to be in the same room with him again. But I was trapped.
When I returned to my friends they laughed at me for giving my real number. Teased me.
“What else are you supposed to do?” I demanded.
“Um, tell him you have a boyfriend. That’s like Rule Number One,” my friends replied.
“That was rule was essentially included in the Sex Ed classes we took in middle school. How in the world do you not know about this rule?”
But here’s the rub! I’m a horrible liar. Horrible. Had I tried to mention this fake boyfriend, it would go a little something like this, “Oh thank you no, I have a boyfriend! Whose name is… Steve. He has sandy blonde hair. His favorite color is… light blue. And he works on the docks. Not like in a mob way though! In like a fisherman way. That’s right! I live in Maine now and I’m dating a fisherman! Totally happening! FISH ARE STINKY.”
It would be disastrous.
Perhaps even more disastrous than attempting a lie was giving this multi-lingual suitor my number. Over the last week, he’s called me a total of 14 times (I’ve never picked up and ALSO, who CALLS a girl first thing? Calls are TERRIFYING. Please send me a text) and sent me seven text messages (I’ve never replied). Each time my phone rings this week, my stomach drops with the realization that it’s not a guy I want to call me (he hasn’t asked for my number, but that’s another story), but this creeper.
So what to do? How do you politely refuse to give your number? Is this really a lesson you’ve already learned and NEVER SHARED WITH ME? I want to know. Tell me now.
Joy Engel lives and works in Portland, Maine where she tweets far too much and solves the occasional murder-mystery while riding around on a bicycle. Everything she writes is her personal opinion and does not necessarily represent the views of her employer or its clients.