My voice carries. So much so that people tell me not to
yell, and I have to make them understand that my boisterous volume is my
standard tone. Along with missing the demure gene, I didn’t develop an ability
to be cripplingly embarrassed. I also am one of the maybe five Jewish girls in
Manhattan from Alabama. My hair also grows outward as opposed to lengthening, which
is a rarity in New York where most Jewish girls apply extreme heat to their
curls. All this to say, if a boy doesn’t remember my amazing non-award-winning-but-my-family-says-spectacular
personality, the above should help ring a bell.
I have been called forgettable twice in my life, and only
once was a drunken mistake…by my father (one too many complimentary margaritas
at the hotel happy hour after depositions went well in Arizona...) The other
time happened in the middle of this story:
Rahul (I’m using his real name. To H-E-Double Hockey Sticks
with anonymity in this great big world anymore!) had it almost all, the part
missing of course was actually wanting to like me back. Ever looked someone in
the face and seen the Indian male version of yourself? This probably only
happens one or two times in life, but it was as if I was enjoying my personality
for the evening. It also didn’t hurt that I could check the boxes of smart
(Princeton Grad) and cares about social justice (spent a year in India
volunteering).
That evening in August of 2013, I called my best friend from
home to tell her I had met my match and wished on every star in the sky that he
would contact me. When he did, I was in such shock that a boy like him could
like a girl like me (not fishing for compliments; every girl has thought this
before…stop making that pity face at your screen.) It didn’t take long for us
to plan a second date. It also didn’t take long for him to make like a hay
stack and “bale” on that date. When I reached out for alternate plans, I was
met with “the sound of silence.”
FAST FORWARD to March 2015
I received a message on the same dating site I had
originally met Rahul on. To my surprise, it was a message from brown sugar
himself. After politely shaming him for his fade away as well as forgetting me,
we decided on a do-over.
Let’s take a timeout: My profile, in both cases, described
me as an Alabama-Football-Loving-Southern-Jewish Girl. Again, there are
maximum five of us in Manhattan, so he had forgotten me. (Bad memory for an Ivy
Leaguer)
As the writer of this blog, I was thrilled to have this
happen. My sister and I were the only ones who saw this as a potentially great
love story (but I guess there lay my problem, writing the ending before there’s
been a beginning). We went on a few more
dates with the wittiest of witty banters in between, filled with sarcasm and stuffed
with intrigue(at least for me…my parents were massively less than thrilled
that my newest interest was still not Jewish Charming.)
No worries though, Second Time Around, as my co-worker
nicknamed him, has no happy ending. Two hours prior to a date I planned on a
Sunday afternoon, a half hour after I showered and shaved my legs with a brand
new razor (WASTE!), an hour before my sister and brother-in-law went on the
date I planned, and nine hours before I lay in my bed asking the worn out
question, “What’s so wrong with me,” Rahul texted to cancel with a probably
false excuse of having to go into work. He asked to reschedule. I told him I
understood. I never heard from him again.
I guess it’s true what they say: Fool me once shame on you.
Fool me twice… this was a blessing in disguise because a Rahul isn’t my NJB.
And the search continues.
