All right! Two people have now asked about him, so, for the record...
No, Jeff never called back.
I said I wasn't going to get hung up about this. I said I wasn't going to degenerate into high-school girlishness about it.
Well, maybe I won't, and maybe I will. In a specific way, no, I suppose I shouldn't be upset. In a general way, I certainly AM. Why do men do that? They go along with an evening, and you think they're having a good time -- a good time with YOU, particularly -- and then after it's over, you never hear from them. It's like going to a job interview... you come out absolutely certain you nailed the job, aced it, there could be no doubt, and then weeks go by and you don't hear anything until finally you get The Form Letter:
Dear Miss Lawrence:
While we thoroughly enjoyed the evening we spent with you and recognize the hard work that went into your hair, your makeup, your attire and your forced congeniality, we regretfully must inform you that we have selected another candidate whose qualifications better fit the needs of the position.
We will keep your phone number on file for sixty (60) days in case we get bored.
Best of luck in all your future social endeavors.
What is up with that? How are you supposed to tell when someone is really interested instead of merely being friendly? Or tolerant? Goddamnitall to hell, now I'm going through all this replays in my head, trying to figure out what I did that somehow didn't make the connection. I'm trying to figure out what I did wrong or something.
I promised that I wasn't going to do this. This is idiotic of me.
I didn't actually sit by the phone all evening. I thought, seriously, about calling Marcy and asking her if she's heard from him, but that, I know, would make me sound anxious. I hate that. I won't do that. I'd like to, but I won't do that.
I don't need this. I just don't need this. Arrrrrrrr! I don't need this. I am going to bed. I am taking my kitten, putting on a Leonard Cohen CD, and I am going to bed.