This’ll be short- it’s 12:53am and I’m only mildly still sugarated on the massive Shirley Temples I undertook.
I’ve been phrasing the question back and forth and it’s been the subject of two girls on the car ride home, (in giggles,) and a hardcore group chat. There might or might not have been paper, rock, scissors involved and a few helpings of thin mint cookies. It was a hearty debate which ended in the conclusion for all of us that there was a new cardinal rule in effect, (which we’d have to now adhere to:)
Thou Shalt Not Ever See Your Ex Sockless again. When the socks come off? That’s when the trouble starts. The guys start getting comfortable. SOCKS ARE A GATEWAY DRUG TO PANTS, it was determined. This bill passed unanimously, and we mentally clinked our wished-for-alcohol in unison. Seeing said ex sockless then seeing him with someone else less than a day later with another participant makes one feel… well… not like singing. We wore our new-found-decision like a badge of honor. Every girl for herself.
We contemplated the conundrum and came to the conclusion that: Upon seeing new specimen, it would benefit no one to do anything than to marvel over a certain guy who asked for a phone number in the middle of 35w traffic and answer the call from the guy with the dimples. That was all. She needn’t know his debauchery. She’s thinking it’s merriment and glee, and seriously- I’m not one to snatch a lollipop from a child.
The following was determined:
The new girl, (who apparently is much less… new than you thought, and much less of the, “she doesn’t like me, so we’re just friends,” breed than you were told.) She doesn’t need to know what did he right or wrong. As much as it pains me not to say, “But he was just … here!” It’s gotta sit. Maybe she reads blogs.
We looked at each side, deconstructed the dating myths and declared our findings worthy of a Nobel prize, or at least a session of reminding ourselves how screwed up the emotions get in the midst of very, very, simple situations. He doesn’t want a relationship? Good. Then keep put your socks back on mister, drive your car backwards and don’t expect me to invite you in for crumpets or making out or whatever else shenanigans you have up your sleeve that involves Christmas presents, cards or emotional support. Games. Silliness. Anti-Glee. We all do it- and in the New Year? We’re going to stop that crap. (So was it proposed.) Unanimously- the ANTI-SOCK bill. Obama would be proud.
Because at almost 30 years old, and realizing the lies that exist when we try to take the emotion out of it all: cause more foul than goal. And I’m a team player, dammit.
