the country boy

A close friend from high school came out to visit me at the very end of the summer.  One of the nights she was here, the brewery hosted a live band.  She and I got dressed up, much more than I usually do in this low-key mountain town.  The music was fun, the beer flowed, and there were many good-looking fellows present.

One guy in particular she and I both noticed.  He was a tall, well built, with shaggy blond hair and a friendly face.  He had style about him, without being over-the-top.  He wore a nice-fitting green t-shirt and jeans (not too tight nor too baggy) and a fedora hat.  He was occupied with friends and didn’t seem to take notice of us.  I saw him hanging out with a dark-haired guy that wasn’t exceptionally good-looking, but there was something about him that I was drawn to.  (The ironic t-shirt paired with his serious face?  Not really sure.)  At one point I was dancing by myself near the two of them.  They kept doing this silly drum-kick move and laughing about it.  I was in front of them and teased them that I seemed to be dancing in a hazardous spot where I was in danger of being kicked in the ass.  They found this funny and we started chatting, especially Mr. Fedora and I.

We continued talking on and off throughout the night.  As the place closed down, we connected again and planned to meet up at another bar, him by bike and me by car.  His name was Seth.

Sadie and I headed over there with some new friends.  We danced to band, got drinks and played shuffleboard.  I kept stepping outside to see if he had arrived.  An eternity passed, and I began to doubt that he would ever show up.  Suddenly, I stepped out and saw that he was there, talking with his group of friends.  We smiled at each other, but I stepped back inside and resumed the game.  I didn’t want to march up to him in front of all those people, and I figured he would come in shortly after. 

It seemed like forever again before he entered the bar, but to my surprise he didn’t come right up to my friends and I, but went around chatting with other people.  At one point his friend came up to me and said that Seth had been hoping to talk to me.  I said, “Then he should come talk to me”.  The buddy didn’t seem impressed, and said, “Oh, he so has to come up to you”.  Inwardly I was thinking, yes that’s how it usually works in these kind of situations.  Finally, I was sick of the games and caught him as he was passing through the bar.  We talked again and he took me outside to meet his friends.  Before leaving, he got my number.  He called me the next day, but I wanted to postpone until my friend left.  A week later, we planned to meet for breakfast at his suggestion.

That’s when I discovered the brilliance of the breakfast date.  Really, talk about no-pressure, casual and delicious.  It just about equals the beer-and-pizza first date.  We had a good time talking about the usual stuff.  He seemed fun and easy-going.  He told me about the small farming town he was from and how much he loved going to concerts.  I looked forward to seeing him again.

We got drinks after work one evening, met up at a concert another night, and cooked dinner with his friends on a Saturday night.  He was very nice, easy to be around and good-looking.  Nonetheless, there was one thing that kept nagging at me – his text spelling.  Okay, yes, I can feel you all rolling your eyes at me again.  But the texts were barely decipherable (for example the he spelled the word “want” as the contraction “won’t”), and as a very literate person, I couldn’t help but find it a turn-off.  Despite this, I tried my hardest to suspend judgment.  I know spelling isn’t an indication of intelligence, and not everyone is a complete bookworm like myself.  Problem was, I didn’t find many signs of intelligence in other areas.  Most of his stories were of how drunk he got with friends, and I wasn’t spared any of the puking or hangover details.  I also found myself disturbingly attracted to two of his friends, including Ironic T-shirt, who turned out to be a great conversationalist (unlike Seth). 

One day Seth and I planned to go to an outdoor concert, but we learned that it was more expensive than we had expected.  Instead, we watched football in a bar with his friends before going back to their apartment where they continued to drink, smoke, and look up You Tube videos.  Now I don’t mind some very occasional day drinking, so I poured myself some wine.  However, I did feel rather bored and disappointed to be spending the day inside and not out in the beautiful weather.  The straw that broke the camel’s back was when he (probably rather drunk at this point) insisted that I “chicken wing” a bottle of Carlo Rossi.  I refused, but he continued to pressure me… and I continued to refuse, until he finally let it go. 

Now those shenanigans happen in college in the dorms, and when I was in college living in the dorms I found it all just as entertaining as anyone else.  But at this point in my life when I’m several years older, I feel no need or desire to hitch up a huge bottle of cheap disgusting wine on my elbow and slug it down, risking splashing it all down my shirt, on a Sunday afternoon.  Just not my thing any more.  But it was still Seth’s thing, which is fine.  But I’m not the girl to go along for the ride.

That day my mind was made up, but again, I wasn’t sure how to break it to him.  I met another guy I found interesting (which is another story) and got a message from him asking me to hang out.  I decided I needed to stop the text-dumping in its tracks (see, “The Perfect Guy”), and forced myself to call and end it with Seth with my actual voice before calling the other guy back.  Fortunately this time I wasn’t at such a loss as to what to say because I truly was ridiculously busy with teaching and taking classes, which he knew.  So that became my excuse on the phone.  Nonetheless, he sounded sad to hear it, and heart-breakingly said “If you just take more time to get to know me…” He is such a sweet guy, and I do hope he finds himself a fun, concert-going girl that will chicken wing a bottle of Carlo Rossi with him any day, and who could care less about his text spelling.  I am just not that girl.