Among the archives.
“Hey, how’s it going?”
It’s not the first time I’ve woken to a text like this. The time stamp often reading between the hours of 1–2am.
It could be a wrong number. I know it’s not.
It’s some dude dipping into the archives. The archives being his contact list, his “little black book” in a digital age.
I’ve been getting these every few weeks over the last several months, seemingly from some dude I’d once, or maybe twice, gone on a date with in the past. But given what I know about my current and recent dating history, we’re talking at this point dates that occured well over two years ago.
There’s nothing wrong with trying to reconnect with an old flame. It’s not the mere concept of reaching back out that’s a problem. It’s how they do it.
There is never an acknowledgment of how much time has passed. These guys aren’t trying to jog my memory as to who they might be, or where I might have known them. The entire thing starts and ends with, “Hey, what’s up.”
Typically I ignore it, but on occasion, I can’t help but prod. Once last year, I simply asked “Who is this?” To which he responded: “I met you last year, on a dating site.” That’s not an answer, by the way. “What’s your name?” His name rang zero bells. When I told him I didn’t remember him, and he called me terrible and told me to have a good night. (Spoiler alert: I had a fantastic night.)
I told another guy more recently that he had the wrong number, just to see what he’d say. He actually insisted that he did in fact have the right number, that we had gone on one date. Apparently there’s no chance I could have changed my number in the last two years, and he, too, was offended I didn’t remember who he was.
The real thing that bugs me is this apparent assumption that I must have been so blown away by that one, mediocre date, even years later, I should be pumped that this man has graced me with the hope of a second chance.
As fat woman, it’s hard not for me to wonder if that’s why these guys think they could so easily dip into the archives and I’d be there, ready and waiting on a dusty shelf.
The reality is, this happens to women of all sizes. In a totally non-scientific poll on my Facebook page, about a dozen of my of my friends told about their similar experiences. Some said happens more when a new relationship is just starting to bud, as if some dog whistle is blown alerting these guys that you’re suddenly off the market. Others noted it actually seemed to happened more happen more when they’ve just gone through a break-up. A few admitted to even dipping themselves, although I’m still convinced they don’t approach it quite like these guys do.
Three summers ago, I got ghosted HARD by a guy. We had only hung out a few times, but it showed some promise, despite his being a fairly ridiculous person (which is another story for another day). We’d gone out to dinner, watched Game of Thrones together (beware, Season 4 spoilers ahead), talked about politics. But, after an evening of conveyor belt sushi and a taxi cab make-out sesh, *poof.* He was gone. Never to be heard of again.
Until: “Hey, how’s it going?”
To his credit, he did continue: “Not sure if you remember, we briefly dated a few years ago, around the time Oberyn had his skull crushed. We lost touch when you went on vacation. Anyway, I was watching GOT and randomly thought of you. I’m not sure if you are dating or anything. Would like to chat if you are single. By the way, I know this is totally random. If it’s unwelcome, tell me and I’ll delete your number.”
I suppose it’s not fair to completely lump this guy with the archivists. He did the things that they refuse to do: acknowledge that time has passed and provides some clues as to who he is. Of course I remembered who he was, even if his phone number was long deleted from my own contact list. No one forgets where you were during “The Mountain and the Viper.” I also very clearly remembered why we “lost touch,” and it had a lot more to do with his not returning my texts than it did with my vacation. But now, three years later, absolutely none of that matters.
I let him know that I appreciated his memory of me was attached to someone so noble and attractive as Oberyn Martell (may his beautiful face and soul rest in peace), that yes I was indeed in a relationship, and that I wished him well. He begged off, but not before he made sure to let me know he was around in case “anything changed.”
No thank you. I’ll be staying in the stacks where I belong.
