The Worst Type of Rejection

On Saturday night I was supposed to meet one of Hot Rob's friends. It was a real informal thing, no big deal, nothing to obsess about. This friend was just one of the guys from the rugby team, and the first time I saw him he was wearing grey sweatpants. I thought he had good hair. I thought he seemed fun. I told Hot Rob that out of all the men on the rugby team, the grey sweatpant-wearing boy was the one I'd most like to make out with, if ever given the chance.

Hot Rob said no. He said no way. When I asked why not, Rob just shrugged and said, "Well, he's picky."

I took that to mean I wasn't pretty enough. "Is it the teeth?" I asked. I pulled my top lip down over the gap in my smile. "Am I not cute?"

Hot Rob said no, that wasn't exactly it. "He doesn't want a girlfriend," he explained.

That's when Amy jumped in on my behalf. "She doesn't want to marry him," she told her boyfriend. "She just wants to kiss him."

Hot Rob just shrugged and I figured that was it. I figured the subject was dead, and that was okay with me.

Weeks and weeks passed after that original conversation. Then, last week, Rob told me he'd been talking to the grey sweatpant-wearing boy on my behalf. He'd told him that I worked at one of the area colleges and the sweatpant-wearing boy really, really liked the idea of meeting someone who taught college-level English. Hot Rob said, "Well, he's looking forward to meeting you. He'll be out this weekend after the disco."

And he was. When we met up with Hot Rob after we'd changed from our disco clothes into normal human being clothes, Rob needled me in the ribs. "He's ouuuut," he sang. "He's been asking about you. He kept saying, 'Where's the professor, Rob? Bring me the professor!'"

So we walked across the street to the bar where Rob's friend was drinking. This bar is the worst type of bar. It's a nothing bar. It's a giant garage with a bar plunked into the middle. There are no seats, no stools, no aesthetics, no dance floor. It's a giant space and people just do their thing, and the top three things to do in this bar are dance, make out, and fight.

There were two poles extending up from the middle of the bar and a group of girls climbed up on top of the counter and started writhing against the bars and against each other. Another group of girls tried to balance in their high-heeled boots on top of giant speakers. They writhed, too. They ran their hands up and down their body. They pointed to boys on the floor. They crooked their fingers and beckoned them.

I felt very old. I felt a little nauseous. I recalled the very short period of time in my life where I thought to get a boy's attention it was necessary to dance on a bar or writhe against a mirrored wall. I thought about one of the Mardi Gras parties Barker Brew had when I was an undergraduate at Fredonia. I thought about the boy I loved from my creative writing class--a scruffy, thick-sweater-wearing boy named Andrew--and how he showed up that night. He sat in a corner booth with his friends. I stood by the bar with mine. I drank Hurricane after Hurricane out of pitchers accessorized with giant straws. Then, several pitchers later, I got up on a corner table--the table behind his booth--and started dancing with my friend Amanda.

I thought surely he would say something to me. He would come over. He would smile. He would buy me a drink. He would be impressed by me. He would love this other side of me--this non-creative writing side, this side that got up on tables and danced to AC/DC's "Shook Me All Night Long."

The next morning I woke up hating myself because of course he didn't come over and of course he wasn't impressed be me or my non-creative writing side or the way I had rubbed up against Amanda while the rest of the bar watched.

So watching these girls do the same thing--albeit with more success than I had, mainly because they were aiming to impress a markedly different type of boy than scruffy Andrew--made me tired, made me feel old, made me feel a little like I wanted to throw up.

It was only going to get worse.

By this point, Rob had found his friend. He brought him over to me. He turned me around and started to introduce us.

"This," he said, "is Je..."

But before Rob could even finish saying my name, his friend, who had started to shake my hand, blinked hard at me then quickly let go of my hand as if it were gangrenous or covered in pus and he wanted nothing to do with it. Then he turned on his heel and left.

I have never been rejected that quickly or efficiently. I have never been destroyed before I even said a single word to a boy. It was stunning and almost comical, except that it wasn't comical at all. I wanted to hit that boy across the back of his head and tell him he was a moron, that he had no idea what he was missing out on, that he could go on and try to hook up with that girl who was thrusting her crotch against the pole if he wanted to.

Amy was appalled. She yelled at Hot Rob. She told him he was in trouble, that his friend was ridiculous, that he was going to pay for that. "Stupid twenty year old boy," she huffed. "Just who does he think he is?"

I told her it was okay, it was fine, it was no big deal, it was nothing to obsess over, but of course it was, and of course I spent the rest of the night wondering which part of me had caused that strong of a reaction.

I was self-conscious. I silently hated men. I tried not to feel sad and alone and slightly desperate. I tried not to think about Amy telling me all she wishes she could do is meet some nice boy can introduce me to so I can stop feeling so sad and alone and slightly desperate.

I don't know what my problem has been lately, but I've been real sick with missing the way it used to feel when I had a boyfriend. It's been years and years since I've had a boy who called me his girlfriend, and I keep wishing something big would happen. I keep wishing for some big romantic gesture, for something amazing to happen, for a boy to admit he likes me without reservation. I just want someone I can go to sleep with, someone I can cook dinner for, someone I can go to a movie with. I just want to feel less alone.

And I realize I'm not going to find satisfaction in a twenty year old sweatpant-wearing rugby player, and I realize I want no part of a man who would be that rude, but it's still the worst type of rejection and it's never good to have a memory like that crouched in the dark corners of your brain, ready to talk louder than any of the million good memories--ones that validate me, ones that remind me that I'm nice and sweet and a good girl to have around. The bad memories are easier to hear. They go on chattering, chattering, chattering. They ask me why I think anyone would ever want to be with me, a girl with bad teeth, a girl who grows hair too fast, a girl who's probably not even that good of a kisser. They say, Don't try. Don't try. Why would you even bother?