As the impending semester loomed over my last few days of winter break, I found myself in a most uncommon predicament: evading the romantic proposition of a man at 10 p.m. in the middle of a parking lot.
After a brief spell of small talk outside the YMCA with this much older man — in his late thirties, I’d guess — I drove to a nearby Food Lion in desperate need of orange soda. Upon exiting the store, I nearly dropped my precious cargo out of shock when I discovered my newly acquainted gentleman-friend waiting outside.
He asked my plans for the night. Having no intention of going out with a middle-aged stranger, I replied I had a previous engagement. He asked my plans for the following night. I intended to block this invitation in a manner similar to the last, but alas, my mouth has a pesky habit of defying my brain’s instructions, and I replied that I would be available.
He asked for my number. Betraying my brain once more for good measure, I blurted out all 10 precious digits of my phone number. My feet, faithful until the end, thankfully took me as quickly as they could back into the confines of my car.
Looking back on the incident now, it sounds remotely like a scene from a romantic comedy. Then again, it also sounds like a scene from a kidnapping thriller — my life in a nutshell, really.
Faced with the prospect of rebuffing this request, I panicked. I didn’t get much practice rebuffing guys in high school, since I was about as attractive and interesting as a potato. Potatoes don’t do a lot of rebuffing.
College, though, has exposed me to the subtle art of rejection. My more experienced female friends have informed me of three general tactics for the savvy woman to employ when turning down gentlemen.
Tactic one: run away. Probably the easiest of the three, I learned, from (Captain!) Jack Sparrow, “[S]he who runs away can run away another day.” If you feel in your gut something is wrong, just head out. Better to ignore a romantic proposition than to be abducted, ladies.
Tactic two: pity-date the poor fellow. I’d proudly like to announce to the entire Wahoo community at large I’ve never pity-dated anyone — though I understand the perks of this approach. His confidence doesn’t get shattered, you act like a self-absorbed bimbo so he realizes how wrong you are for him and you get a free burger — and possibly a milkshake. Still, I’ve never been able to justify this method for my own personal use, though I applaud those tricky little minxes who have.
Tactic three: tell him the truth. If you spend your weekends volunteering at the animal shelter and watching reruns of Oprah, this is likely your tactic of choice. Congratulations on being the epitome of class and benevolence. People like you put Mother Theresa to shame.
Faced with a living, breathing man, though, these brilliant tactics eluded me. I was neither wily enough to run away, deceitful enough to orchestrate a pity-date nor brave enough to turn him down. So I proceeded to ignore his texts for the next two days. Given that he ignored me two days later when I came upon him conquering the YMCA StairMaster, I think he got the message.
Thus, as the conclusion of break rips us from our snug firesides and hurls us back into the January doldrums of freezing walks to class and endless readings written by elitist dead men, let us remember matters far more important than pesky midterms that lie ahead.
Ladies, I urge you to consider your preferred tactic for eluding unwanted affections. Open your mind to men you might not immediately consider, but also be aware of when to walk away. The kind, if somewhat awkward, guy from your Psych class? Give him a chance. Someone you bumped into while crossing JPA? Go for it. A man 10 years older than you that tracked you down in a parking lot? Okay, he might not be your best bet for love.
Put on your big-girl pants and take charge of each and every situation. If something feels off, just say no. It may seem rude, but there is absolutely no need to compromise your own happiness or safety just because a guy gives you five minutes of his time.
And if a stranger ever follows you three miles to a Food Lion parking lot in the middle of the night, do not hang around politely. Hurl your two-liter of orange soda at him and drive off into your spinster sunset.
Laura’s column runs biweekly Fridays. She can be reached at l.holshouser@cavalierdaily.com.
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