At first I thought it was a fluke. Because really, it could happen to anyone once. The second time I knew it was only because I hadn’t gotten her number right. But as the third, fourth, and fifth dates became nights of me waiting to get her address, sitting by myself in a restaurant, and knocking at an unanswered door, I started to think it was something else. Even though I had inklings that it was something I was doing, I had no clue what that was.
Slowly and surely though. I became the king of being stood up.
It wasn't easy. You have to be careful how you work it to be as isolated and lonely as I was. I found it helped to find girls who couldn't say "no" to a date, but then not say enough to be dated. A delicate balance to be sure. Another great addition is to have friends along the way to help comfort, console, and use you as the butt of their jokes. You'd be ssurprised at how easy those
friends were to find.
By the point that I hit my sixth date in a row when I was stood up, I started to think that there was something in the water. Maybe my ex-girlfriend had started spreading rumors that made others run from me like chickens from KFC. So I asked her, we were still friends; we would even grab lunch from time to time. After listening to my situation, she laughed. I can’t say that did much to boost my ego. She affirmed me that I hadn’t grown a pair of horns and that she hadn’t likened me to dating a b-movie monster. She said, and I quote, “Ryan, you’re one of the best guys I know. In fact all other guys I date will be measured by our relationship.”
Well, that sounded good to me. But there was still the business of being stood up that was driving me crazy. The waiting, in my book, is the worst part of anything. If you were to take me to a doctor’s office, I’ll have fun. I’ll like the doctor; I’ll chat up the receptionist, nurse, x-ray technician, and even the janitor. But, you leave me in a room by myself; I lose it. My imagination is just too active, and the conclusions I draw are rather enormous in their creativity. For instance, my eighth night of being stood up, I was supposed to take a fair maiden to a play at a local high school. I can hear you, but it wasn’t as bad as it sounds! I had done my homework and found out that she was in lots of plays and productions in high school and her drama teacher had recently transferred to the school that was performing the play that night. "I can't lose", I thought. And after waiting around for an hour after the play started, I knew I had thought wrong.
Now let me show you what my imagination did to me. As I sat waiting for my call to be returned, I wondered if she had always hated her teacher. If she had been glossed over for the part she had wanted. She was, undoubtedly, the ideal choice for the role of insert your choice of character, and the teacher instead went with the girl who was skinnier, curvier, prettier, better dressed, and had straighter teeth. By the time I gave up waiting for her to get back to me, I was convinced that she had actually gone to the play alone and was now backstage flirting with the teacher.
The whole idea of being stood up irritated me. Deciding to neither keep your word to give someone a test run nor telling them to kiss off, it’s beyond me. Even the word “stood up” made my blood boil. It’s bad enough to have to fight the lump in my throat to ask the gentlewoman for a night of her attention, I then had to figure out what would make my thin body look LEAST like a coat rack, and then… Nothing! I had hoped for the joy of someone’s company, but then was suddenly ousted and exposed, (singing) "all by myself". Being stood up, flaked, abandoned, left high and dry, caught but not released, and, my personal favorite, left for dead was about the cruelest thing that could happen in my inexperienced dating life.
Just when I thought my situation couldn’t possibly get worse, here come my siblings. My brothers teased me and my lack of a lady. As they sat back with their wife and long-standing girl friend, they offered advice with heavy servings of sarcasm and name calling. They suggested going around with a t-shirt saying “Date me and win a new car!” I was given the fun pet name; Quasimodo. At one point they asked me if I was showering before asking the girl out. I’m still not sure if they were joking.
At “stood up date” number ten, I was supposed to be escorting a fine young lady (just because I was in a bad place didn’t make the gals any less classy… in my mind) to a Dixie land band concert for charity. I figured it would showcase my humor, good music, and maybe make her think I was concerned about the rainforest, hunger, hard-to-pronounce diseases, or whales. After calling to cancel the dinner reservations, I realized that the streak wasn’t going to stop in single digits. I had suffered enough though; it was time for a change! I was no longer the guy to be stood up! I was no longer the one who would wait by the phone! No, I was a new man! Ladies beware… Here I come!
Unfortunately, my resolve didn’t stick well. At the point that I was stood up for my twelfth date, I really did give up. I realized that regardless of how fun the evening, how I asked, or what the perks of dating me might have been, I really shouldn’t try anymore.
That sad decision left me two options: one was to give up totally on dating, become a monk, live a life of celibacy and declare that God has made me unacceptable to women. Or option two… I could start dating my friends. I went for door number two. It really wasn’t as bad as it sounds. Don’t think so much of a romantic dinner for two; it was really more like children’s play dates. A “non-date date” was how I thought of it. We’d hear of something we wanted to do, agree to go together, split the cost some way, and have a great pressure-free time. No more Mr. Stood Up. There was even built in insurance against me reclaiming the title, they couldn’t afford to blow off the non-date because they had to see me later. So that fear went out the door. With us already friends, I didn’t have to impress this person. From there it was smooth sailing.
After several non-dates, I discovered an odd perk: we could invite multiple people could join us.
I had officially launched “double dating for the non-dating”.
It was awesome!
If conversation got dull with one friend, I could turn to another.
If someone was talking over my head, I could look at someone else to see if they also had a blank stare.
The best part of the non-date was that it allowed any and all of us to have extended conversation instead of shorter chats that couldn’t even skim the surface of the matters that mattered to us.
As my non-dates increased in frequency, I was able to become more at home with myself in the company of just one other person. I was able to enjoy the attention of just one lady and focus on how to be a dialogue partner. By having their full awareness, I was able to ask their opinion on men. Some might call this a hidden agenda, but I saw it more as a chance to improve the men’s chances of being what women wanted. Or, while in my more daring moods, I was doing behind the enemy lines research!
So there it is, for twelve consecutive dates I was stood up. These twelve back-to-back dates spanned a year and a half, two states, and three hair styles. It was horrible, it was humbling, and it definitely made family-get-togethers a little rough. But in the end, it taught me how to be comfortable enough around people to be with a person. And the confidence that came from learning about me is what allowed me to meet and marry my wife. Who, by no small accident, was a friend of my non-date friend.
As I "planned" out my trip, I was excited. Hitting the super slab (interstate) with just me and my motorcycle was a promise of joy unspeakable and full of glory. Although I was just hoping over to the mega-hospital 70 miles down the road, I was fantasizing of wide open place to let my Vulcan Mean Streak 1500 fly.
I'm sure I'm not the only one who has lost out on promised joy due to bad planning. But hopefully by sharing, I can stop someone a little heartache down their road. 
