Photo via hercampus.com

“How was your weekend?”

At 7:30 PM, the text message from an unsaved number in my cell phone is just icing on an already long Monday. A Monday where I’m still in the office at 7:30 and already in a bad mood.

“Aw, hell no” is my reply. At least verbally. I do not have time for this.

Because even though those four little words are standard fare in the exchange of online niceties, after two months of texting, Area Code 917 has used up all my good will. If I’ve learned anything from online dating—and The Bachelorette—it’s when to cut someone loose. Valid reasons for pulling the plug? Being here for the wrong reasons, a missing connection, and then just good old fashioned lack of face time.

And not only was I not feeling the connection, 917 and I have never even met. Not once. We never took a helicopter ride over the Statue of Liberty. We never made out in a hot tub. We never even grabbed a quick cup of coffee. And I would never stand for this.

Here’s how our three week journey went:

He texted me about a drink.

I was out of town.

I suggested another date.

He canceled the day of.

He texted at 5:45 PM on Saturday to see if I had plans.

I was out of town.

I “broke up” with him.

He refused to accept it.

I ignored him.

He ignored me ignoring him.

Chris Harrison would not be impressed. Chris Harrison would have called security. Chris Harrison would only expect me to be ready for a date with no notice if it involved bungee jumping and he’d bring a rose.

So here I am two months, three almost dates, and a lot of irritation later holding my phone in the elevator at work wondering why 917–a man supposedly 11 years older than me–thinks we’re somehow worth the continual effort. “This ain’t a fairytale,” Taylor sings to me in solidarity. I know T-Swift, oh do I know.

Because here’s the thing…

917 doesn’t really care about my weekend. He doesn’t know my last name much less what I like to do in my spare time. He knows I’m Southern…and that I apparently travel some. I know he’s older and apparently unable to let go.

And herein lies my deep frustration with online dating. You don’t know me. You don’t know that I use Taylor Swift lyrics as if they’re proverbs. Or that I think avocado is the devil. Or that my favorite shark is the Greenland Shark. All you know is that I was interested at one point. That I (likely) have a vagina. And that you have my number. Which by sad, lonely male logic apparently means you still have a chance with my vagina?

I know that’s crude and I apologize. But bless his heart, I told him point blank in text that “our schedules are incompatible” and that it wasn’t working and that I was going to ghost on him. I literally told him I was going to ghost. He just refused to accept that. And so now looking at that glaring text notification on my phone I feel guilty for not talking to someone I DON’T KNOW.  I do deserve “someone who might actually treat me well,” Taylor! You’re so right (again).

Online dating is a topsy turvy world, a perpetual opposites day, where some men don’t understand that “this isn’t going to work” means “this isn’t going to work…”So even if my momma raised me better, I’m going to keep on ignoring 917 and hoping that maybe he’ll get the hint. I’m like the resolute desk. Not moving an inch.

xo Southern Belle