So you've been stood up

It's hard not to start this post like one of those pamphlets you pick up in the high school guidance counselor's office. "I've got hair in strange places and my voice cracks as much as my skin - am I a man now?" "My mom wears sunglasses and has lots of coverup - is my dad a bad person?"

There's nothing pretty about being stood up. It's a pretty fantastically awful feeling, getting dressed, rummaging through your bag to find that emergency Xanax, and dragging yourself uptown in heels only to have to switch to vodka tonics after half an hour of picking at lint. The nervousness lasts until 8:06, then turns to that neck-craning anxiety thing until you officially get pissed at 8:16 and start to picture all the wonderful tricks Satan must have up his flaming sleeve for Mr. Very Very Wrong.

If you must, call at twenty minutes after the date was set to begin. Perhaps she really is stuck in traffic or only had forty minutes to save her job and all the mammalian life in the western hemisphere. Perhaps. Don't fly off the handle until you've made the call, if that's what you feel you need to do. It must be said, though, that you should probably save this call for being stood up on something that isn't a first date.

For first dates that people actually want to go on, they will turn away patients, hand in projects early, and clear the traffic on the East Side Highway with their wicked sweet telekinetic powers to get to the rendezvous on time, whereas by the third date there might already be a more lax outlook on punctuality. So make the call if you must, in the event that Sheila, Hot in Argyle is running just a tad behind.

But if it's the first date? Don't bother. The great thing is that, even if you can't stop yourself from calling, if you've been stood up, he's also not going to take the call at 8:20. He's not even going to give you the chance as you make a royal ass of yourself as you instruct him on the exact way you feel he should go about copulating with himself.

As established in the last post, even if her hand was severed in a freak Sea World accident, the onus is still on her to make first contact. She didn't show up - and you've got to accept that. You cannot call after that. You cannot text. You cannot wait outside her door with silly string a bullhorn. You've already watched your good hair and six Jolly Ranchers and what was left of that shiny "she really, really asked me out!" feeling go swirling down the drain, so why, why hand over your dignity on a "your mother was so fat her village ran out of butter on Maslenitsa" text message? (Sorry. Russian joke.)

So you've saved up all your anger and resisted the urge to dial his number. What do you do now? You can't go home. You're going to break your spoon (and possibly your wrist) trying to break into a freezer-burned pint of Cherry Garcia and bust your remote when you play "The Post-It Always Sticks Twice" - for the third time.

No, no, here's where you dig into the Lennon/McCartney songbook for a little advice - get by with a little help from your friends. I have a friend - in fact, a future contributor to this humble blog - with whom I share an agreement: we call each other when dates flake. Instead of venting useless anger at someone who doesn't care that we have it: we holler at the sky with each other about how much people suck, have a coffee, have a smoke, and avoid the pint of misery that's calling our names.

Because the truth is that there are plenty of other great so-and-so's out there who won't make us get all spiffed-up and drugged-out just to develop the nagging feeling that our laughs could beach a baby whale. You'll be okay - if you hold your head really, really high.