Rob Thomas and Carlos Santana will never sing about me

1 Nov

I am the least smooth person on the planet. Whatever gene we get, or class we take, or whatever it is, that makes the cool folk know what to say in social situations, or how to woo that special someone, I missed it. But you probably know that; heck, you’re in my blog, and the phrase “my blog” is like the Not Smooth Guy’s calling card.

Anyway, it’s not for lack of trying. I keep throwing stuff against the wall to see what sticks. Very little of it does, but whatever.

For example, yesterday, I was at Don Jacobs Volkswagen. I took my car there at 10 a.m. Tuesday, expecting it to be worked on for a couple hours. So naturally, it was 4 p.m. Wednesday, and they were trying to get me a rental car to use until my car is actually ready … eventually.

I took a seat in the sparsely populated waiting room. The only other denizen of the room was a cute girl, early 20s I was guessing, working on what appeared to be homework. That was about the extent of it for a bit, until the car guy came in to talk to her. The short version? News about her car was bad.

Car guy left, and I had the idea that this was a good “in” for a conversation. Her car is messed up; my car is messed up. It was perfect. “Sucks, right?” I said. (So very smooth.)

It actually went well for a bit. Turns out, she’s from New Bedford, Mass., really close to where I have a lot of family, so that was a conversation topic. She’s in grad school, and driving back to Massachusetts in a couple months. She asked for car advice, which is decidedly not my forte.

I told her what I could, then had another idea. “That’s all I know,” I said. “But my brother knows way more about cars. Hey, why don’t you give me your number, and I’ll ask him and let you know what he says?”

Genius, right? Subtle, not creepy, but I got a girl’s number and an invitation to contact her. I was doing well. Maybe. Maybe you disagree, I don’t know, but it’s better than I normally do, so if you disagree, hush up.

Anyway, she gave me her number, and I texted her so that she’d have mine. And we kept talking. We moved back to Massachusetts topic, and how much tourist traffic there is getting on and off Cape Cod during the summer months.

“Tell me about it,” she said. “It’s hell trying to get to my boyfriend’s house every June.”

Womp womp womp.

Eh. Whatever, right? I’ve struck out before. If I let failure with women stop me, I’d have resigned myself to a life of celibacy in, like, 1992. But I’ve had sex multiple times, I tell ya, so I haven’t given up.

I did think it would be fun to text my brother the story, because frankly, I text my brother about everything. I wrote it all out: “Waiting at VW with a girl who was getting dicey news about her car. We commiserate about our respective problems for a while. She’s from New Bedford, MA, of all places. We talk about Massachusetts for a bit. I end up getting her number, yay me. Talk a bit more about Mass., she talks about going to her boyfriend’s house all the time. *sigh*”

Typed. Sent. I quickly zipped back to my main text messages screen. And froze.

I hadn’t sent that to my brother.

I had sent it to her.

Seriously, y’all. Least smooth person on the planet.


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