Ghostable
Dispatches from the dating world
Am I the most ghostable woman on planet earth? Have all single men joined a secret society called “Ghost Tess”? Where they make a pact that if they come across me in the dating pool, they must ghost me?
I only ask because I have been ghosted by so many men. It’s impressive actually. I’ve been ghosted by tall men, short men, balding men, men with great heads of hair. I’ve been ghosted by men younger than me and older. By men I’ve slept with and those I’ve kissed. I’ve been ghosted by men who tell me they want to “spoil me.” By men who I’ve had long, intimate conversations with. By men who have met my cats.
I must have a very ghostable face. Men must think I’m fun enough, cute enough, good enough to hang out with for a night, or two, for a few weeks. But not likable enough for them to send me a message saying they aren’t interested in me.
Maybe I’ve been ghosted so many times because the first time I received an anti-ghost text, I recoiled. Years ago, I was loosely set up on date with an older guy I met at a New Year’s Day party. We did not click. I arrived to the date 7 minutes late and upon arriving, he immediately asked if I was working late.
“Are you late because you were still working?” he asked.
“No, I was just getting ready,” I responded, looking at my phone for the time. “I’m only 7 minutes late.” It made me feel like he was judging me for my teensy lateness, a norm in New York.
After the awkward beginning, I learned that he really loved his job — which was text marketing. Yes, those annoying texts you get from a clothing brand that you have to respond “STOP” just to maintain your sanity. He loved that job. He spoke about open rates and “engagement metrics” while I stared into the middle distance of a dimly lit bistro.
We had a few drinks, a bad bowl of pasta, and parted ways, me lying that I was going out to meet a few friends in the city. I didn’t want to see him again, but when I got a text from him the next day telling me he wasn’t interested in seeing me again, I CRIED. I didn’t even like the guy and the anti-ghost text made me cry.
Rejection is itchy and uncomfortable, even when you don’t want something. I read the text while sitting on a park bench and cried. Crying in public in New York is a rite of passage. But I probably didn’t need to cry about being rejected by a man I didn’t want to date.
Maybe that moment, my affliction to the anti-ghost text, made the universe send me men who love to ghost. Who get off on silence, on not sharing their feelings, on kissing and not telling. Maybe, because I flinched and cried because a man actually shared his real emotions, I am not sentenced to only being ghosted for the rest of my life.
I was ghosted last week after a fun first date with a modern Renaissance man. Usually, I wouldn’t be offended by a ghosting after a first date, but this specific date was long winding, included a sleepover, and ended with him saying: “That was fun, let’s do it again.” While he opened the door for another date, he never actually walked through it.
I’m not surprised I was ghosted, men absolutely love to do it. But I am screaming at the universe wondering why this keeps happening to me? Am I just that ghostable?
To the handful of men that have told me upfront that they are not interested, yes even the man who loved his very boring job, I have to thank you. While I flinched the moment I received those rejection texts, I prefer knowing where I stand rather than going through all the things I said on a date to a man who would ghost me in a few short hours.
If you are someone fresh off a few dates and are no longer interested in the romantic prospect, just send them this. “Hey, thanks again for drinks! I really enjoyed chatting with you, but I didn’t quite feel a romantic connection. Wishing you the best of luck out there!”
But, maybe being ghostable isn’t the curse I think it is. As I sit in my cozy Brooklyn apartment waiting for the text that will never come, I look at my two cats. They don’t care about open rates, that I was seven minutes late, if I misspoke, or that I’m currently the lame cliché of a girl wondering just what went wrong.
They’ve seen the parade of men come and go, and frankly, have never been impressed. They know that while the Renaissance man may have opted out, I’m still here, showing up, and still brave enough to cry on a park bench when my ego hurts.
In a city of eight million people constantly coming and going, disappearing into the digital ether, maybe the most rebellious thing I can do is stay visible.
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