I deleted my OkCupid profile at the beginning of the year. I figured that I needed a fresh start. I had it for a good 24 months, met two douchebags and a handful of creeps that sent me some generally uncomfortable messages. The page had bad vibes, man. So I started fresh and made a brand new one. New photos, new bio, new answers, new matches. It was refreshing to see a wave of unfamiliar faces. I swiped and searched happily, letting the memories of my past matches remain in my History. Literally. But knowing me and my life, I knew that it was probably too good to be true.
A mere three days after I made my new page, I started to see some of the same guys BNP – before new profile. Like Edwin, the guy who harassed me after I – very politely! – asked him to stop texting me. And Rick, a dude who thought that texting me “hey big girl ;)” at 11 p.m. was acceptable a few months ago. And, of course, Mitt.
Mitt and I engaged in a text-based flirtation over the summer. We talked almost every day and got to know each other pretty well. I started to fall for him around the time that he friendzoned me. We went on one date and after that, I never heard from him again. Per usual. I did what I do with all of my extinct crushes and pretended like he was dead. But no. Mitt was alive, somewhere in Brooklyn. Still tall, dark and handsome. Still single.
“That’s crazy,” he wrote after we got matched again. “Why didn’t you answer my text?”
I never received a text from him. I mean, okay, I might have. I blocked him for about two or three weeks out of frustration. But I highly doubt that he really hit me up. Mitt was talented at making me think that I was the crazy one. He’d spin a situation and somehow, I’d end up apologizing. I wasn’t going to fall for his Grenadian graphic designer voodoo this time, though.
We casually caught up and I asked him the question that you’re not supposed to ask without risk of looking clingy. What went wrong between us?
“What? Nothing went wrong,” he replied. “You started acting up and assuming stuff.”
See what I mean? I wasn’t about to argue with him or try to understand his rationale, so I just let it go. I still couldn’t help but wonder how us falling off could possibly be my fault. I never ignored his texts or calls. Didn’t play games with my response time and was generally transparent about my feelings towards him. Sleep doe.
Mitt messaged me later that week with his phone number and a warning. Won’t send it again if you delete it, he wrote. I texted him and waited for his response as I watched “Scandal.” Nothing. Then Jimmy Kimmel came on. Still nothing. The evening news. More nothing. I waited and waited and ended up falling asleep by my phone, frustrated that I let myself do this again.
If he gave me his number, why would he not text me back? Didn’t he want to hear from me if he’s the one who initiated the communication?
By Saturday, I was officially pissed off. Who did Mr. Mitt think he was? I had nothing to lose at that point, so I texted him an ellipsis and a floating question mark, which I thought was more polite than “what the actual f…?” What can I say? I keep it classy.
“Why are you sending me that?” he replied right away.
“I texted you on Thursday.” I responded. Period and all.
His response was less than friendly. “Well I’m texting you now.”
This time, if he swung the situation and tried to blame me, he’d be right. I shouldn’t have texted him. I shouldn’t have even responded to his message, really. What I should’ve done is left his trifling ass in 2013 where he belonged. Mitt was not into me. Sure, he might’ve been at some point. And maybe the date didn’t go as bad as I thought and maybe he did actually enjoy himself. But when a guy’s into you, you know. Texting back without being a smart ass is an indicator of that. I should’ve just blocked Mitt and kept it moving, but I was too mad to take the high road.
“Smh. This is why you got deleted in the first place,” I said. “Goodbye, Mitt.”
“Ok,” he replied. Just like that. Just. Like. That.
Yes, they might always come back. And yes, that feeling of validation and a little bit of vindication is there. And yes, it feels good. But it’s not always worth letting them back in. The past is the past for a reason, and Mitt proved that point thoroughly. Sigh. Back to the drawing board.
When she’s not watching for Blue Ivy sightings or doing some serious Facebook creeping, Khalea, a recent Howard University graduate, moonlights as a magazine intern and a freelancer in New York City. Follow her on Twitter at @letsbeKHAlear, or feel free to Twatch. Whatever works for you. khaleaunderwood.wordpress.com