Train Wreck Waiting To Happen?

EJ calls them "Pride and Prejudice moments"--those interactions you have with a person to whom you feel an unholy attraction to, while simultaneously distrusting them and doubting the purity of their intentions towards you.

Saturday night comprised a series of such moments, piled one on top of another. It was hard to say if it was the liquor or the rakish charms of a certain man that had me so tipsy.

I've known him for a year. Since the night when I met my friends out after having been dumped by a boy because I wouldn't sleep with him after three dates. It was my experiment in holding out. I looked damn cute that night. Fitted jeans, a top that displayed my cleavage to its best effect. Hair rebelling, but in a good way. I was also extremely grumpy, spending most of the night railing against all men everywhere, pounding beers and chain smoking.

I can't remember at what point he entered the picture. But there were two of him--him and his twin brother. Not from this country. Exotic. Bad. They asked my friend and I if we wanted to go for a ride on their motorcycles. Long ago, I promised my mother that if there was one thing I would never do, it would be to get on the back of a motorcycle. When I was little she filled my head with horror stories of young women whose lives met tragic ends on the back of one. It was probably an attempt to scare me off of all "bad boys" in general, but the motorcycle part was the only aspect of the story that resonated. Since then, my life has been peppered with bad boys, but I have yet to ride on any of their Harleys. It has also been peppered with twins. I seem to be a magnet for irresponsible, good looking men who shared their mothers' wombs.

I also can't recall what else we talked about, other than the fact that we batted around the idea of sleeping together that night. Apparently bad boys dig women with severe attitude problems. But it didn't happen. And later, my friend informed me that this was good, as he has a reputation for being something of a player.

Since then I've seen him out millions of times. We've even sort of become friends. We'll chat for a few minutes, sometimes he renews his offer to lend me his bed as a crash pad. I've always declined. I've learned more about him, but I can't say I trust him. Maybe it's because our first several encounters consisted of him demanding to know why I wouldn't sleep with him. His pet name for me is "grumpy." We bicker a lot. His friends find it hilarious.

His perseverance is impressive. On Saturday, several minutes in one of our typical exchanges ("Hey grumpy, long time no see." "Please stop calling me grumpy. I have a real name, you know") he dropped the bomb.

"When are you going to have dinner with me?"

"I don't know. When are you going to ask?"

"Have dinner with me."

"Okay, what are you doing Tuesday?"

And this is how I came to agree to have dinner with him. I don't know if this was a good idea. He claims to not understand why I don't trust him. He claims that however he earned his reputation, that the stories relating to his past are unfounded. I want to believe him. I want to believe that a man with a reputation for talking his way into the pants of many DC women can grow up. Maybe the rumors aren't even true.

The girlfriend I was out with encouraged me to give him a chance. "He's cute and really into you," she reasoned.

True. He's quite cute. If not cute, then attractive in the way that mysterious men with exotic accents can seem hopelessly dashing to women such as myself who have a love-hate relationship with the concept of trouble. And into me, yes. Very. Having spent several months crushing on somebody completely unattainable, who took my interest for granted, I could stand to be appreciated a little bit.

"I don't know why you don't trust me. I like you. I remember the exact moment we met. You were sitting in that booth over there. You had on a black shirt with white flowers on it. You were grumpy." And chip, chip, chip, it continued. Him recalling our previous encounters, slowly wearing away at my veneer, the armor I wear to protect myself from ambiguous situations with men like him. Maybe he simply has a good memory, but I was impressed that he bothered to remember such details.

I could be grade-A, classic manipulation. Or it could be the start of a new chapter. Or at the very least, a free dinner. As much as I dislike dating, dinner dates in particular, I'm suspending my disbelief and giving him a chance. I'm even planning on dressing like a lady, to act charming, and to give him the benefit of the doubt.


And in other news, I am officially a member of the short-hair club. I had about 5 inches lopped off on Saturday. It's taking some getting used to, but I really like it. It's fresh. It now barely skims the top of my shoulders when straight, and when curly as it is now, it's even shorter. I think there's something somewhat daring about short curly hair. I look like a 30's-era film starlet.

Edited to add: I almost forgot! Today is my blog's birthday! Three years! Represent!