I worked at Subway in college. Glamorous, I know. But I look awesome in a visor. Trust me. And yellow mustard permanently under my nails? Absolutely fetching . . . just ask the guys who asked me out while I wore my ensemble. Or rather, as the guy who asked me out. Can't help you on his name though. I don't remember it. I think they call that repression.
I said no the first time or twelve he asked. That he was willing to be rejected eleven times and still continue to ask should have reinforced that powerful "no" response in me. But it didn't. I finally sighed. "Fine. I'll go out with you."
We went for pizza. He sat across from me. That's all I remember from the dinner. (Though, in case you're interested, that restaurant is also where my often-boyfriend's roommate's girlfriend worked, the same girlfriend who would become my ex-often-boyfriend's wife a couple of years later.)
Then we went for a movie. I don't remember which movie. Why? Because I was too freaked out the entire time to notice anything except the exit signs and the overly intense attention of my "date"--in quotes because . . . well, because without the quotes, date seems too intimate a term for the guy who sat next to me for two hours staring at my profile. When I dared to turn to face him and ask what he was doing, he answered, "Just looking at you." Obviously. I got that much. "Why?" I asked. He'd just shrug.
Then he wanted to know about the ring I was wearing. It was a small emerald my parents had given me when I was sixteen. I told him as much. He called me a liar. A liar. So I shrugged.
"Your boyfriend gave it to you," he said (movie still rolling on the screen; different movie entirely now rolling in my head).
"I don't have a boyfriend," I said.
"You're lying. That ring is from you boyfriend."
Were his eyes bloodshot and wide like he'd been up all night casing my block? No. He thought he was joking. At least I think he thought he was joking. But seriously--two hours of watching me instead of the movie? Beyond creepy.
He took me home and as I stepped inside my apartment, he moved in for a kiss. I closed the door.
And locked it.
And bolted it.
He called me at work (I wouldn't answer his calls at home) to ask me out again. And again. And again. I said no over and over and over. He finally said, "Okay. I get the hint." "Good," I answered.
And I never heard from him again.
Moral of the story: If you have to say no to a boy more than ten times, there's a reason you're saying no. And if you look fetching in a visor, don't work where you have to wear one. They're just too hard to resist for some guys.