How to Spot a Player
“You guys, I think he’s a player,” I worried, gnawing on my lip and praying my friends would find a way to reassure me. “Just tell us exactly what happened,” Oly and Tania patiently replied. When I went up to San Francisco to visit Norma, I knew I’d be seeing Chance. Since our first date, we’d spoken on the phone, shared flirty repartee, and planned to meet up when I would be in town. I have to admit I was a bit overwhelmed at the thought of traveling almost 400 miles just for a second date. “Be prepared for Second Date Syndrome,” Ale warned. Second Date Syndrome is the disappointing phenomenon that occurs when the initial wonder of a fabulous first date has worn off. It often involves both parties sitting in awkward silence after realizing they used up all their witty banter the first time around. The observation that he’s not nearly as cute as you remembered is also a very common symptom of the Syndrome. Accordingly, I wasn’t surprised when Chance wasn’t as “super-hot” as I’d previously described. While I now believe I attached the “super” prefix a tad too liberally, I hadn’t imagined my physical attraction to him. And we certainly had tons to talk about during our marathon twelve-hour date. No, the Syndrome wouldn’t be my problem. I was doomed to have a different kind of dating dilemma with Chance: the Mixed Message Madness variety.
The marathon date began when he picked me up from Norma’s house at 12:26 that Saturday afternoon. He was early and I was still drying off from my shower when he called. I hurriedly threw on my most flattering jeans, a white v-neck long-sleeved shirt and a burgundy Juicy hoodie. We had lunch at Fisherman’s Wharf, where we talked about our favorite books and what we wanted to do with our lives. I told him about my dream of writing young adult novels and he told me about his goal of running a huge retail conglomerate that would somehow save the world. We also bickered about bison. He asked me what Norma and I had done the day before and I mentioned that we had visited Golden Gate Park and seen bison. He gave me a condescending “oh-you-silly-L.A.-girl” look and told me that was impossible because bison are extinct. I begged to differ since I'd just seen a huge herd. Thus, the Great Bison Bet was born. If I won, he promised me whatever I wanted. When he asked what he would get if he won the bet, I tartly replied, "Absolutely nothing because you're not going to win!" As we were walking out of the restaurant, I thought, “I’m definitely having fun but it’s not like he’s the love of my life or anything...”
After lunch, we took a double-decker bus tour of the city that was predictably cheesy but it was fun whispering jokes about the poor hapless tour conductor. Then came a stroll through a charming art gallery as well as a few tourist shops. When we got hungry, we walked to Ghirardelli Square for a chocolate snack. I tried to reach for the bill but he quickly took care of it. I appreciated the gesture although I felt a little guilty since his wallet kept making an appearance every few hours. The conversation at the chocolate shop became intriguing when we discussed our (drum roll, please) Past Relationships. At first, Chance was hesitant, exclaiming, “We shouldn’t be on this topic until like, the twentieth date!” Nevertheless, he was a good sport about answering all my questions. After I cajoled him into spilling some juicy tidbits, I deduced that of the two of us, he was definitely more experienced. We even talked about break-ups–he’d had some nasty ones whereas I was in the habit of not calling when I didn’t want to talk to someone anymore. Chance looked appalled at the notion and proceeded to lecture me about honesty always being the best policy. He also mentioned that he often used the “I’m just not at that place in my life” line. I laughingly retorted, "Spare me, please!" Conversation continued to flow during the drive to Santana Row for Asian fusion cuisine. The hour-long car ride flew by and I thought, “Wow, I feel so comfortable with him...”
When we arrived at our destination, Chance told me he was impressed he hadn’t gotten sick of me yet. I rolled my eyes and thanked him for the back-handed compliment. Dinner was delicious and the restaurant’s ambience was hip but mellow. Afterward, he suggested going back to his place since the movie we were going to watch didn’t start for a while. Chance’s apartment was a typically bare bachelor pad. We started watching TV and cuddling on his ridiculously small couch. There was a Big Love marathon on HBO and he tried to get me into it but I'm more of a Grey's Anatomy girl. At some point we started play-fighting and when the time came to leave for the movie, he asked me if I still wanted to go. I shook my head, saying I was tired and preferred to just keep hanging out in the apartment. By the way, we settled the Great Bison Bet after I made him google it. I won and needled him about his theory that I “probably just saw a statue.” He told me I had five minutes to decide what I wanted as my prize. My pride wouldn’t let me tell him that all I wanted at that moment was our first kiss. More wrestling and cuddling followed and then, when my head was on his chest, he leaned down and kissed me. It was amazing. Fireworks-worthy, even though I was holding back. As he pulled down the zipper of my Juicy hoodie, I thanked God I’d dressed in layers. I also took note of the expert way he reached up and turned off the light while still holding me close. We kept kissing for a while but when his hand brushed aside the hoodie to reach its desired location; I said “We’re going to have to stop.” He didn’t argue and simply replied, “Okay.” It was so difficult to pull away but I knew we’d reached that point of no return when making out becomes more than just making out, and I wasn’t anywhere near ready for that. The light came back on and we cuddled a little more before he mentioned that he’d better get me home. I agreed, commenting that Norma probably thought he’d kidnapped me. This statement couldn't have been further from the truth since Norma and I had planned out every detail of my trip so the entire day would be open for Chance. The car ride back was oddly silent and he seemed tired. I felt guilty that he had to drive me all the way to San Francisco and then drive all the way back home but he told me not to worry about it. After we kissed good night, he said he’d had a really fun time and that he’d give me a call. But he never did. That night was the last time I ever saw or heard from Chance.
Of course, I didn't know that at the time. When I ran up to Norma's apartment at about midnight that night, furious girl talk ensued. The L.A. girls were on the phone and we were all so hopeful and happy. But three days later, that was hardly the case. He hadn't called and I had an awful premonition. What if he's a player? A guy who only wants one thing and prides himself on the ability to make any girl feel special? I couldn't ignore the obvious. Chance had all of the player qualifications: good-looking, well-educated, and financially secure. But more than that, quite a few of his actions had given me pause. I'd already taken note of the first sign at the end of our first date: why did he make me do the work of calling first? Or wait three days to call me back? And then there was everything I'd learned during our second date. He had a ton of ex-girlfriends and admitted there have been plenty of times he lost interest first. It also didn't escape me that going to Santana Row made it convenient for him to get us back to his place after dinner. The making out expertise, though appreciated, wasn't lost on me either. I also had to consider the possibility that him hardly speaking during our ride back had more to do with me not going further while making out than on him being "tired." But the brightest red flag of all was not calling when he said he would. So was that it? Was Chance a player?
Perhaps he is a player. The problem with trying to spot a player is that the signs that point to "player" could just as well be the signs of a nice, normal guy. Chance showed me a wonderful time in San Francisco and I loved going to Santana Row for dinner. I knew it was close to his apartment and I was fine with that. It was my decision to miss the movie and I'm still flattered that he picked it because he remembered that I'd liked the preview during our first date. He didn't give me an ounce of grief about not wanting to go further physically and at no point did I feel disrespected. Besides, if Chance was a player, why didn't he keep playing? "Maybe he knows he can't play you, " Oly opined, "It doesn't take twelve hours to know you're not the kind of girl a guy plays with." I appreciated the compliment but I was so tired of all of that naughty or nice girl nonsense. I hated when guys categorized girls that way and I vowed not to fall into the same trap. I don't want to go around deeming guys "players" and I don't want to constantly wait for signs I'm getting "played." It just seems like an exhausting and paranoid way to live, as well as pointless since the really good players are really good at not being spotted. To a large extent, it's impossible to determine when to give someone the benefit of the doubt and when to withhold it. But Chance didn't play me. He just didn't call me. I don't know why and I probably never will. Maybe he's lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Maybe he has ex-girlfriend issues. Maybe he's "not at that point in his life." "You did give him the okay not to call if that was the case," observed Norma. She's right, I did. I'd asked him to spare me, and maybe that's exactly what he did. "Or maybe he's a terrorist and his cell got activated and that's why he didn't call!" hypothesized Val, the queen of conspiracy theories ever since 24 became her new favorite television show.
I laughed and told her that must be it. But I'm still glad I gave him a chance.
~~~ Shaiza
