One day, I was painting my nails at around 4 P.Ts On Girl
I saw the name and froze mid-nail. I knew before I opened the text that my date was canceling.
It was a little fuckboy poem in three texts: My nail polish cracked from the heat of my rage. Once I felt calm enough to workshop a cheerily aloof response, we set another date a week later.
Now hold onto your Yeezys, because this guy was a serial flake sent from hell to destroy me. The morning of our planned date, I was at work when I saw a text from him pop up on my daate.
It was a selfie of him, laid up in bed, followed by: My process begins about 36 hours before a big date, now a period of passive stressing. I fret about what I will wear on the date, and sometimes I go shopping.
I duck into a discreet storefront and emerge 15 minutes later, basically hairless. I paint my nails and do a mask, neither of which my date will register.
When that is your whole process, canceling a few hours before a date must seem fair or even generous. But if you want to endear yourself to the canceled-on party, send her a text at about the time you were supposed to be on your date.
Following up serves the dual purpose of showing that you care and giving her the opportunity to ignore your text. Every reasonable woman understands that things come up.
But even understanding both those things, a reasonable woman will assume, when you cancel a date in the final hour, that you are canceling it forever. That was the closest I have ever come to a sports reference.
The woman you canceled on will, after a huffy afternoon, never think about you cancell. Google will buy her startup, she, in turn, will buy a yacht, and she will meet a man who looks a lot like you but a little more like Cristiano Ronaldo shirtless. Maybe just how to cancel a date nicely on the date.