:: Life on Planet Dan-E ::

Thoughts, observations, and introspections from an art student waiter/bartender in South Beach. Arcane humor ensues.
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:: Wednesday, February 11, 2009 ::

:: So Now What? ::
I did my usual Wednesday night tennis thing. I wanted to get my mind off of my current unemployment status and beating the crap out of a little yellow ball seemed like a good idea. I get there and start warming up. Once we get split up I noticed a girl in a blue tennis outfit that's also playing on our court. She's kinda cute but I only noticed since the advanced clinic is usually a pickle farm.

As it turns out, she's pretty good and possesses a killer backhand (and that's not a metaphor for "she has nice legs," though there is that). While picking up balls we make eye contact. Normally, I'd probably just smile a little and keep picking up balls but instead I smile and ask, "How's it going?" She smiles back and says "hi."

I try to make some casual conversation with her between drills by starting off with "you have a nice backhand. Where'd you learn to play?" (Seriously, I have no game.) Fortunately she gives me more than just short, curt answers. If anything, she's laid-back and chatty, and has an easy smile. I find out she's from Chicago, lived in Miami for many years, is a school teacher, and likes Da Bears.

Once the clinic is over, I approach her to get her number. Only thing is, I left my cell phone at home - I never bring it with me when I play - and I didn't have a pen. So I ask her for her phone and she hands it over; I punch in my number and press dial.

"That's my number, and now I should have yours."

"Cool, I'm gonna save it." She flashes that smile again.

"Alright, I'll call you about Saturday."


"See ya."

(And this is despite the fact that I'm dripping with sweat, probably smell funny, and sporting a patchy two-week old facial shrub. Either my personality won out or she *really* doesn't care about looks. I'm guessing the latter.)

After she walks away, I pack up my rackets with a stupid grin on my face. I get home and grab my phone and... nothing. Absolutely nothing. WTF. It should have said "1 missed call" but there was NOTHING. How did it not go through? I pressed the green button! Did she have bad reception? Did she save the number too quickly?! I guess it's irrelevant because there was NOTHING.

So now what do I do? If I see her again at the clinic, she's going to think I'm just another asshole that doesn't call. (I mean, I can be an asshole but I usually call.) Just my luck. This is why I sometimes hate technology. Anyway, I'm gonna go self-immolate.

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:: Miscellaneous Ramblings by Dan-E at 10:05 PM [+] :: | 0 comments

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