You have those “too expensive to be comfortable” knickers on which ride up your backside to the point where you’re not sure whether the chafing feeling is painful or pleasurable… But they give great butt cleavage and disguise most of the cellulite not to wear them. That age old “no pain no gain” motto springs to life.
You’ve spilled your bosom into that bra which gives your more bangerz for your buck which is commonly known as a wonderbra because once that baby comes off your
prey date is gonna wonder where those boobs went (somewhere near your knee or armpit is probably the likely answer).
You’ve consumed enough wine that you won’t worry how your over indulgent pizza/muffin top is going to look when you’re lay back on the bed in your expensive knickers whilst trying to wiggle our of your tights in a somewhat graceful manner (hint: there isn’t one) but you’re still the right side of sober to be able to sit up straight and form cohesive sentences to ensure you at least come across as witty and charming (and not agree to some freaky or kinky kind of shiz once you’re finally in the bedroom).
And then you get the phone call or text message akin to Berger in Sex & the City’s epic “I’m sorry, I can’t, don’t hate me” post it to say he’s going to have to cancel (with no apology) because his neighbors dog has been abducted by aliens and forced to marry the queen of Uranus/he was walking down the stairs and his leg completely fell off, so he’s currently transporting the lost limb to A&E wrapped in a bag of ASDA’s frozen carrot, cauliflower and broccoli mix/he’s just sat down with a mug of Ovaltine and is choosing a repeat of Harry Hills TV Burp over pussy. (Oops! I said pussy)
You’re sneeped (sneeped is a Staffordshire colloquialism to describe the feeling of being hurt and angry/offended at the same time) and you have to choose from three ways to deal with the information:
1) you grin and bear it and pretend you’re not in the slightest bit bothered that they’ve ditched you last minute when you could have made plans to go elsewhere. “Honest, it’s fine :) don’t worry about it, we’ll do it another time babe xxxxxxxx” you text through gritted teeth whilst secretly hoping that his penis falls off in the shower. This path only leads to him thinking it’s ok to jerk around your timetable at his will and this last minute disappointment will be something you’ll begin to pre empt when scheduling the next meeting.
2) you let him know that if his neighbours King of Uranus dog, his frozen mixed vegetable limb or his cup of malty bedtime drink is more important than letting you down then maybe it’s about time you rethink the sort of people you share your evenings and charming conversation with because despite what he may think, there are other guys who wouldn’t mind taking his place, BUT you stupidly pinned some hopes on him because you figured he may be, yknow, worth it.
3) you respond with the phrase which strikes fear into men everywhere because of it’s double edged sword. “It’s fine.” No smiley face. No kiss. Because evidently, really, it isn’t fine. Then again it also isn’t worth subjecting yourself to the conversation that point number 2 brings. Regardless, if those immortal words are spoken/sent in some electronic manner it usually means the girl who usually laughs everything off? Well you’ve hurt her feelings. And if the guy in question is acting more “I aren’t really bothered if it’s fine or not” than “shit, I need to make this up to her” then it’s probably a good indication that he should be stood up indefinitely.
Whichever response to the stand up/let down you choose it’s more than likely that your evening moving forward will involve switching up your expensive ‘butt cheek riding pants’ and ‘boobs up to your chin’ bra for a pair of Bridget Jones pants so big that they cradle both your undercarriage and your boobs in one go. You finish off the bottle of wine (and perhaps start on the next one) with a bowl of Special Chow Mein on your knee and a smattering of prawn cracker crumbs everywhere else. You arm yourself with an array of chick flicks where the leading guy may act like a tit but he comes through for the girl in the end (and they live happily ever after) whilst dashing to the bathroom at regular intervals to apply soothing lotion to your freshly plucked Turkey looking nether regions.
Tell me your “I was once stood up by a guy who….” stories so I can feel less annoyed by mine.