The Attempt

THE ATTEMPT


There was this strange feeling in my chest, this strong vibration of lost time and regret that didn’t seem to stop, no matter what I did. It continued as this beautiful girl approached the end of the bar where I was conveniently sitting. She wasn’t overly beautiful, but just beautiful enough. She was of a small frame and proportioned curves, and you can see the little love handles slightly protruding through her semi-tight, blue top. Her hair was lengthy and plain, but you could tell by the way she styled it that she wished for that “full-bodied” look that so many girls clamor for. Her teeth were slightly crooked, not any eyesore, but somewhat less than perfect. But I liked it all, because she worked it all so well. She wanted to be noticed, and every girl does, whether they say it or not, but she wasn’t overdoing it. She made her self approachable. She had a confidence, not an ego.
So I was watching her as she ordered one of those strange, stale, fruity drinks that many girls feel the need to order, because they feel that it gives them an added touch to their femininity. I know, deep down, that all they really want is a beer, or a strong “seven and seven,” or a double shot of “SoCo,” just a “stiff one,” but they’re afraid that such drinks will repel us, and they won’t be able to have our “stiff ones.” And they’re right too. The girls we say we want are those that are most like us, but we just tell ourselves that. In the end, those girls are the last girls we approach.
As she was ordering her drink she was looking at me, but she was pretending as if she wasn’t. It was all done out of the corner of her eye. It was back and forth, back and forth. I could feel the sweaty palms start and the quick beating of my heart. It had been so long since I had noticed any girl noticing me. The fact that she was beautiful, and looking at me, made me feel awkward and uncomfortable. But I wanted to pursue this, so I smile with an “I know you’re looking at me, and I’m glad, because I’ve been watching you” smile. I sort of half-grinned my smile, trying to look aloof because I have personal issues with the way I look with a forced, full-on smile.
She answered with a kind of smile that she doesn’t smile, she just fights it, conveying, “That’s nice, and I was looking, but you’ll have to give me more than just a half smile/half grin if you hope to make this happen.” The bartender finished preparing the drink and we exchanged looks. Now I didn’t smile, didn’t grin; I just sat there with this stoic expression, letting her know “I’m digging you ‘sort of’”( you can’t let on too much. No girl likes to read an open book), but the value of my night doesn’t rest heavily upon approaching you. If it happens, it happens, but it certainly doesn’t have to happen.” And it was all a lie, but I had to hope she wouldn’t call my bluff. And even though I hate games, I had to hope she’d keep playing.
She responded with her own half-disinterested look. It said to me, “I wouldn’t mind you coming over to me, but if you don’t, I won’t lose sleep over it, trust me.” Maybe a lie, maybe truth, but either way she had me convinced, but I decided to wait it out, continue with the game, wait for a more inviting signal, a more obvious one, even though I was scared shitless she wouldn’t comply, and I was too frozen in fear to approach.
She walked back over to sit with her friends (who undoubtedly talked shit about her when she was at the bar). They banter about what girls banter about: cocks, clothes, and asshole boyfriends. And I returned to my continuing conversations over the loud music about movies, music, sports, and getting laid. These were the kind of topics my friends and I would talk to death. These topics always gave us something to say, otherwise we would have to talk about feelings and wax philosophical. This makes the brain function too hard for too long.
As I sat, I looked in her general direction. She noticed, but she tried not to, so as to gain the upper hand. When our eyes did meet, she quickly looked away, trying to suggest “I wasn’t looking at you, I was just looking around.” I smiled and went back to my conversation, which definitely wasn’t as interesting as the conversation she and I were having with glances.
Her friends seemed like those uppity types. The kinds of girls that wear Steve Madden shoes, and shirts that barely cover anything (their navel included), and keep the tits inside solely by divine intervention. And of course they only buy their underwear at Victoria Secret, not simply because “it’s the best,” but because it would be beneath them to wear anything else. But they were attractive, probably 8’s, but their high- maintenance attitudes make them appear to be 10’s. Any guy who can see through their act knows it makes them a 4, but, more often than not, they remain a 10 because we have bullshit blinders for the really hot girls.
And the beautiful girl looked out of place among them. I imagined that she didn’t really know those girls, except for one, and they were probably old friends. And that girl was genuine at some point, probably before she shed the baby fat, grew breasts, got the braces off, and started hitting the gym. And she probably hides all her old pictures from boyfriends and new friends, so she can embellish her awkward phase to have it not sound all that awkward. But the beautiful girl still hangs out with her, remembering all the good fun they used to have. She just doesn’t have the guts to tell that girl that she’s become a bitch, and that she should never forget the “ugly-fuck-girl-with-the-good-heart” she used to be.
As the night progressed, I continued looking over there. Now she wasn’t looking at all. It was the exhibition of will. She was saying, “ I don’t need what you can give me, and I’m done playing these games. The ball is in your court now. Make a move or turn away.” I could feel my confidence eroding as she was putting the screws to me and ending our little game. I could feel my heart getting heavy as I realized the “do-or-die” situation I was faced with. I held on though, waiting for another look. Even though I kept looking every other minute, I didn’t receive one for quite a while.
I was about to give up all pursuit. I was almost out of hope, and resolve. She had shied away or had gotten bored with my lack of initiative as women are most accustomed to doing. Women seem to hate the men who don’t take charge and hate the guy who’s too eager to approach. Finding that “special someone” or that “special anyone” is a precise art. It requires patience and razor sharp instincts.
My instincts had, however, had been dulled by my past failures. I had begun to embrace the art of subliminal rejection. Everything a girl said or didn’t say, everything she did or didn’t do was all a way, a signal, a means to convince myself that they didn’t want me. That razor’s edge that I had longed to nurture and use in my pursuit of the opposite sex was now nothing more than a blunt object that I used to pound women over the head with, to which they rarely responded. I killed them with kindness. I was too nice, too forward, told them too much too fast, and unintentionally slipped inside the “friend zone” before I even knew what hit me. I was too much myself.
Just as I had given up hope, she gave me that light at the end of the tunnel. She smiled, but it wasn’t that awkward “I don’t know what to do in this situation, because I didn’t mean to look at you, or smile at you,” smile. It was a smile that brought our little game to another level. Her smile said, “You know I’d like you to come over and talk to me.”
I wasn’t the only one who had noticed her crookedly-cute smile. By now my friends had gotten themselves involved. They had begun to give me expected words of encouragement such as “Hit that shit, bro,” and “Rock that ass.” Nailing her wasn’t my prime directive, though it was something I was hoping for. Still, I understood why they were giving me encouragement in that particular way; it bypassed any emotional issues that might be involved. While my friends were all more than capable of expressing true thoughts and feelings, it was easier to say, “Tap that ass” than it was to say “Go talk to her, say enough, but not too much. Be yourself. There are great things you have going for you, share them with her; just not all at once. Give her a reason to come back. Buy her a drink. Buy her two. Get that number. Ask her out for coffee. Be charming. Listen to her, focus on her. Don’t bring up past girlfriends. Make good small talk. Compliment her friends, but not too much. You don’t want her to think you’d just as easily try and pick up her friends. Don’t lie about yourself, but it’s okay to be vague about things that may hurt your chances at first. Respect her wishes to be vague on her own topics. Don’t judge her on anything but who she is. The material is bullshit, don’t waste your time with a girl who’s all material, but remember that it’s all about what’s underneath, once you get past their ego and down to their naked soul. Be confident. Give her a chance. Give yourself a chance. Know what you want, a chance at love, and if there’s a glimmer of hope, fuckin’ run with it, my man. You want love, hell, we all want it, no matter how far we run from it. And you deserve it as much as anyone. You owe it to yourself to try, even if it means a shoot down once or twice along the way. You’ll find it. Good things do happen to good people, and they deserve to happen to you.”
I waited it out, looking for another signal. One should’ve been good enough, but I wanted more. I needed more. I waited for another smile, a wave, a little extra show of some skin she had buried beneath her loose, flowing skirt. Nothing. She focused on her group of friends and completely ignored me. Her friends even looked at me a couple of times when she wasn’t paying attention. They shot me looks that screamed “Come over and talk to her, you gutless bastard. She wants you to come over. What is the fucking problem? Suck it up, be a man, and make a move.” Still I didn’t move. I just waited.
Last call rolled around about 2. By now my friends were all thoroughly good and drunk. Her and her friends looked loaded as well. In the last hour and a half I was there, I hadn’t had more than a beer. I just stood, or sat, nervously trying to push myself over there. My friends had stopped trying to motivate me some time ago. A couple of them had even offered to go up and talk to her for me. I threatened them to stay away, but deep down I wished it could be a good idea. But the last thing in the world a woman wants is a man that can’t approach her himself. I watched her as her friends got ready to leave. I wanted to approach then but only because I knew I had wasted too much time(the legitimate excuse I was looking for). I couldn’t make a move now. What was I supposed to do? Cover an hour and a half of time wasted as I followed her to her car explaining why I was so chicken shit? That’s a tough situation to be charming in.
She got up and headed for the door. I felt defeated, knowing I had only defeated myself. As she was walking out she shot back a disappointed look of “I wish you would’ve come over, it could’ve been nice. The opportunity was yours, and you chose to pass on it. Oh well, maybe next time, if there is one.” Yes, there will be a “next time.” There’ll be countless more times to sit, wait, and smile at a girl, and say nothing.