A DuD: When ‘The Notebook’ Won … On Facebook
The history of courtship is an unending tug-of-war between romantic expectation and thwarted romantic expectation, more commonly known as REALITY. Never has this dialectic of modern dating been more obvious than when Diane dumped me. Our relationship had been doomed from the start, doomed from the moment I yanked her by the arm as she passed me in a dimly lit Lower East Side dive bar.
Her eyes had bubbled, her mouth let out a faint gasp – just enough for me to catch a sweet whiff of spearmint, a scent that seemed to emanate from her being.
“You’re aggressive,” she managed to squeak in fear and awe.
“Totally,” I flashed a crocodile smile, “Awesome, right?”
Cautiously eyeing me, she nibbled a manicured sky-blue fingernail and muttered, “I don’t know.”
Laughing, I croaked, “Aw baby, I can’t help it. I’m just a romantic commando fighting on a battlefield of love.”
She cooed, “A romantic what?” Like hot magic, her hand gripped my forearm. I felt the tickle of those manicured sky-blue fingernails.
I bellowed a pimp laugh, knowing I had her. For my own enjoyment, I explained my passions included penning volumes of romantic sonnets, chiseling ice sculptures in the image and likeness of my love interests, and, most of all, moonlighting as a desperado singer in my 4-piece Mexican mariachi band whose sole musical mission was to serenade young damsels at their windowsill then vanish as we prance off into the night. Hardly able to stifle my sarcastic cackles, I assumed she knew I was joking. I now know never to assume anything about a girl whose “all-time favorite movie of, like, all time” is The Notebook. I learned that little Diane factoid later that night – about 15 seconds later.
Aside our cinematic tastes, we got to know each other on a variety of other deep rapport topics such as Britney Spears singles that are “hot” and her preference for small dogs (especially when they’re wearing little sweaters like.. Oh. My. God. That’s like that sweetest little thing!!). Eventually her friends spotted us and pried her away from me. I mockingly reached my hand out like a dramatic love scene. Bizarrely, she did the same. Then, with the zeal of an enraged wrestler, she untangled herself from her friends’ grasp and ran back to me.
“Rob!” she cried, grabbing the lapels of my jacket, “I forgot to give you my number! Give me your phone, quick!”
As Diane speed-programmed her digits into my phone, I tapped Zak on the shoulder. We’d been practicing this new move called the “Hollywood Kiss” and I wanted to demo it for him. This lunatic seemed like the perfect “target.”
“Watch this,” I warned Zak, turning back to Diane, who had just finished saving her number.
“Now you have to call me!” Diana giggled. “I can’t believe I almost forget!”
“I know,” I boomed, “And I can’t believe I almost forgot this!”
Swooping Diane into my arms, I did a full 180 so her miserable friends could get a good look at her shocked and excited face. In a fluid, singular motion and I dipped her like some sort of uncoordinated dance move, and, before she could begin to process what was happening, I slobbered a kiss on her unsuspecting lips.
About Rob J. Rob J. is a writer and dating instructor in New York City. Themes that resonate in both his teaching and writing are masculinity, genuineness, rational self-interest, and general awesomeness.