Let's Call Him Delusional

AUTHOR
You hear plenty of chatter in this town about the, ahem, dating habits of Charleston's gentlemen. Whether the bad rap's well-earned or heartlessly inflated, this guy isn't doing much to raise the bar

 

You get plenty of chatter in this town about the, ahem, dating habits of Charleston's gentlemen (funny article here). Or should I have placed that "ahem" before the word gentlemen? No, I'd never do that, and here's why: I try to steer clear of tossing our male dating pool into one slightly lethargic, text-happy pot. Because some would call that stereotyping. My mother would call it "more excuses you give for not dating anyone." Tomato, tomah-to.
 
Problem is, you guys are making it obscenely difficult for us not to join in the "Are you really this lazy?" chorus. Try this one on for size:
 
Last week, I'd just finished dinner with pals at a restaurant downtown, and on my way out, I spotted a friend of mine. We'll call him Brian. It was a crowded bar and I had to weave through people to say hi. We had a quick conversation, in the midst of which, he introduces me to his friend. 
 
We'll call him Delusional. This was an even quicker, hi, hello, see-you-both-later exchange, and I left.
 
The next day, Brian and I are on the phone. He says this:
 
"Just talked to my friend. You know, the one from last night?"
 
"I had seven glasses of wine. I don't know who you're talking about."
 
"The one I was with. Dark-haired guy. Anyway, he says you're cute. He wanted me to tell you to call him."
 
Before I tell you how excited I was, you should know that this has happened before. This guy Chris passed the same message through his friend Sean once and I remember being SO excited. It's all I could think about on my way home. When I got there, I scarfed down the snack my mother made for me, then ditched my pre-algebra homework to sit by the phone and figure out what I'd say. In the end, I don't think I ever called him. One, because the request was retarded and two, because I was on phone restriction for my last report card. Seventh grade wasn't my best year, academically.
 
Back to Charleston. And my mid-30s.
 
Now, I know what you're thinking: most likely, Delusional said this to Brian jokingly as I walked away the night before. They're both drinking, it's funny, good time. Hilarious.
 
Sorry. He said this completely sober the following morning. Which means a) he was serious and b) I was fascinated. How delightfully... utterly... entertainingly... lazy. I mean, how exactly did Delusional envision that conversation going?
 
"Hi, this is Louise. I'm the girl--um, well you told your friend you wanted me to call you, so... What? Oh, brown hair, medium height. Yeah, Amen Street. Anyway, let me just say, I'm flattered. I can't imagine how long it took you to get the courage to tell your friend... to tell me... to call you...."
 
It's funny how you just never know when somebody's going to knock your socks off. OR, lower the bar so low, you have to wade out into the smelly pluff mud to find it and dig it up again. 
 
I mean, sweet mother of Abraham Lincoln, really? 
 
It got me thinking: Before Delusional, I was starting to think this guy at my gym who's been eyeing me over weight machines for over a year now was maybe a bit of a wuss. Or had a speech impediment. I thought, "Come on, just talk to me. Smile. Trip. Cut in front of me in line for water... anything." But now? I half expect him to leave a note for me at the front desk, saying, "You're cute. Here's my address. Pick me up at 7." And the fact that he hasn't makes him kind of hotter. A perfect gentleman, even.