Stood up.

It was the night. I'd cut the tags off of a new tank top and slipped on some freshly-washed dark jeans. After scorching my hair into submission at 350°F and applying a few ounces of mascara, I at least looked ready for 5 PM, the pre-arranged time I thought I’d see a shiny, new black-and-yellow Mustang pull up into my driveway.

We had met through a mutual friend a few weeks ago. He had that typical blond hair, Ken-doll look about him, Whitestrips-fresh smile and plastic muscles included. He got my sense of humor, and he acknowledged my desire for simple physical contact. He was just sweet like that.

My shoes click-clacked as I paced, trying to keep pace with my giddy anticipation. Click-click. Straighten that strand of hair again. Click-click. More eyeliner. Click-click. Another Tic-tac.

Soon, my clock glared 5:01 at me. Casually late, I reassured myself.

And then it was 5:05. 5:10. 5:20. 5:45. 6:30.

Maybe blue-eyed blonds were overrated?

I checked my cell phone frantically, desperately searching for a new text lost in my inbox or maybe a missed call I hadn't seen during my hour-and-a-half-long vigil staring at my phone.

I typed "Kyle Heady." "Call."

Ring... ring... ring... ring... "You have reached the voice mailbox of--"

Click.

I looked to my mirror, staring at my straight hair that shone under the dull light of my bedroom.

I turned on my laptop, typed "Facebook" in my internet browser, and clicked on Kyle's profile.

"Poker at my house tonight! 10 dollar throw down, hit me up!!"

Yeah. I'd been ditched.

Story of my life? Perhaps. But this wasn’t something I couldn’t handle. So I turned on Jay-Z’s “On to the Next One,” pulled out my Snuggie and sweatpants, and called it a night, just for me. And maybe Ben & Jerry.