A few months ago, I met a guy on Black People Meet – which, in my case is kind of a misnomer, but I couldn't find a dating site which catered to my specific circumstances. (No EthnicallyAmbiguousFemalesSeekingMenWhoSelf-IdentifyAsAfroAmerican.com). Anyway, this dude’s screen name was Bigwheels and he lived in Miami. Trying to be geographically open minded, I gave him my number when he asked for it. The next day, I got a text of a couple of minions (Think adorable yellow cartoon characters, not villainous sidekicks) and a wish for me to have a happy Saturday.
I didn't recognize the number. Happy Saturday to you too, I wrote back. (Insert smiley face emoji here). Who is this?
It's Bigwheels, he declared. Then, he followed that up with a bare-chested, I'm-too-sexy-for-my-shirt photo of him in nothing but a pair of white shorts.
I responded: Hi, Will. Sorry, but I'm no longer interested. Ultimately, the guy I end up with will not be the kind of guy who sends me pictures of himself in his underwear when we don't even know each other yet, but best of luck to you.
Although Will clarified that the shorts were basketball trunks and not boxers (as I'd originally thought), I opted to let him wheel his way right outa my life. I didn’t program him into my phone and figured that’d be the end of that. Wrong. A week later, I was engaged in a no holds barred, bare-knuckle boxing match with AT&T about a serious billing discrepancy. You know, the kind of take-no-prisoners battle-of-wills where you demand to speak with a supervisor and, when you’re told that no supervisors are available, you insist on an immediate callback.
The phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number.
“Hey. How you doin’?”
“Well, not great. I’m really annoyed about my bill.”
“Really? What’s wrong with it?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know. I’m sure the representative explained the situation. My phone bill went up twenty dollars without warning, and my service sucks. I’ve got a good mind to switch to Verizon.”
“So, pretty lady, your day not goin’ so good?”
“With a smile like yours, what you got to complain about?”
“Who is this?” I was starting to realize that I might not be talking to a supervisor.
“It’s Bigwheels!” His voice was full of all the cheer of someone who didn’t understand that, when a girl tells you she’s no longer interested, that’s a hint that she doesn’t want you to call. Ever. “How you doing, Sexy?”
“Look,” I said, in full-on bitch mode now. (Not like I wasn’t already. The whole AT&T situation had me riled up). “I’m not interested. Best of luck, Will, but please don’t call me again.”
And he hasn’t. I did, in case you’re wondering, eventually hear from the promised supervisor. So, while I might not’ve met Mr. Right yet, my phone plan is pure perfection.