From Bad Dates to Best Sellers

One dark and mysterious night, I sat across the table from a Harry Styles look-a-like, smiling at how his hair gel glistened under our table lamp. As he picked at the bowl of warm pita bread, my eyes were busy outlining his pectoral muscles underneath his button down. 

Those muscles were new to me, but still familiar in a weird way. I had met my boy band fantasy at a bar the previous weekend, and we got to know each other over $2 Bud Lights. The playful conversation wasn’t exactly earth shattering, but it was OK because the base had dropped. I had taken hold of Mr. I-Knew-You-Were-Trouble-When-You-Walked-In, and we silently danced the night away.

As I studied his chiseled physique during our date, I couldn’t help but remember our magical, he-just-gets-me, we’re-obviously-meant-to-be meeting. Waking me out of my reminiscent trance, he leaned in and whispered, “So what do you like to do in your spare time?”

I waved my hand, almost dismissively. “I like to blog. You know, about life and love and stuff.” Laughing uncomfortably, our Harry Styles friend said, “So you’ll probably write about this date then?”

I smiled — went to decline — and then stopped myself.

I thought about it for a moment, wondering how I could even capture into words his rugged, fresh-faced beauty and intriguingly careless Frat-bro attitude.

And then I thought about it for another moment, seriously considering the notion.

He laughed uncomfortably again, almost as if he knew he would later be providing me with a classic dirtbag reason to actually write about the date. So I simply said, “What? No,” and matched his two-faced smile with one of my own.

I actually meant it, too. That was until Harry Styles sent me a midnight “I’m bored” text that dangerously resembled that of a bad college booty call. 

And he had such high potential...

Sometimes I think about writing a book — of the romantic comedy genre. One that, when made into a movie, would feature Ryan Reynolds as an abrasive ex and Emma Stone as the brutally honest best friend. Angelina Jolie would play me.

OK, OK. I'm still hashing out the cast list, but what I am sure of is that I’ve seen it all. Every one-liner, late night text, and awkward date. Every six-pack-ab, deceivingly perfect coif, and smoldering seduction has knocked on my Facebook wall.

Well, this isn't me "writing" about a "date." This is me simply relishing in all the priceless moments all those wonderfully clueless dates have allowed me to be a part of. Think: the Taylor Swift song of paperbacks.

When Harry Styles failed to call me back after his completely rejected but oddly flattering booty call, I cried. I cried not for his inflated sense of entitlement. I cried because I couldn’t decide which title to choose for my book.

After all, The New York Times hath no best seller like a woman scorned...