How I Know I’ve Matured Since 2005

I’m not sure why I said yes in the first place. I didn’t like him enough to even kiss him goodbye the first time, and that was way back when I thought the overzealous nature of French men could be charming. Now, I recognize it as sleazy.

But I did say yes, and I had promised to call on Tuesday, so when Thursday rolled on by, I figured it was time to do something. So I texted him and said, “Are you still interested in lunch or a drink?”

“Of course, sweetheart… just tell me which day u’re free and we go to have lunch on a beach, ok?”

I could do without the “sweetheart” from a man I hardly know, but he’s French. Whatever.

Apparently I didn’t respond quickly enough, because he then wrote: “Hi honey, how about Sunday for lunch?”

Now I’m “honey” too? Eh. It’s a free lunch, right? I proposed Thursday.

“Ok babe, you sure?” he wrote. Babe? Really? Then: “Because I don’t have a lot of free time. Kissessss.” Ick. Wait – there’s more: “But for you I’m going to take my time. You’re my sweet guest.”

Oh, please. Am I supposed to feel special? I don’t even know this man – how can I be his “sweet guest.” I want to vomit.

I’m debating on what to respond with:

Option A) “Does that stuff actually work?”

-or-

Option B) “Since you’re so busy and I wouldn’t want to interrupt, how about we just cancel.”

But then I can never go back to the Ptit Club again. Or, have I grown beyond that too?