Yeah. So I was cleaning out some files on my computer that I’d had tucked away in an old backup, and I came across this old “gem” from back in 2002. I read it and laughed. In some ways, I am such a different person than I was four years ago. In other ways, I haven’t changed at all.
The document, which I have posted below, was originally written for a project called “It’s Not Matt’s Fault,” which sadly never seemed to gain the momentum it needed to get off the ground. The site was going to be a relationship advice site geared towards men, but from a Christian perspective. It’s a shame, because I think the need is still out there.
Anyway, one of the planned features of the site was something called “Sap Stories,” which were brief anecdotes about experiences that the contributors had had, and which might be helpful, insightful, or entertaining to the readers.
The document I came across while cleaning out my files was none other than the draft of my very own Sap Story. If, when I wrote that article, I would have been told that three short years later I’d have felt called to remain single, I would have raised an eyebrow and told you no, God has given me the qualities and calling to be a husband and father some day. And I would have been wrong. Ah, does not such change, as wrought by time and chance, bring the most profound new mindsets?
Anyway, with that background, and that caveat, I present to you, dear reader, without any further ado, my Sap Story …
A Lesson Learned by Losing
— or —
And God Said, “No.”
She wasn’t exceptionally beautiful, she wasn’t outstandingly empathetic towards me, we didn’t share many common interests, and no strong bond ever formed between us. Yet she has the unique distinction of being the first girl I ever asked out.
I don’t remember exactly when I became infatuated with her. I don’t even remember what finally pushed me over the edge. I remember her laughter, her jovial personality, her kindness, her intelligence. I remember the thrill of little things, like having the opportunity to sit next to her, or seeing her smile. I remember conversations with friends, asking them if they thought I had a chance with her (as though somehow their opinion had an effect on her feelings for me). I remember the rehearsals in my mind, as I envisioned asking her out, trying to predict her response. I particularly remember that last one, because I spent five months doing that.
At this point, some background on myself might be appropriate. I am, by nature, one of the most introverted people I know. This five-month insanity took place my (second) senior year in college — that was this past September to February. Understand that I’m twenty-two. In twenty-two years, I’d never asked a girl out. Sure, there had been girls I’d had an interested in, but never enough to ask them out. So for five months, I struggled to pull together enough assertiveness to get a date with this girl.
Throughout the whole thing, my thoughts had been plagued with doubt. Could she possibly feel the same way about me? Did she seem to be getting really close to that guy? If I ask, and she says no, will our friendship be clouded with awkwardness? I can’t tell you exactly why I preoccupied myself with such thoughts. That much stress couldn’t have been healthy. Maybe I suffered from low self-esteem. Maybe I really thought there was no chance. Whatever the case, I didn’t have to face it alone.
The guys in our circle of friends were absolutely fantastic. They put up with my hesitations, listened to my moaning, prayed for me, and were generally very supportive. I bounced thoughts off them, asked their advice, and sought their opinions. My friends counseled me, tried to plan a group date (which, of course, never took place), and constantly encouraged me.
I don’t really know what changed, what switch inside my brain was thrown, what electro-chemical impulse finally made me decide to ask her out. I just remember the grim determination that I had; the resolve I had to carry out that momentous decision.
It happened on a Tuesday.
We’d had a prayer meeting, and afterward the ladies in the group were going off to get dinner or whatever, and I called her over just before they left. I’d like to say that every memory of every time I’d imagined this moment came flooding back to me, but they didn’t. All the planning, the words I’d use — all of it gone. And so, predictably, the experience was different from the dream. Life is not bound by imagination. I stammered. I couldn’t find the words. I lost my nerve. Instead of a brilliant proposal, I skipped over any preliminaries, jumped past any explanations. My entire pitch to her consisted of, “Um … would you like to … go on a date?”
Of course, she said no.
I was crushed, but I didn’t show it. A quick recovery and (considering my emotions) a surprisingly graceful exit avoided any awkwardness. Somehow, by the time I got back to my dorm room, I was over it, over her. And just like that, the dream was dead. I’d spent so much time and effort to get, effectively, nowhere.
There’s a lesson in all of this, but I really don’t know what it is.
