(story to be published in tomorrow's issue, March 16)
"So, why didn't he call?" my friend asks in an almost hysterical voice. "He promised he would call as soon as he gets home, after our date that was THREE DAYS AGO!!! Do you think it's something I said or did? He said he liked me. What if he lied???!!!" In such moments, I guess many women feel like saying not-so-kind-words about Mr. Alexander Graham Bell, who didn't have anything better to do than go and invent this instrument of torture that has been driving women crazy for the last hundred years or so. In fact, why don't men call although they say they will? In my opinion, and I bet it is shared by most women, this is one of the greatest mysteries that may remain unsolved for a long time. Of course we all read in many self-improvement and self-confidence inducing books that "men are like rubber band - after spending some time with a woman, they need to withdraw, to crawl back in their lair in order to be in touch with their inner self," and many other such theories that we usually deem as mambo-jumbo or crap. For crying out loud! Before a date, we take the huge trouble to go to the beautician, where we are inflicted all kinds of painful (believe me) operations, in order "to look nice." So we undergo all this Middle Age-like procedures, not to mention the huge hole they dig in our pockets. Then we slip into a killer dress or into the tightest jeans that we could find in the shops, so that we finally resemble a modern version of Scarlett O'Hara, gasping for breath. Naturally, after all the efforts, we expect a great evening out, with tonnes of romance and good conversation. Balls!!! Most often, we end up in a bar, sipping the ever-present (even in winter) beer, listening to him talk about work and about the SOB's he has to work for. And he doesn't even notice how good we look, the new haircut, or the cleavage that would make Mme de Pompadour look like a nun. Have you noticed? It's ironic how all the other male inhabitants of the Earth notice us and literally drool over us, but HE seems to look right through us. And he doesn't even see that others are interested. Nope. He's too busy staring at the waitress, who isn't even cute. And the evening that you've been looking forward to the whole week drags on miserably. But not to worry! The best is yet to come. All worked up, you get home, hoping that maybe the day can be salvaged by a romantic tete-a-tete. No way!!! A woman's biggest enemy (except other women, of course) is lurking from a dark corner of the room, finally rearing its ugly head: the computer. And he says - "Oh, honey, can I play just a bit, because I am in a bit of a jam with Starcraft (or Unreal Tournament, or Quake, or Doom) and I must take care of this one before we go to bed. I promise I'll be ready in 15 minutes tops (read five hours and maybe you get the picture)." He stays up all night shooting the villains and you go to bed, thinking that sometimes, life ain't worth living.
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