Ask Alan: She’s always late; it drives me crazy!
Last night was my one-year anniversary with my girlfriend, so I bought (expensive!) tickets to this hot off-Broadway play. It started at 8 p.m., and since Rebecca takes forever to get ready, I told her I’d pick her up at 6:45 so we could get on the road at 7 p.m. She’s fully aware that she’s chronically late, so I figured she’d start getting ready around 5:30 p.m. When I got to her place right on time, she didn’t answer the door. I called her cell and texted, and she finally answered five minutes later — turned out she was showering. She then spent the next hour doing whatever it was she does that takes her an hour to leave the house. Naturally, we were late for the play, and they didn’t even seat us until the second act. I was so annoyed, I barely said a word at dinner. She, on the other hand, chattered away like there was nothing wrong. I’m still raging inside, but am not sure how to deal with this. Any suggestions?
-Seething in Staten Island
You’ve come to the right place, m’man. I despise tardiness, and have dealt with late hotties time and again. (And again... and again.) Matter o’ fact, here’s some advance warning to future honeys who want to be mine: Show up on time, or feel the wrath of Alan. Trust me, nobody wants to feel the wrath of Alan. Maybe they want to feel, uh, other Alan stuff, but the wrath? No way!
I’ve dealt with time-wasters since my halcyon adolescent days; my father is possibly the slowest-moving person in the continental United States. Also, my first girlfriend had a genius-level intellect, but she was also a major space case when promptness was required. She wouldn’t just be late; no, she’d be late on the wrong day (i.e., we’d make plans for Thursday at 8 p.m., and she’d call me on Wednesday at 9 p.m. from the restaurant and ask where I was). Aargh!
Back then, I was too much of a gentleman to say anything — plus, she was the only woman at the time who would make out with me, and I didn’t want her to get upset and bail on our romance. So I sucked it up and didn’t say a word. Which is the same thing I did with my next girlfriend... and the next several who came along after that, too.
Finally, I blew up. Girlfriend #6 felt the wrath of Alan. (Note: She didn’t like it.) She got upset and bailed on the relationship. But I will admit that the blow-up made me feel pretty darn good afterward.
That said, when you talk to Rebecca about it – and you do have to talk to her about it, because as I’ve said plenty of times before, problems don’t solve themselves – find a middle ground between cowardly and shooting laser beams from your eyes. I’m talking less seething, more soothing. Gentle, but firm. You’ll be back on track in no time.
Alan Goldsher is the author of 14 books, including the acclaimed mash-up Paul Is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion. As a ghostwriter, he has collaborated with numerous celebrities and public figures. Visit Alan at www.AlanGoldsher.com.