So I took Joyce out on a “normal” date last week – no fancy restaurants, no khakis and no church shoes. We hit the taco truck and the Stone Company store, and then walked around Old Town. I didn’t spend more than fifty bucks on the two of us…and I reckon we had the best time we’ve ever had together. She even really likes how I look in shorts and flip-flops.
We had a really great time after we got back to Joyce’s place too. And I spent the night for the first time after I discovered that she keeps a dozen flavors of Thrifty’s ice cream in her freezer.
So what did Joyce go and do the next time we saw each other?
She got me an Apple watch.
And not just a regular Apple watch. She gave me the Apple Watch Edition in the grey ceramic case. The one I found out costs over $1300. Joyce hasn’t stopped giving me stuff since the iPhone, but none of it was super expensive. It was more like the Stone wall-mounted bottle opener, which is one of the most awesome presents I’ve ever gotten.
She wrapped it up real nice (she’s good with crafty stuff), but I could tell from the look on her face before I got the ribbon off the box that there was going to be a problem.
And there was.
I know Meemaw told me that you shouldn’t tell people they shouldn’t have done something they already did, and that it’s rude to refuse a gift…but there was a big problem with the super expensive Apple watch.
It wasn’t just the money.
It was the money and that I didn’t want an Apple watch. Especially not one that cost $1500 when you add the tax and the Apple Care I was sure she’d bought. (Chicks always go for shit like Apple Care.) Y’all remember what I said about bigass expensiveass watches – how they’re gay and dudes only wear them to show off? Ok, so an Apple watch isn’t a Patek Philippe, but it’s still a big showoffass watch. And not something I want on my wrist for everyone to see.
I like tech as much as the next guy, and I really like my iPhone X and everything it can do…but all I want from a watch is for it to tell time and look nice on my wrist. Like my Swatch. I’ve got a phone. I don’t need to call people on my watch.
And it’s silly to let someone spend that kind of money on you for something you don’t really want. Which you’re going to have to wear whenever you see her. And which’ll make you look like a gayass jerkoff like the dudes with their Rolexes and Patek Philippes. (I can only imagine what Keaton would say if he saw me in a watch like that. Probably refuse to be seen with me if I had it on lol.)
So I was caught between making Joyce happy and making myself unhappy. I’ve done things I didn’t want to do so I could make Joyce happy – like trying to pet Mumu or Numnums. (I tried that after I came clean about the Claritin and how I had my cat allergy under control. The jerkoffass things still hate me.) On the other hand, there was a lot of money involved here, and, if Joyce wanted to spend money on me to make me happy, I just think it makes more sense for her to get me something I want.
So she saw my face when I’d unwrapped it. And I saw her face.
“You don’t like it, do you?”
“I could lie, but Mom and Dad brought me up to be the worst liar in the world. You’d know even if I said I liked it.”
She was fixin to cry.
“I…I…just wanted to get you something that would make you happy…”
“I know. And I appreciate it. I really do. Nobody’s ever gotten me a gift like this before. It’s just… You know how the iPhone made me happy?”
“Yes. That’s why I got you the watch. To go with it.”
“The phone made me real happy. Because I needed a new phone and this was like the coolest one anyone could get for me. But I don’t need an Apple watch. I know you wanted to make me happy…that’s awesome of you. But…this isn’t going to make me happy.”
I then told her the story about the jerkoffs with their Patek Philippes.
At least she didn’t look like she was fixin to cry anymore.
“Besides…there’s something I don’t think you understand.”
Now she looked scared. Chicks are so fuckin complicated. A dude would have been in the car on his way back to the Apple Store by now.
“You don’t need to keep buying me all this stuff, Joyce. That’s not the kind of boyfriend I am. I’d hang out with you if all we did was go to taco trucks and walk around.”
The B-word just came out.
Joyce looked like she was fixin to cry again. But clearly because she was happy. That was a relief. I can handle tears of happiness from a chick.
“Are you saying you’re…my…boyfriend?”
If we forget about Monica, if y’all look at how Joyce and I have been hanging out for the past six months, the answer to that question is just plain duh. I never used the word…but what else am I? I mean, yeah, I’ve joked about being a boy toy, but I reckon I’m her boyfriend.
So I turned on my bashful smile, shrugged and said:
“What else did you think I was?”
I knew what to do next, which was put my arms around…around…well…might as well say it to y’all even if I didn’t say it to Joyce…around my girlfriend.
And she did start to cry. It was too much emotion for me, but she’s a chick, and chicks will be chicks.
So I ended up making her a whole lot happier than I would have made her had I been excited by the watch.
And I got myself a girlfriend.
Yeah, fine, I’ve already got a girlfriend, even if I haven’t texted her since that night I walked out on her in the restaurant. I guess I can juggle the two of them some more (I’ve been doing it for six months), but, now that I told Joyce that I was her boyfriend, I’ve got to do something about Monica. I could have two girlfriends like Monica, but being Joyce’s boyfriend means more than just dinner, Netflix and hot sex. It means stuff like holding her in my arms while she cries.
That was the night I taught Joyce to eat ice cream in bed. Don’t get the wrong idea. There’s nothing kinky about it. You just get two containers of ice cream and two spoons. If you got chocolate syrup and whipped cream, yeah, it would get kinky…but ice cream is ice cream and sex is sex.
You don’t mix things that are that important.
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