The Motel Invitation

(Dating in the Age of Audacity Series Part 2)

There are moments in a woman’s life when she realizes she has grown.

Not healed completely…

Let’s not start lying for sport.

But grown enough to recognize when a man from the clearance rack of her past is trying to return himself without a receipt.

He said we should “catch up.”

At a motel.

Not dinner.

Not coffee.

Not even a sad little sports bar with sticky tables and a waitress named Tammy who has seen too much.

A motel.

The kind of place where the comforter has a criminal record, the carpet smells like broken promises, and the walls have heard enough lies to testify in court.

I stared at the message for a long moment.

Not because I was tempted.

Because I needed to understand the confidence.

The nerve.

The full bodied, farm raised, government certified audacity of this man.

Sir.

What chapter of my life did you think we were reopening?

Because from where I’m sitting, that book is out of print, the spine is cracked, and the reviews were terrible.

He didn’t say, “I’d love to take you somewhere nice.”

He didn’t say, “You crossed my mind.”

He didn’t say, “I’ve grown as a man and would like to apologize for previously behaving like a clearance bin item nobody wanted, with a suspicious stain and no tag.”

No.

He said motel.

This was a clearance bin booty call dressed up in the little church shoes of “catching up.”

And let’s discuss the location.

A motel is not where grown women go to reconnect with men from the archive.

That is where bad decisions go to sweat.

That is where towels feel like sandpaper and the Bible in the drawer is praying for everyone involved.

I am not putting on perfume, shaving anything, charging my phone, and leaving my peaceful home just to meet a man in a room where the curtains have trauma.

Absolutely the fuck not…

At one point in history, maybe that offer had a pulse.

Maybe younger me would’ve entertained the foolishness.

Maybe younger me would’ve thought, “Lets do it for the plot and get on my hoodrat shit”

But current me?

Current me has bills, boundaries, moisturized skin, and a working relationship with shame.

I do not spin the block for men trying to reheat old bullshit in a microwave with no plate.

Especially not one who already proved years ago that the only thing he was consistent with was disappointment.

And the wildest part?

He said it like he was doing me a favor.

Like I was supposed to clutch my pearls, clear my calendar, and whisper, “Finally, a man with access to a vending machine and questionable sheets.”

Be so fuckin for real.

I have thrown away better opportunities with better parking.

So I declined.

Politely.

By which I mean I did not say everything the Lord placed on my spirit.

I did not ask if his mother knew he was still embarrassing the family.

I simply looked at the message, laughed like a woman who had survived herself, and let the silence do what my mouth was too saved to finish.

Growth.

I guess.. lol