formal

for·mal
/ˈfôrməl/

done in accordance with rules of convention or etiquette; suitable for or constituting an official or important situation or occasion.

consider this Google definition of the word “formal.”

Let’s pick out some key words and phrases.

“rules of convention”

“etiquette”

“constituting and official or important situation or occassion”

What are “rules of convention?”

A convention in this sense is an agreed upon or generally accepted standard or societal norm. In the sense of the definition, they meant this to be a matter of doing something according to a set standard. Like writing a formal letter, or having a formal meeting to discuss important matters.

Here’s how I mean it: the rules of convention surrounding formal plans with someone include “Do not cancel on your formal plans one hour in advance.”

Although we are changing convention to just that. Instead of canceling plans the moment we recognize they will no longer pan out, we wait. We run it down to the end of the wire, saying nothing, lurking in the shadows, leading our victim to believe everything is still ship shape and running according to plan. Then, 60 minutes beforehand, we send a text. “Hey, so this thing I knew about since 3 days ago is going to impact my ability to do the thing we have planned to do since 7 days ago. But I am just telling you now because I am a worthless sac of human flesh who also happened to be born without a backbone.”

Because that’s what canceling on someone at the last minute is. Spineless. Let’s talk about my hypothesis on why this occurs:

When you cancel plans within a considerate time frame, there is the possibility that your plan partner will either a) rationalize why you can still go and it will be fine (but you’re a spineless sac of shit, so you simply don’t want to go because your idea of fun is bouncing around in a bedroom alone for hours on end) or b) ask you an excruciating amount of questions as to why, if you’re okay, and so on and so forth (but you’re lying, so you don’t have that many details to give, so you’ll make up a lot of fake intricacies and have to remember everything you said which is scary for a spineless jellyfish) or c) try to reschedule. (you would become an ichorous heap at the thought of having to go through the entire “bailing last minute” process again [however you will still do it]).

But when you cancel last minute, time moves faster. You’ve put all that pressure onto the other person. Now they have to decide if they will still go, and if yes, will they go alone or will they quickly find a replacement. Essentially, they don’t have time to reschedule with you, they don’t have time to ask questions, they need to move quickly. Doing this to someone makes you an asshole. If you are reading this, laughing about how often you do this to people, you aren’t worthy of having friends. People should ex-communicate you from society. You are a worthless sac of human flesh. Remember that.

“Etiquette” to cancel at an appropriate time in advance is common courtesy. Everyone is worthy of common courtesy, unless they are a worthless sac of flesh.

Y’all are probably wondering why I’m posting this the morning after my formal. You ready for the story?

We’ll call him Beckham. (you knew it was a story about a guy, don’t roll your eyes.)

Because Timothy left for the army one week prior to formal, I was in a weird spot about finding a date. I kind of needed to find a date because the rest of my formal party have boyfriends, and the idea of seventh wheeling is just a little bit ridiculous. However, Timothy had encouraged a purge of side pieces, so my options were minute. There was one option I felt okay about, though. That option was Beckham. I went for it, he said he would go, it was perfect.

But you know, I felt like something was going to happen. Something was going to come up. Somehow, it wasn’t going to work out.

I was right.

We talked all week leading up to formal. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday: Snapchats and a couple of texts. Friday: nothing. (that’s always your first sign. Take notes.)

At 3:00 PM, I got a text: “you’re going to want to kill me.”

Say no more. I heard you Loud. And. Clear.

I wasn’t even mad. I wasn’t sad. I was a little disappointed. I was mostly just like “that’s cool, you owe me the money for your ticket.”

At this point, there was nothing I could do. I wasn’t going to bargain with him to get him to come. I had one hour and no power to do anything about it besides regain a positive attitude. I couldn’t find another date even if I wanted to, because everything down to the guest list had been finalized last week. All I could do was focus on having a good time.

See, here’s the thing. I am both a master of spotting a fuckboy and a master of disregarding it entirely and pursuing anyway. It’s a real talent I’ve got. You know how in certain video games, wearing certain armor or mastering a certain skill comes with an additional character boost? The “engages with fuckboys like it’s her job” skill comes with a high patience level as well as thick skin boost. Their antics don’t even phase me anymore.

I mean really, my roommates were more upset than I was.

I just want my money back.

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