The author, Alexandra Petri, talks how acting awkward to get out of a situation can go very wrong.

About four years ago, when I was 22, a guy on whom I was not particularly keen had invited me on a second date. Just saying no seemed rude. And I'd heard the Gradual Contact Fade was frowned on. How to avoid this?

"I know!" I said. "I should go on this date, and I should just be as awkward as possible, so he'll be able to reject me instead! No hard feelings for anyone!"

I put it in my calendar as Sabotage Date.

"That is a terrible idea," my friends said, not for the first time. "Just say 'I'd prefer not to go on a second date with you, but I would like to be friends.' "

"NO!" I said. "This will be easier. Trust me."

I showed up at the Thai restaurant an hour late.

"It's okay," he said brightly. "I read Wikipedia in the car."

My plan of attack was simple. I would demonstrate enough nervous tics to alarm a yak. "Who is this strange, gesticulating bundle of terror?" he would murmur to himself. "Cheque, please!"

I began adjusting the silverware and tapping everything. Adjust place mat. Tap. Move plate. Move plate back. Tap. Tap. Avoid eye contact. Mumble frequently about badgers.

He seemed unfazed. He remained unfazed. We were almost done with the meal and he'd barely batted an eye.

"This is probably a good time to tell you," he said. "I have Asperger's."

"Ah," I said. My strategy of using social awkwardness as a wedge between us was clearly backfiring. Plan collapsing in ruins around me, I darted into the restroom to regroup.

"You can quit now," I told my reflection. "Or you can level up."

I looked around for props. There was nothing but hand soap. I dabbed a healthy portion on my face and did not wipe it off, strolling back into the restaurant with a pearlescent smear on my cheek and as much nonchalance as I could manage.

He seemed unfazed. "Let's get ice cream," he suggested.

We strolled out into the street. Pearlescent white liquid trickled slowly down my face. Upon arriving at the Häagen-Dazs, I again darted into the restroom to regroup. I wiped the soap off my face and stared, again, at my reflection.

"You can quit," I murmured, "or you can level up."

I cast about me for anything that might prove useful.

Finally I landed on it, and came darting out of the restroom with a plunger clutched in my hand. "I must have this plunger!" I shouted. "We've made the bond! Quick! To the exit!"

The man behind the Häagen-Dazs counter shot me a strange look.

"Ma'am," he said. "Give me the plunger."

Because I am, fundamentally, law-abiding, I handed it over to him. "Er," I said, "I will pay you good money for this plunger. I feel as though we've really bonded."

"That's all right, ma'am," he said. I got the sense he wanted me to leave.

When I got to the sidewalk, my date was waiting. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll buy you a plunger of your very own."

I was about ready to give up. But never let it be said that a Petri gave up without a fight.

"I can quit," I thought to myself, "or I can level up."

I frowned. What did men find off-putting? Weird sex things, right? That would scare him off immediately. (Dazed by my prior failures, I was not thinking entirely clearly.)

"Gee," I said out loud, "you're nice, but — I am only capable of erotic attraction to badgers. And members of the Beatles. You know, in tandem. Doing, you know. Doing ..." I struggled to elaborate. My explanation quickly devolved into a series of nervous hand gestures, which looked sort of like reaching into a jar where you think there might be spiders.

Finally I lapsed into silence.

He walked away. I'd done it! I thought. He had rejected me! I'd made it! We'd all go home feeling better about ourselves.

Then I saw him looping back around. He stopped right in front of me. "That's the sexiest thing I've ever heard," he breathed.

I was defeated. I bowed to him and darted away.

Afterward, I ignored his calls. "I should have done that in the first place," I told my friends.

"No," they said, wincing. "No, that's not really a good strategy either."