I'm A 'Baiter' — I Text My Friends And Try To Convince Them To Cancel Plans

I used to be a flaker and a bailer. Now I have learned the power of asking people if they are really, really sure they want to hang out...? So far it's working!

Hi / Hello

Before we get into today's insightful hilarity, can we all just puke over that acquittal this morning?

Another thing worth puking over here if you want to would be the holiday that’s coming up in two days. How are we feeling about it this year in particular?

I'm trying to be quicker than usual right now because I'm focused on writing a more complete story for you. So let's support me in that effort, because it's a lot easier to toss out these intros rather than constructing one of those meaningful starting-with-a-blank-page things. That’s one reason I have always preferred being on this editor side of the job and having people like our one and only Genevieve today giving me her bright and intriguing words to work with. Her line in here referring to the sequin KILLS me, for one example, and is nothing I would have come up with on my own - but I won’t give it away. (I would love to work with your words too – send story submissions to jane@anotherjaneprattthing.com. I actually got a bunch yesterday when I made that pointed plea and it looks like I'm accepting all of those, so follow their lead! Or just stay here and read, like I generally do.)

Let’s vent and all that stuff we love to do after we ingest this beauty. Thanks for it, Genevieve! And thank you all for being part of this place.

xox Jane

When I do go out, I usually have fun... here is me out and holding someone’s legs in the air as proof

By Genevieve Sage

There’s a very specific kind of euphoria that hits when someone cancels plans before you have to. That polite little text — “Hey! Just checking in about tonight...” — reads like a hall pass from the universe. An out, so gentle, so nonjudgmental, you want to sloppy-kiss your phone.

And let’s be honest: sometimes you’re quietly hoping they’ll flake first. There are memes for this. You’ve seen them: “Don’t ever be afraid to cancel plans with me, I’ll hop back in bed so fast...”

Flaking, when done right, can feel like a radical act of self-care, an elegant boundary in disguise. It’s wearing pearls. And can even graduate on up to a soul-saving reset.

I’m not what you’d call a flaker, exactly. But I am — and this is a new term I’ve just coined — one of those BAITERS.

I’m the one who sends that aforementioned check-in text: “Mental wellness check: still on for drinks tonight?” Which is wrapped in cheery, emotionally-aware language, but is secretly just a tricky reach-around way of saying: “If you need to cancel, I will not only understand, I will exhale with full-body relief. I am a Master Baiter. (Sorry!!! I couldn't help myself!!!!!)

Me and my friends, during a time I didn’t successfully get them to cancel on me.

Flaking, let’s be real, when done too often, can feel like abandonment. Friendships are delicate ecosystems — one too many “rain checks,” and suddenly someone’s ghosting you at a time in your life when you might actually need someone to just, IDK...show up??

Keeping plans when you’re emotionally spent can feel impossible. But I think you and I both know that flaking too often — even with the best intentions — can quietly erode a friendship.

And in a time when loneliness is rising, when everyone’s doing emotional triage just to make it through the week, asking yourself how often you can cancel and still keep a friend isn't trivial. It’s survival math.

I once cancelled Thanksgiving plans — with several days’ notice, mind you — because what was originally pitched as a cozy foursome turned into a random six-some. And the new couple that we didn’t invite? Total strangers. Worse: stingy strangers.

The Hosts (my then-friends) were handling the turkey and dessert — a huge lift. My husband and I were signed up for the sides: mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, extra stuffing, a really nice bottle of wine, plus a backup dessert. We were showing up like pros.

And this new couple we’ve never met that they (Hosts/Friends) invited without a polite check-in? They offered to bring... salad and beer.

SALAD. AND. BEER.

[Note: Don’t be that person. Next time, bring a Sassy Tee instead! -Corynne] [I wholeheartedly love you, Corynne]

I’m sorry, but that’s not a contribution. And it wasn’t a money thing (evidently they’re DOCTORS!) Cue: the steam billowing out of my ears like a Looney Tunes cartoon. My dudes: I went full teakettle. Ummm, excuse me?! That’s what you bring when you were invited at the last minute and forgot to ask what to bring, not when you’re part of a carefully coordinated Friendsgiving. So I politely bowed out. Told our friends, the hosts, we wouldn’t be coming after all.

And then... they broke up with us. Well — she broke up with me, to be precise.

Apparently, she took it personally. I later heard through the grapevine that she felt hurt. And honestly? That bummed me out. It wasn’t about her. Thought I was rejecting her, not the potluck math or the freeloading salad people. But I had been pretty clear from the beginning that I wanted this dinner to be intimate. Familiar. Cozy. Instead, it turned into a surprise mixer with a cheap bag of romaine, a 6 pack of Miller High Life and a side of my resentment.

But the damage was done.