The infamous booty call — enough people have experienced this that it is legitimately a “thing.”

We hear it whispered about in hallways, sung about in songs and even read about it in women’s magazines, but no one really prepares you for when it actually happens to you.

To answer or not to answer, that becomes the question.

I was initiated into the club of booty call-receivers last weekend when my phone rang, most unexpectedly, at 12:15 a.m. on Sunday. I chose not to answer. Or, more accurately, I stared at my phone as though it had sprouted fangs, grown wings and would soon commence an attack of unknown proportions. And then I started to giggle.

The giggle-fest was brought about by many factors, the least of which was the squeaky-clean image I have so long carried with me. But rather, the most amusing aspect of the entire thing was the fact that just one week before, I had nearly deleted this guy’s number, as he had not called for more than four months.

The irony was not lost on me.

The inner feminist voice that I am certain exists somewhere within me, told me I should probably be offended on some pseudo-intellectual level. And perhaps, there is some truth in that, but honestly I found myself somewhat flattered, quite shocked and mostly definitely amused.

You see, as shameful or cheap as it may seem on the surface, I think there is still a small amount of flattery to be found in someone thinking of you, albeit while most likely inebriated and lonely.

That being said, I still had enough self-respect to not answer the phone. I am not looking to be someone’s lonely, drunken play date. Although, when I put it that way it doesn’t sound like a completely terrible idea.

However, deep down I know I am looking for so much more than a regret-filled morning-after. So I politely declined my invitation to the booty call club and will continue to do so into the future.

As for you, to answer or not to answer may someday be your question: choose wisely my friend.