Last night I finally got to chat with this guy, who actually has met me before and doesn't remember it.
I was doing some work stuff, tucked away in the corner of my neighborhood coffee shop. And when he popped online as "mobile," I thought I'd drop him a quick note to let him know I'd still like to get together.
He responded favorably and continued messaging me. He made a point to say he was at a bar … the bar that happens to be across the street from my apartment, so close to where I was sitting at my granite-top table, listening to Kelly Clarkson and writing while I sipped a cool coffee drink.
"You should come meet me. The band is really good."
I messaged back that I was flattered, but explained that I was working and that I had a full day of early meetings ahead. I'm sure this sounded like a lame excuse, but it was nearing 11 p.m. and I was planning to be up by 5:15. Not the time to put on my dancing shoes.
I never revealed my location, mostly because I was looking not so chic in jeans, the black sweater I'd worn to work and tennis shoes, with my hair messily piled atop my head in a makeshift bun.
He continued to message me, pointing out that he was doing it via Blackberry – as if it was perfectly normal to chat online whilst jamming in a bar.
About three times, I thought about slamming my laptop shut, running home to change my shirt and shoes and heading over there. Being spontaneous and fun. Free spirited.
But I'm not spontaneous and fun anymore. I'm lame and boring and old and I need more than two hours of sleep to function and be perky and informative and friendly and not rude.
I left it open, agreed to meet him later this week for a drink.
As I was about to head home and for bed, he wished me sweet dreams and said, "Hey, you've got beautiful eyes."
"I bet you say that to all the girls. Flattery will get you everywhere."
"Only when it is true."