Let’s start with last Friday. Last Friday I went to the Art Museum. Again. I’m practically living at the art museum these days. It’s great really: you get all the trappings of a great date (decent wine, an excuse to get dressed up, people watching, etc.) but you don’t actually have to be on a date to enjoy the spoils.
In fact, it’s better if you’re not.
This way you can ogle people of the opposite sex and think of all the great things you’d say to them if you only had the nerve.
(I typed that in my very best Cowardly Lion accent, by the way.)
But all that changed last Friday. Last Friday, you see, I made contact.
I saw him the moment I entered the hall. He was standing by himself at a little cocktail table and he was totally staring at me. (Then again, I was wearing my French Revolution boots… everybody stares at me when I wear my French Revolution boots. They have a combined 36 buttons, many of which I’ve had to reattach with crazy glue and embroidery thread over the years, but they are still the most amazing boots known to man.)
I smiled and followed up with my signature move (aka running away) but then the band took their places and I realized he was part of the evening’s entertainment.
I spent the next hour or so trying to catch his eye by arranging my French Revolution boots in the sexiest manner possible, but this is no easy feat when you’re sprawled out on the steps of art museum and the people next to you keep spilling their wine. Plus, he was really into his music. So into it that he didn’t glance my way the entire time.
Fortunately, I was able to deploy my other signature move (that of “accidentally” bumping into someone) when the band took a break and we found ourselves both waiting in line for a drink at the same bar.
I thought of all sorts of cool things to say (mostly insulting things like “Quit holding up the line with your fancy drink orders” or “Had I known you were with the band I would have said hello” both of which sounded way better in my head than they do now) but when the moment of truth arrived, I reverted back to Signature Move #1 and ran away.
Fortunately I only ran as far as the steps. Then I said to myself, “Self, it has been almost a month. You are going to need to talk to another man at some point. He’s a musician from New York and you will never see him again. Plus you are wearing your French Revolution boots.”
So I went back.
The awesomeness of my opening line (“It’s so nice to hear you play”) was superseded only by the awesomeness of my follow up (“You guys have such cool outfits!!!”) but I managed to engage in a good three or four minutes of conversation before sounding my retreat.
But this morning—this morning is where things really got interesting.
As some of you may know, I’ve developed a bit of a crush on the guy in my yoga class.
We’ve spent the past few weeks smiling at each other, and a week ago, I actually worked up the courage to wave and say “hello.”
But today—today we spoke.
He even asked my name and told me he liked my hat.
I ran away shortly thereafter (old habits die hard) but then decided to go back to the studio under the pretense of needing a tissue to blow my nose.
Admittedly, this wasn’t my best move. There is no way to make nose blowing sexy—unless you take off your clothes maybe—but that’s not the point.
The point is its Valentine’s Day. And I’m not falling apart. I’m actually feeling pretty damn good.
Besides, there’s always next week’s yoga class.