Hey cute guy! Whoo – hooo! Cute guy! Over here… that’s right – here on this blog; how clever of you to have found me without my name, phone number, or actually any identifying information whatsoever…
Oops, I did it again. In my relentless pursuit of never letting anyone know I’m remotely interested in them, or could in any way be identified as single and desperate, I blew off another opportunity to meet someone I actually did find attractive and for whom the reverse could maybe/probably/likely be assumed to be true.
It was easy. Because I am the best. The ne plus ultra of cool characters – the unreadable, un eye-catchable, what-me-worry-I’ll-never-get-a-date-again-as-long-as-I-live, most permanent semi-living singleton semi-alive.
If you’d like to know how it’s done, let me illustrate with a scene right out of my own sorry life…
So there I was at 317 Adelaide this afternoon, coming out of a 4th floor studio, having just recorded the voice-over for a television commercial introducing a new drug (“R____ may cause side effects including nausea, dizziness, internal bleeding, temporary psychosis, war in the Middle East…”) when as the elevator doors slid open I espied that rare and elusive creature: the attractive male of reasonable age. (Please God - let him not be in is 20’s!) And what’s more to the point, he saw me.
I hopped on and immediately faked going through my purse, looking for something-or-other (keys, notepad, pencil, tranquilizers…) just so’s I wouldn’t stare and drool.
(I’m nearly paranoid about looking needy you see; that, plus I’ve seen far too many Doris Day movies where the hero will do anything – from hiring detective agencies, to having his apartment redecorated, to posing as an insecure Texas cowboy, all alone in the big city – ANYTHING in order to find the gorgeous creature he glimpsed briefly from across the automat (10 cents for pie!) and must now have for his very own. So when you think about it, a girl should never really actually have to do anything...)
But this time I was to be saved; knowing I was going directly on to my volunteer shift, I was wearing the green vest with security pass looped around my neck and it was this gear that offered him the opportunity to pose a question.
“HSC,” said the Adonis of my dreams. “What’s that?”
“The Hospital for Sick Children,” I offer breathlessly (or breathily maybe) “I’m a volunteer there.”
“Oh,” replies the Greek God come to life. “How terrific! I’ve always thought I’d be interested in that.”
As the elevator hurtles toward the ground floor and the end of this romantic exchange, his buddy pipes up. Did I mention there was someone else in the elevator? Maybe not. Surrounding him there was absolutely no pixie dust whatsoever.
“Yes,” he said. “Didn’t that friend of yours do it?”
Before Mr. Wonderful can even respond I’m burbling away – the busiest little brook 317 Adelaide has ever had flow through it before.
“Yes! You should do it! We’re always looking for men…there are already so many women there and the guys want a male presence, somebody to play Nintendo with… or Battleships… or just to hang out with…”
I rattle on, practically defending a Masters thesis on the psychological benefits of male role models on young boys, and I carry on… and on.
Finally we hit ground zero and as the doors open and the three of us emerge, the man who could one day proudly bear the name ‘Mr. Storm’ asks me for my card – so he can find out more information he says. (Ha ha! Really?)
I have no cards. How could I? I do things that don’t fit into any known category or description under two paragraphs; the one time I had cards, they were made by a friend and had my name, address and telephone number and underneath in quotations and italics: “Advice and Whatnot”. Perfect. Love it. Whatnot!
But sadly, not a single dog-eared identifier remains.
I could have done a number of things: I could have asked him for his card… I could have offered him my phone number and told him to call for all the help (wink, wink) he’d need to get fixed up for the next intake and orientation… I could have scribbled it on his arm, his shirt tail or his buddy’s forehead. I could have done any of these things, but instead I told him I didn’t have any cards and gave him the web address for the hospital.
“I guess I could have found that for myself,” he twinkled.
Did I stop then? Did I roll back the tape and consider options a, b or c? I did not. Like the fool I am, I carried on straight out the door, zooming along in that ‘places to go’ way I think makes me look so independent and un-needy.
“Do sign up – we really need volunteers!” I toss over my shoulder as I actually RUN to get across the street on a flashing ‘Don’t Walk’ sign.
I don’t get it. I really don’t. I thought self-sabotage was supposed to be subconscious – at the very least, slightly less than practically deliberate. But yours truly is moving so fast, and worrying so hard about possibly looking as though I might like to meet somebody, some day maybe, that I whip past all my prospects like Hurricane Jane, never letting anyone see inside.
And you wonder why they call me Secret Storm.
But cute guy, in case you’ve found me completely by accident (and you’d have to be one of those monkeys typing for a million years and coming up with every play Shakespeare ever wrote before you’d get to secretstorm.blogspot.com… and there was nothing even vaguely simian about you… sigh…) don’t forget – it’s www.sickkids.ca click on Volunteer Resources…
Oops, I did it again.