We're not connecting

Life can be full of surprises, but fortysomething single woman must, like Boy Scouts, always be prepared.
Like when life throws a gorgeous man your way.
In my case, it was at the gas station.

I was futzing with my gas cap at the Mill Valley Arco station when I saw out of the corner of my eye that the guy at the pump in front of me was watching me. I couldn’t tell for sure, but he looked pretty darn good.

I took a quick glance, hoping that he wouldn’t see me checking him out, but, of course, he did. Our eyes met, and he flashed me a smile, and it was a beautiful smile, complete with twinkling eyes and dimples. And he was more than darn good looking — he was hot. My pulse quickened. I smiled back and then, inexplicably feeling like the shy child I once was, tried hard to look at everything else but him as my mind raced — “say something, say something, say something!”

I’m normally a pretty talkative gal, but my mind went blank.
Suddenly, I noticed the perfect entry to conversation: He had a New Mexico license plate. I’ve been to Santa Fe! We could chat about ... New Mexico.

But, I said nothing, despite many more minutes of smiling and eye locking.
And then he was gone.

From sight, that is. His face, his smile, his dimples — those stayed with me all day. And night. And the next day.

It was at that moment that I became a craigslist addict or, more precisely, a Missed Connection addict.
Now I know many people post on craigslist to sell or buy something — I’ve unloaded faded plastic jungle gyms and a Matchbox car collection that The Kid, Trent, has long ago outgrown. Others just want to rant about Bush, their two-timing lovers or arrogant Prius drivers. But the truth is a lot of us read craigslist for the Missed Connections.

Because so much of life is being in the right place at the right time, and having the right thing to say to the drop-dead gorgeous person whose eyes locked with yours as you were both stopped at the stoplight or who flashed you a smile while checking out at Trader Joe’s — or pumping gas right in front of you. A split-second differential, a momentary cat’s-got-your-tongue thing and you’ve got yourself a missed opportunity of finding true love and happiness for ever after — or at the very least, a date. Who doesn’t want a second chance? That’s why new sites like RightPlaceRightTime.com and kizmeet.com are popping up.

So for days after the “gas station incident,” I scrolled though MC, hoping to find a posting. There never was one, but in reading so many — some funny, some poignant — I realized that we’re all searching for the same thing: connection.

But beyond that, what a lovely fantasy to think that, for a very brief period, someone noticed you as you went about your life. Not only noticed you but felt that there was some sort of a spark there, enough for him to post his feelings for the world to see.

I have to admit that there’s a part of me that wouldn’t mind being missed that way. But I never really thought it would happen.
Until it did.

Despite being a somewhat shy child, I’m not what you would call a demure woman. I often talk to strangers. It’s the flirty side of me, but I don’t just talk to men. Women, children, couples and dogs aren’t safe, either. So when Mary and I sidled up to a table with three guys and a gal at Mark Pitta and Friend’s Comedy Night at 142 Throckmorton Theatre, I started chatting with them until Pitta got onstage.
The next day while scrolling through Missed Connections, I saw a headline that struck a chord: “Funny blonde at Comedy Night.”

“Hey, I was there!” I said to myself. “I wonder who she is?”
As I read the posting, I realized he was talking about me!

“You and your friend really made me laugh, more than the comedians,” the posting said.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to chat with you after the show. If you see this, lol, drop me a line.”

I wondered which of the guys felt the spark. I strained to remember if any of them were attractive.
So, of course, I wrote back, and Mr. MC and I started a flirty e-mail exchange in which we slowly started to reveal ourselves. It seemed as if we had things in common.

Then, after a few days, something pretty strange started to happen. A little spring in my step, a silly smirk on my face, a desire to incessantly check my e-mail. I imagined meeting Mr. MC and really clicking. And thus, the fantasy-building began. Or, as I like to think of it, Imagination Gone Wild!

Candlelit nights with home-cooked meals and dancing; Saturdays spent kayaking, biking and hiking; lazy Sunday mornings filled with crosswords, coffee, snuggling and, well ...

After a flurry of e-mails, it was time to meet. Mr. MC asked me to meet over coffee, it was my weekend with my kid and his soccer games. I invited him for a glass of wine, he was heading out of town for business. He asked me to go for a hike, I was helping a friend move. I asked him to join me on a bike ride, he was best man in a wedding.

Weeks went by, and we had done nothing more than e-mail and chat on the phone. How hard could it possibly be for two people to get together?

“Maybe he’s married,” Mary observed as I told her my tale of desire and frustration.
“Married?” I fumed. “That just can’t be ... or can it?”

But before I even got to ask him that, I got the e-mail I’d been waiting for — one with an actual destination, date and a time to meet that worked for both of us. I’d like to say I got excited, but this is how it read:
“Hey! Well, I think we can finally make this happen, lol! A bunch of my buddies and I are going to crowd the bar at the Silver Peso Friday 5ish and be the frat boys we really are by getting blasted and getting rowdy. Come join the party!”

Frat boys? Blasted? Rowdy? I didn’t even like frat boys in college, so I certainly didn’t want any part of them in my 40s. And being in a bar at happy hour with a bunch of drunk rowdy men means only one thing for a woman, no matter what her age: disaster.

The fantasy I’d been building left my head just as quickly as I imagined Mr. MC and his friends would be puking in the Silver Peso bathroom.

In a way, I felt cheated, even though I know it was my fault for idealizing Mr. MC — imagining something real instead of what most likely would have been an awkward date or two followed by unreturned phone calls.

Recently, Sara and I were chatting about her love life (or lack thereof), and she went on and on about an attractive man she exchanged googly eyes with at the meat counter at Whole Foods.
“There was something about him, and the weird things was, people were looking at us like they could pick up the energy between us,” she glowed. “I wonder if he lives close by?”
“Well, you could always ...” and then I stopped myself.
“What?”
“Um, nevermind.”

I was, of course, about to send Sara to Missed Connections, as if it were some cosmic dating service, as if a lost moment could be recaptured and turned into true love. Maybe it can. But from now on I’m going to be in the moment — not fantasizing about the lost ones.