So, I’ve been hiding something — or, should I say “someone”? — from all of you, and I can’t stand it anymore.
I’m afraid that publishing this post might jinx what’s happening. Silly, I know. Here’s the story of how we almost met — and then finally did, for real:
In early 2007, a lovely, witty writer-friend named Ronnie Chater offered to set me up with a friend of hers.
She told me what a catch this guy was: smart, very funny, a scientist, a home-owner, well-read.
She went on and on about the fact that he was close to his family and loved by his friends. He was 44 years old, she said, and two years out of a long-term relationship. He didn’t have any children, but he loved kids.
Of course, I wanted to know: “Then why the heck is he still single?”
“No one can figure that out!” she shot back. “I don’t think he knows what he’s looking for.”
That last line sealed the deal. “No, thank you.”
I was in no frame of mind to date. I was still healing from my last break up. I was still unpacking my utensils in my new apartment.
That was that. Or, so I thought.
Jump ahead two years and I was recently in San Francisco for Ronnie’s book launch party. (Please, please buy her book, Waiting for the Apocalypse: A Memoir of Faith and Family, here!)
It was a packed event, but I noticed him making the rounds around the room. Actually, what I really noticed was what a big flirt he was (but then, so am I, right?)
He said “hi” to everyone with a hug and a smile. Eventually he stopped to talk to another writer-friend and me. I was having a hard time hearing above the loud music, and he seemed to be flirting with my friend.
Maybe not? Because she turned and whispered in my ear, “He was checking you out–”
He was? Before I knew it, the party was moving to a hotel bar down the street. That’s when I asked him what his name was.
Wait, was he the guy my friend had mentioned two years ago, “The ____?”
Sure enough, when I looked around, Ronnie was giving me that “look” that said, “It’s him!”
I took in all the details that night: his blue eyes, his wavy salt-and-pepper hair (okay, more pepper than salt), and his contagious laugh.
The more I talked to him, however, I noticed a geeky side. Yes, he’s a scientist, and one of those guys who loves data and figuring out how things work (which I find very sexy).
Then, it was past midnight. The rest of the party had gone home.
He’d missed BART, but told me that he’d crash at a friend’s. I said that I’d catch a cab back to my Dad’s.
Before we left the bar, however, he made a big faux pas.
Can you guess what he did?
Clue: He DID ask for my phone number. (He actually asked for my number about half an hour into our conversation – and he called me later to make sure that I got home safely.)
For the record, I emailed him that I might write something on my blog, and he begged me to mention his tight abs. (Hence the statue from Panathinaiko Stadium.) He signed it, “Mr. about-to-be-in-the-public-eye”
So, what did he do at the end of the evening?
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