Sometimes, when you’re in the dating dumps, you have to network.

So there I was, 4:45 on a miserable Wednesday afternoon. Work is blah, weather is blech. I get a random text from a colleague.

“Meet me at Sugar Lounge at 6:00. My friend Todd and a couple of his friends are there for happy hour.”

I met Todd a while back. Wonderful man, unbelievably accomplished in a very difficult field. So, I’m in.

At this point I should let you know that I know Todd is gay. Which is why he is a very good place to park myself for an hour on a bleary weeknight when I feel dead in the dating waters. You know, no pressure.

Todd is there with a bunch of friends. My colleague and I make small talk with all of them about the weather, our rents, our kids, boxers vs. briefs. I learn there is such a thing as boxer briefs.

I look up. This place has filled up with men. There are suits, jeans, mogul-looking types and a few guys who look like they want to kill somebody.

I nudge my colleague. Time to add another blog post? She nods.

So there I go, down the long sprinkly-lit noisy bar to find a guy. I see a bar stool free, one guy standing next it, talking to a guy seated next the aforementioned empty stool.

I panic. OMG these guys are successful-looking. But they have noticed me standing there like I need a bar stool, and they are smiling.

Turns out that the very clean-cut gentleman is in real estate, and he’s showing condos at a large new building near me. Now, with my salary and all, I am in no position to leave my current apartment, let along BUY anything in this city. But hey, can’t hurt to have a look, right? We’re hitting it off so ….

I ask him for his card. He doesn’t seem to not have one. So I run back to my group and grab my wallet. I give the guy my business card. “I’d love a tour sometime,” I say.

Addie? What the HELL did you just do?
Back at my table, My new friends are waving me off like I’m a small plane coming in too steep for a landing.

“No! Not that! Addie. Do NOT ever give a guy your BUSINESS CARD.”

I’m in a bind. Do I go take the card back? (I know you’re all hoping I did because, well, it’s fun to watch Addie do awkward things.)

No. Nope. Because this is the whole point of all my Going Out and Talking to Men. I do it all the time now. Sometimes I get it sorta right. But I do learn when I get it wrong. (Sorta.)

Todd turns out to be very useful. After his lecture and my lame excuses, he looks around. He points out another guy and tells me to get back in the game.

That went better.

And this bring us to what is next up: Love or money?

So, dear readers, it’s clear that I took a big old break from this meeting-men-in-person thing. Truth is, going out to meet men in real-life is exhausting. Also, a guy I had met long ago on dating site called me up and we started dating again.

…and that eventually ended.

So, after taking a few months to restore my energy (and the sheer force of will required to get back in the game), This One Girl is now ready to Go back Out.

(As you recall, Addie ((that’s me)), is trying to find the love of her life strictly offline. This blog is all about how she goes about this …)

Take a Deep Breath …

The place? The bar at the Alamo Drafthouse. The night? New Year’s Eve.

I had purchased a ticket to see a movie and went in early to check out the bar scene.

Practicing all my dating coach’s advice, I wore a bright color, chatted with the bartender, and made brief eye contact with men who walked in. I turned myself around from the bar, smiled and looked around the room. This is body language that says that I am available, am a happy person, and I’m up for conversation.

Now, remember, it is New Year’s Eve. So the men tromping in were either on a date, or clumped with roughly 12 other men, to get their New Year’s ON, if you know what I mean.

Oh, did I mention what time this is, exactly? Sigh … 6:00 pm … Men sorta look at me, then look away. Maybe they think I’m waiting for my date?

Her Name was Lola

All of the sudden I’m that old faded nightclub showgirl. You know, Lola, from the Barry Manilow song. I can practically feel the faded feathers sprouting in my hair. I’m reminded of the time in Vegas when I felt like a hooker, when I approached a bunch of men in a Irish pub. I start to feel despair creeping into my evening.

A bearded, nose-ringed millennial sits two bar stools down and orders several beers for his buddies back at, what I imagine, is a happier table.

“How’s your night going?’ he says.

“Just great!” I lie.

Silence. I’m about to say something about the weather when he tips his glass to me and bids me a happy new year. He strolls off with his beers for his buddies.

I check my watch. Movie starts in five minutes. Saved by Hollywood this time.

And so begins my next round of One Girl Goes Out.

Until next time, dear readers. I super-double-promise something happier to report.

So, dear readers, things are getting a little dull.

In my quest to find the Love of My Life by only talking to men I meet offline, I have become good at smiling and saying, ‘hi.’ I have become great at getting dates after singles’ dances and speed dating. But the results, lately, have been disappointing for me.

And so I practice another skill that Annie, my dating coach, taught me: how to say ‘no’ after about date number three.

It’s simple, really. Call him up, meet for coffee. Say you’ve been thinking about it, and it’s not a match. He’s a great person, but it’s just not going to work between the two of you. At this point he may be relieved and agree. Or argue a bit. Whatever it is  — smile, listen, and repeat. Wish him the best and walk away.

Walking. Smiling. Walking some more.

Onward. This weekend I took myself to the annual SFPorchfest. A lovely bunch of free music all over my neighborhood (shout out to Gutter Swan! You guys nailed Red Dirt Girl!) and I am smiling at men. Their wives are glaring back at me. No matter. I smile at them too.

I’m about to head to the next band when I get the call: my reading glasses are ready.

New glasses & a Jaguar

So there I am, all the way downtown on a detour to pick up my glasses. They are blue and I want to wear them as I head back home, but they are for reading so everybody looks fuzzy as I head down Kearny Street. I am vain, so I keep them on.

The men downtown are in a fuzzy abundance today, so I continue my smiling and saying ‘hi.’ Things are going really well, and I’m up to about a dozen men.

Then I make a terrible mistake.

Ma’am, might I ask you a question?

You know those perfume/makeup/beauty supply places where men stand outside the door, offer you a sample of something, and then ask if they can ask you a question?

If you’re a woman who has ever gone shopping, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Well. I did it. I smiled and said hello to the handsome young Brazilian man who handed me a small sample of moisturizer. Now that he is closer, he is no longer fuzzy. His tan skin and hazel eyes are delicious. His small anchor beard is hipster without going overboard and suits his face impeccably. Before I could say ‘but I have 23 jars of moisturizer at home!’ I’m in the store, seated and being complimented about something as his hazel eyes gaze steadily at me.

I put my regular glasses on. This is going to take 20/20 vision to get out of.

Jaguar to the rescue!

Aha! My middle-aged mind is still working. I whip out my phone.

“Okay, I know you want to sell me something, but first I have to ask you a question,” I say.

Handsome Brazilian looks miffed and shrugs.

“What kind of car is this?” I shove my phone toward him and ask.

You see, that morning I’d received a text message from a guy I’d dated awhile back  — it didn’t work out — but we stayed friends and talk once in a while. His text message was a photo of a car he’d just bought.

Ugh. It looked very nice. And he seemed very pleased with his purchase. But I am terrible at car makes and models, so I just texted back …. ‘Whoa, nice!’

And now, in the thick of these handsome (and I assume lovers of the finer things in life) young gentlemen in the store, I figured they would know what car we were looking at.

Brazilian guy unfortunately is not a car guy. I walk back outside to a throng of other  gentlemen and show them the photo.

Silence. Their eyes widen and then a slow nod of appreciation.

“That’s a brand-new Jaguar,” says one.

“It is? Wow! Thanks guys”

I turn and walk away. Brazilian yells that he has another quick question for me. But I don’t hear him.

##

There’s this thing that happens a lot in movies: that moment when it all comes together and life just starts clicking. In a romance, in a business, even in a journey through loss.

So, what follows here is my Hollywood montage of just such a time for me as my journey  — to go off the grid and talk to guys I don’t know — seems to hit a high note.

You are so smart!

I’m sitting alone at an airport bar having a salad. I am about to get on a plane for a short getaway that I couldn’t pass up. A harried older gentleman brumbles up to the bar with a jumble of luggage.

As you all recall, I am practicing talking to men, flirting a little, and getting out of my shell as I recover from a lost romance that really did me in.

A bar in an airport is like ground zero for my project. But I am feeling a hiccup in my confidence so I keep to myself.

“Oh my god, you are so smart!”

It’s the harried guy next to me.

“What ..?” I reply.

“These hook thingies under the bar! I never saw something like this before and I can put my stuff on them!”

This man is in his 60s. We get to talking. He says he is back from China  and on his way home to Boston. He orders a red chowder, which alas, this establishment does not serve. He settles happily for the white chowder. He warns me that he has to inhale his dinner because his connecting flight boards in 15 minutes. He jokes that he misses Fox TV but doesn’t dare ask for it in San Francisco. He banters easily with the bartender. His Boston accent is thick.

I forget what else we talked about. He rushes off to make his flight, bidding me a goodbye and a winked wish that I have a safe trip.

Now, there is no way that man, a world traveller who clearly spent a lot of time in bars throughout his life, had never encountered one with hooks beneath the bar to hang stuff on.

Oh my gosh! Was that a pickup line?

I remain baffled because I gave this guy no friendly cues as I sat alone, staring at my salad. But he took a chance to chat me up anyway.

Curious.

Is that the Grand Canyon?

I am now sitting alone at a window seat on a fairly empty plane. There’s an open seat between me and a guy wearing a Yankees cap and sweats. I have my nose in a book, but alternately look out the window to watch the Rocky Mountains under me.

“Is that the Grand Canyon?” Yankees cap guy asks me, out of the blue.

His smirk tells me he doesn’t really think it’s the Grand Canyon.

“Noooo..” I smile.

For the next hour Yankees cap guy and I hit it off. He tells me he’s a chef and shows me pictures on his phone. I love to talk about food so our conversation swerves around Anthony Bourdain, Ruth Reichl, and the fact that he doesn’t like to cook eggs.

Somehow we get back to the burning question regarding the Grand Canyon and he whips out his phone again to show me pictures he took on a long-ago vacation to the very place. The photos include one of him and a woman.

“My wife,” he says. Alas.

“My soon-to-be ex-wife,” he adds. Turns out she is sitting a few feet away. He tells me they are on their way to a quickie divorce in Reno.

I feel all the sudden that I am in a movie.

And then he asks me for my number. I have a Google Voice number, so I give it to him.

We have landed, and everyone is engaged in the tired dance of luggage pulling and standing around. When the crowd starts to move, Yankees cap guy says he’ll be in touch, and gets his stuff and heads up the aisle. The future ex-wife (or so I am told) shuffles by and smiles at me.

Remember, I was once married. So I am pretty sure her smile means ‘thank you for taking this man I am SO DONE WITH off my hands for 70 minutes.’

I smile back.

I am now on hour two of  my trip and two men have hit me up for conversation.

What is happening?

The long, long, long line

Fast forward to my trip home. I am at the airport at the end of the Mother of All TSA Lines.

There are an astonishing number of men in this line speaking with various British accents. I am curious. They all are heading home from the same conference and, it would appear, the mass exodus is coupled with a short-staffed airport TSA. So I am annoyed. I am tired and have a long day at work tomorrow. I put my headphones on.

That’s when someone taps me on the shoulder.

“Hallo,” he whispers.

He continues, “I am returning home with the people in front of you, and I was wondering if you would be upset if I cut in?”

I whisper back to go for it, but I can’t speak for the 500 hapless travelers behind me.

And so begins an on-the-ground version of a one hour flight with a guy talking to me.

I ask about why he was in town and he proceeds to inform me that he and all these other folks were in fact at a big electronics convention and this record-breaking security line means he’ll miss his flight and his wife at home will give him hell for it. We discuss the importance of ALWAYS telling one’s significant other that the trip you are on without them is going horribly.

On and off he wanders into conversation with his buddies in front of us. Then back to me.

“Oh, are you still here?” he jokes.

“Well, I was just about to give up and walk home, but I’m dying to know if in fact you make your flight, so I’ll stick around to see the fun,” I say.

It goes on pretty much like that until, as we finally reach the passport and boarding pass check, a TSA agent separates us. I’m absolutely positive it was on purpose.

Thanks for joining me

And so ends my Hollywood montage of random men talking to me. And my longest blog post to date. I was really on a roll there.

————————————————

Up next: Enough with the talking; let’s find a guy to go out with.

Want to learn how I got here? Check out Annie Gleason, the most fabulous of dating coaches.

Okay, so I’ve been goofing around with random guys at the library, with some funny exchanges on the elevator …. you know, sorta easy stuff. It’s all part of my six-month homework project as I work with the fabulous dating coach Annie Gleason.

Annie helps me feel less stress when going out and about (she gives me short goals, like, talk to three men and then I can go home ).

But you know what? I kinda miss the straight-ahead-I’m-here-for-romance conversations. Yet, I still want to practice my short flirty conversations.

What to do?

Aha! Speed dating to the rescue.

Now, for those of you who have never tried it, it CAN be intimidating. I mean, you sit there at your table, your little number propped up (last night I was #2), and wait for the random gentlemen who signed up for this event to come talk to you. You get five minutes together.

The only thing you know about them at the beginning is that they are in your age range. And that they are here.

Oh, hey … umm.. YOU!

This is the second speed dating event I’ve been to in as many years. So I’m not exactly a regular. Turns out some people are.

I’m signing in, getting my name tag, and looking around for the bartender. As is usually the case, I am early.

I feel someone staring at me just to my left. I turn, he smiles, and I kind of recognize his smile.

Yep. This is someone I met here last time, about a year ago. We’d gone out for coffee the following week, and then another time I think, lunch. Which was where I told him I felt we weren’t a match.

… And now here he is.

“Well hey there .. Dave!” (Short note: at this thing we are all given a ‘scorecard’ of sorts where we see all the people’s names, table numbers, and there’s a yes and a no box and a place to jot notes about the conversation you’d had. With scorecard in hand, I had glanced at the men’s names moments before. I took an educated  guess this guy in front of me was named ‘Dave.’ Alas, I was wrong)

“What’d you say?” he says as we hug a quick hello. I look down at the nametag on his shirt. It mocks me, saying “Toby.”

“I said, ‘Hey, nice to see you Toby!'” I lie.

He gets it. After all, he is a very sweet person, as I’m starting to remember now.

The place is slowly filling up with men and women of all shapes and sizes.

As is usually the case, there are more women than men at tonight’s event.

Toby seems interested in continuing our pre-speed conversation. He says I must be available, since I am here.

This is going to be a very, very long evening.