Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Luckraking

I think my luck may have indeed taken sharp left into Charmedville.

I ran out of work this evening directly onto a 6 train, and from there immediately onto a Q. I even enjoyed a bizarre musical interlude on my walk between the two--this panflute/bongo ensemble was playing sort of an Andean rendition of "“More Than a Woman"” by the Bee Gees. Better still, I found a seat, albeit a cramped one, between two dudes. I perched my tuchas on the edge, turned up my iPod, looked up to survey the car for crazies, celebrities and lookers, and spotted a unicorn.

Well, a metaphorical unicorn. A personal unicorn. This guy that I met once for about two hours, about two years ago. He was the friend of an acquaintance, and she was one of those girls with so many attractive male friends that none of them seem particularly remarkable to her. She would introduce me to some dazzling, freakish, possibly genetically engineered specimen of the male gender. While I left a trail of drool behind me like a lovesick snail, she would shake her head and insist he was a nerd. "You like HIM?" she would ask, as if I had just confessed my deep attraction to Larry King.

But yes, I totally liked HIM, which I felt was reasonable considering he had a perfect face, and a great sense of humor, and an enviable and fascinating job, and was also really nice, and funny too, if just a little bit preppy. I think I said one word to him, which was my name. Even so, he made such an impression I've probably thought about him once a month since then.

Sick, yes. But I'm hoping in a way that makes me seem innocent and romantic, not obsessive and pathological.

Anyway, iPod on, crammed between two napping businessmen, I look up and he's standing across the way. The best thing about wearing headphones is that you've basically got a free pass to eavesdrop. I turned down the volume. He'’d gotten scruffier since the first time I met him, which means he was now entirely perfect. He needed a haircut, his plaid shirt was wrinkly, and he wasn'’t wearing any socks. He was talking to his companion about wanting to eat pizza and sit on the beach.

Most of the time seeing a really good-looking guy is like a punch to the chest. There's nothing more I want to do than sit next to him, talk to him, hold his hand, tackle him to the ground, whatever, but I'’m not going to do any of those things. He is a stranger, and I am not a felon. The second passes, the station nears, and my chance to ogle to the David of the D train (or whoever it is tickling my funny bone) is over. And it sucks.

But this guy, this was like seeing a fucking leprechaun. A big sexy leprechaun I spotted two years ago and I'’ve been looking for since. It's hard to feel sad about not getting up on a guy like that when I consider how lucky I am just to lay eyes on him twice in my life. Pathetically lucky, but happily pathetic. Guys like that one are mythical to me, and I guess I'd prefer to keep it that way. I'd rather have miraculous sightings than painful extended pinings.

Although.

If I could just kick this luck thing into high gear, perhaps I could line up some serious making out.

In which case, if you need me, I'’ll be in Central Park on my hands and knees looking for four leaf clovers.

2 Comments:

Anonymous anonymous mom said...

ack! you could have said "hi" in your breathiest voice, like the way you sang kids in america.

12:58 PM  
Anonymous nicole-yeah that one said...

you should have said more than just hi - you should have been on your hands and knees in front of hot boy - not at central park. no...that's just what i would have done...and never strive to do anything like that...you just end up lonely (and/but with a kid)

10:38 AM  

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