Some years ago, a co-worker had accompanied a friend as moral support to a band audition. My co-worker, M, saw a lovely-looking guy exiting the audition room with a saxophone. She worked up the nerve to introduce herself and they chatted about random things: the weather, the L train, the Beatles vs. the Stones, and then the friend was called to perform. During the hubbub, they went their separate ways and never exchanged phone numbers. This is not an unusual story, except for what happens next.
But first there’s a little something you should know about M. She was a helpless romantic. She believed in Prince Charming and messages in bottles and that all you need is love. She had plans to get married at Cinderella’s castle with Jiminy Cricket singing “When You Wish upon a Star.” For Halloween she always dressed as a princess. She was the original daydream believer.
Knowing this, it may not come as a surprise that in the days following her chance encounter, M pined for the sax player. She dreamed of the perfection that was him and before the week was out she’d picked names for their three kids. She finally called the company that had hosted the audition and begged for his phone number. The receptionist must have admired M’s chutzpah. She relayed the message to Mr. Sax Player and gave him M’s number. He called her and they went on a date. (By the way, this scenario is only remotely plausible if you are in your early 20’s like M and her sax-playing man. Then it’s earnest and heady and just a touch clandestine. After a certain age it kind of crosses the line to desperate and stalkerish.)
It’s not just M who was fabulously optimistic in her pursuit of true love. Patrick Moberg proved me wrong and fell head over heels on the 5 train a few months ago.
Moberg isn’t alone in his search for Ms. Right. Just yesterday there were 100 posts on Craigslist in NYC searching for a “missed connection,” whether that took place on a platform or in a Starbucks. Let’s say you saw your future husband on the subway but, for whatever reason, you couldn’t speak to him. Just post an ad and sit back until your honey comes a-calling.
“i think you live in greenpoint because i’ve seen you maybe 3 times on the G. you were wearing a blue shirt and white shorts maybe, with long dirty blonde hair in a pony tail. you had a bag that said “ralph” on it. you got off at 5th ave and it saddened me. i’ve got dark hair, i was wearing jeans and a green collared shirt. i don’t think you’ll read this, but hopefully next time i will be courageous and make the damn move.”
“It was Saturday night around 10 pm at the 2 or 3 train going to brooklyn. You had a slimless shirt with white and blue stripes, some blue jeans and some tennis shoes with a roster logo. I tried to keep eye contact from you, i was wearing some shorts and a green tshirt. I got off the Eastern park way museum stop. I wanted to say hi and talk to you”
“me: at the southern end of the car. Glasses large photo bag. Kept looking your way. You: other end of car. Blue dress. Red hair. Kept looking my way, thought it was at me, could be wrong though. A clown got on the car at union or ninth.” (My note: only in NY)
Alas, it seems that you would have a better chance of finding true love at a “foot and back rub” place on the Lower East Side. Moberg wasn’t going to take any chances on the love of his life. He decided to create a web page to find his lady – http://www.nygirlofmydreams.com. In a city of eight million people it took him 48 hours to find said girl of his dreams, one Camille Hayton living in Brooklyn originally from Melbourne, Australia. Hayton’s girlfriend spotted her sketched likeness on the website and called her.
The results? My former co-worker M married – someone else – and apparently is pregnant with their first baby. Moberg and Hayton dated for two months, but they’ve decided to “just be friends.”
An “A” for effort to all parties involved. It gets me thinking. Maybe someone is looking for me and I don’t even know it! I wonder what my ad would look like.
You: Gurl with ipod dozing on 2 train. U R so k-ute. Don’t worry. It’s ok.
Me: sittin’ a little too close w/ my backpack. What language do you speak?
(See You Are So Cute post)