It is a bit past 4:00am; I’m enjoying my first sips of coffee. Today is Thanksgiving. To quote my stoic mother: “…it’s just another day.” She will spend her day alone and I will mirror her action across the many miles that separate us for good reasons. No one suspects my secret isolation; I lobbed one lie after another in yesterday’s workplace when the topic of Thanksgiving came up. Some think I’m visiting relatives in the suburbs; some heard about my reservations at The Ritz-Carlton. One heard about my sharing today with my zany flight attendant neighbor who is only in town for a few hours before jetting off to Tokyo. I’m pretty good at spinning yarns and have knit myself an ordinary day from this hi-rise apartment in the sky.
Speaking of my apartment building: Last night when I was coming back from the market with a frozen pizza and a six-pack of Corona Light I ran into a gentleman who lives in the building that has shared the occasional bit of conversation when we meet in the parking garage, the laundry room, and the front lobby while waiting for a taxi. I believe he may be 40-something; he’s a smidge taller than myself and always sports a bit of scruff. It looks good on his face. And while not immediately smoking hot there is an unmistakable appeal — a magnetic draw, that sort of makes me go all school girl crush when we meet by chance.
Last night was no different as we met each other; one getting off the elevator as one got on the lift. He held the door: “…Are you in town this weekend? We should have a drink.” I guess my look of sheer amazement that someone (a) engaged me in conversation and (b) posed the ‘let’s have a drink’ question was deer-in-headlights quizzical enough for him to make that universal handwriting scribble as one does when one wants the check from a waitress: “…but I don’t have your number” That was met with my automatic reflex of a shrug as if to suggest “sorry, not my problem” but then he did something I did not expect. Something I did not see coming: he swooped in and pecked me on the cheek. “Seriously. Let’s have a drink. My apartment is #0000.” and off he spun through the revolving lobby door.
Needless to say his 35-seconds of interaction has played through my brain more times than NASA examining The Challenger explosion film footage. Why? Why does this man want me to have a drink? And by “drink” does he mean to imply more? He’s sort of dirty, bad boy with the perpetual scruff and hazel eyes that seem to pierce through my great wall of all-men-are-dogs mindset.
But I watched OPRAH recently. Yes, that’s how sad and lonely it’s become around here. I. watched. OPRAH. And here’s the thing: she had some psychologist relationship guru/doctor-type on and they were counseling a member of the audience who was waiting for her perfect mate. What he said made a lightbulb go off in my brain: “Stop waiting for the universe to provide. While you wait for the universe the universe is waiting for you to be the best possible YOU and that is not going to happen while you sit and wait for the perfect this or the perfect that to knock on your door; be open to the universe. YOU provide YOU — the best possible you, and see what that energy attracts.”
I’m paraphrasing but that was the gist of it all. Like, stop with the expectations, stop with the ‘he must be this/he must be that’ and just be open to what comes my way. Maybe ‘we should have a drink’ is the universe saying hello.