The Missed Connection We All Wish Was About Us…

So I have seen a few friends post this on facebook, and it literally is the most amazing missed connection that ever was. It almost makes you want to smile at all the strangers you see in case you can make a magical connection with them, but then you realize you have been doing that anyway….and it usually turns out to be a full on monet. Oh you know what I’m talking about…


And now on to the most wonderful missed connection that ever was:

Posted: 2013-08-06, 6:50PM EDT

Missed Connection – m4w

I saw you on the Manhattan-bound Brooklyn Q train.

I was wearing a blue-striped t-shirt and a pair of maroon pants. You were wearing a vintage red skirt and a smart white blouse. We both wore glasses. I guess we still do.

You got on at DeKalb and sat across from me and we made eye contact, briefly. I fell in love with you a little bit, in that stupid way where you completely make up a fictional version of the person you’re looking at and fall in love with that person. But still I think there was something there.

Several times we looked at each other and then looked away. I tried to think of something to say to you — maybe pretend I didn’t know where I was going and ask you for directions or say something nice about your boot-shaped earrings, or just say, “Hot day.” It all seemed so stupid.

At one point, I caught you staring at me and you immediately averted your eyes. You pulled a book out of your bag and started reading it — a biography of Lyndon Johnson — but I noticed you never once turned a page.

My stop was Union Square, but at Union Square I decided to stay on, rationalizing that I could just as easily transfer to the 7 at 42nd Street, but then I didn’t get off at 42nd Street either. You must have missed your stop as well, because when we got all the way to the end of the line at Ditmars, we both just sat there in the car, waiting.

I cocked my head at you inquisitively. You shrugged and held up your book as if that was the reason.

Still I said nothing.

We took the train all the way back down — down through Astoria, across the East River, weaving through midtown, from Times Square to Herald Square to Union Square, under SoHo and Chinatown, up across the bridge back into Brooklyn, past Barclays and Prospect Park, past Flatbush and Midwood and Sheepshead Bay, all the way to Coney Island. And when we got to Coney Island, I knew I had to say something.

Still I said nothing.

And so we went back up.

Up and down the Q line, over and over. We caught the rush hour crowds and then saw them thin out again. We watched the sun set over Manhattan as we crossed the East River. I gave myself deadlines: I’ll talk to her before Newkirk; I’ll talk to her before Canal. Still I remained silent.

For months we sat on the train saying nothing to each other. We survived on bags of skittles sold to us by kids raising money for their basketball teams. We must have heard a million mariachi bands, had our faces nearly kicked in by a hundred thousand break dancers. I gave money to the beggars until I ran out of singles. When the train went above ground I’d get text messages and voicemails (“Where are you? What happened? Are you okay?”) until my phone ran out of battery.

I’ll talk to her before daybreak; I’ll talk to her before Tuesday. The longer I waited, the harder it got. What could I possibly say to you now, now that we’ve passed this same station for the hundredth time? Maybe if I could go back to the first time the Q switched over to the local R line for the weekend, I could have said, “Well, this is inconvenient,” but I couldn’t very well say it now, could I? I would kick myself for days after every time you sneezed — why hadn’t I said “Bless You”? That tiny gesture could have been enough to pivot us into a conversation, but here in stupid silence still we sat.

There were nights when we were the only two souls in the car, perhaps even on the whole train, and even then I felt self-conscious about bothering you. She’s reading her book, I thought, she doesn’t want to talk to me. Still, there were moments when I felt a connection. Someone would shout something crazy about Jesus and we’d immediately look at each other to register our reactions. A couple of teenagers would exit, holding hands, and we’d both think: Young Love.

For sixty years, we sat in that car, just barely pretending not to notice each other. I got to know you so well, if only peripherally. I memorized the folds of your body, the contours of your face, the patterns of your breath. I saw you cry once after you’d glanced at a neighbor’s newspaper. I wondered if you were crying about something specific, or just the general passage of time, so unnoticeable until suddenly noticeable. I wanted to comfort you, wrap my arms around you, assure you I knew everything would be fine, but it felt too familiar; I stayed glued to my seat.

One day, in the middle of the afternoon, you stood up as the train pulled into Queensboro Plaza. It was difficult for you, this simple task of standing up, you hadn’t done it in sixty years. Holding onto the rails, you managed to get yourself to the door. You hesitated briefly there, perhaps waiting for me to say something, giving me one last chance to stop you, but rather than spit out a lifetime of suppressed almost-conversations I said nothing, and I watched you slip out between the closing sliding doors.

It took me a few more stops before I realized you were really gone. I kept waiting for you to reenter the subway car, sit down next to me, rest your head on my shoulder. Nothing would be said. Nothing would need to be said.

When the train returned to Queensboro Plaza, I craned my neck as we entered the station. Perhaps you were there, on the platform, still waiting. Perhaps I would see you, smiling and bright, your long gray hair waving in the wind from the oncoming train.

But no, you were gone. And I realized most likely I would never see you again. And I thought about how amazing it is that you can know somebody for sixty years and yet still not really know that person at all.

I stayed on the train until it got to Union Square, at which point I got off and transferred to the L.

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Posting ID: 3985247459

Posted: 2013-08-06, 6:50PM EDT

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The Time I Got Tucker Maxed

Well, hi there readers! Sorry for the LONG extended break…but mono is a bitch, and of course life decided to hit me while I was down already, and I am currently spending my days with the ladies of The View (not really), drinking like Hoda and Kathie Lee (nope), and enjoying my freedom in more ways than one (a new version of two truths and a lie…2 lies and a truth!)


So hopefully this title is intriguing to you- but no, I did not HAVE SEX with Tucker Max. I merely refer to one of his infamous stories. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Continue reading

SadSingleGal Gets a Phone Call…

FROM A BOY!!!!! I know….pretty exciting, right? Funny thing is though, I had no clue at the time it was even happening. Which you are reading that and going, what, um, how, what…um, explain?

So if you recall, I “Dear SSG”-ed myself (I already have a blog called The Sad Adventures of A Single Gal…so there really is no shame) about a guy I was interested in and had met at a party. Well, I took the advice of a friend and actually wrote this guy a note. I stuck it in his mailbox at work, and heard nothing back. I then proceeded to completely forget about the guy, the note, and the situation in general….(I was in Hawaii after all- I am getting to that, I promise. I have just been busy!)

Can I go back, please? No really!

Continue reading

A Date, or Not A Date? That is the Question.

Part of what makes my sad single self so wonderfully sad, is my ability to be completely dense when it comes to anything romantic involving myself. When it comes to others, I can see it clear as day. To quote the classic amazing film that I have seen a lot because it is always on TBS, The Wedding Planner, starring none other than romantically challenged herself diva, Jennifer Lopez, “You know the expression. Those who don’t do teach? Well those who don’t wed plan!”

Sidenote about this movie and all of J. Lo's movies: she is always either 1. an orphan 2. has a dead parent 3. italian or white (which she clearly nis't)....why? just let her have two parents and be Puerto Rican or at least Mexican?

Well, I am basically ‘ole Jenny from the Block in the wedding planner, except no hot doctor is saving me from a dumpster rolling down the street to kill me. But I am that dense. If love was a dumpster it literally would have to run me over for me to notice it. I am basically that scene in Clueless where she is wandering around Bev Hills and then and the exact same moment the fountain goes off behind her in a triumphant cinematic moment, Cher realizes:

But Cher realizes BEFORE Tai does anything, before she has lost Josh! I seem to have these (far less triumphant moments…where is my special effects team to time fountains to my feelings??) when I actually realizes that someone has had any inkling of flirting, or whatever you could call toward me? Which is why I ask “A date or not a date?” (a la Hamlet, of course…although everyone did die in that. Hmmm.)

At least Hamlet had Yorik...

Some things I seem to be having a-ha moments about or can recognize when it happens to others that makes me go DATE:

    1. If they show actual interest in you. This can often be misconstrued with someone asking questions simply to fill time. But if you have brought something up in conversation, and they remember it (!) by at least the end of the evening, this probably means they aren’t just filling time before they call their FWB.
    2. If a guy offers to pay for your drink, and then keeps his tab open. This is a move that I often don’t realize is happening and offer to get the next round…don’t it will turn date into not a date.
    3. If you are complimented on an object of clothing, hair, and/or eyes. Guys do not notice these things if they are not looking for SOME reason.

Any quickly realize it is NOT a date:

    1. If an ex is mentioned in ANY way! Or worse, a CURRENT girlfriend! Or worse, a current BOYFRIEND! (I can be dense, but my gaydar is good at least).
    2. If you have to go dutch on dinner! And even worse, if the guy doesn’t understand that you offering to pay is fake it makes you split…happened to a friend…ouch!

This is all I have so far…maybe the dense fog will start to clear for me a little? Let’s just hope the sun hasn’t already started to set once I can clearly see (ok, enough with the weird nature/romance metaphors). Happy dating/non-dating!

What will probably happen to me if I stay sad and single...or if I don't get Botox

Some “Famous” Sad Single Ladies of the Past

So sometimes it kind of feels like we will never find someone. That our single days will never come to an end. Well, apparently, we are in some pretty good company (although, not all of these ladies are lookers)… Continue reading