I had Saturday School today. Yeah. One of my friends asked if I was in trouble and reenacting “Breakfast Club.” That would’ve been more entertaining. Am I more Ally Sheedy or Molly Ringwald? I don’t know. Definitely would have gone for Judd Nelson though. HOT. Or, and I know this is weird, the teacher. Something about that man…

don’t you…forget about me…dontdontdontdooooonttt youuu

I wasn’t in trouble; it was part of my credential program to go to a seminar about teaching English Learners. Fascinating, but for another day, another blog. The seminar was at 8am on a Saturday (sigh) in a building 50 minutes away. I was tempted to just roll out of bed, glasses, unbrushed hair, sweatpants. BUT. Then I thought….what if my future husband is at this meeting? There are going to be people from all over the Bay Area at this meeting…hmmm…..could this be the day??

See, this is how the mind of a single girl works. Every opportunity where we might meet new people becomes this “event.” The once mundane becomes valuable and important. Because we are all waiting to meet the mythical Mr. Right. Even when you’re at a stage where you feel totally okay with being single, which I am, you’re still always wondering  “is today is the day?!” That mythical, magical day, the day that you will both talk about fondly, and you will each remember totally different details, but it is forever known as “the day we met.” For a good reference of how adorable “how we met” stories are for girls, check out “When Harry Met Sally.” Every girl wants a story like that.

So I got up. I made an effort. I settled on a lime green sweater and a scarf, skinny jeans with boots. I had gone to bed with wet hair so there was nothing I could do about the mess that was on top of my head, but I slammed a headband into the fray and hoped for the best.

I walked into the room….and there he was. I immediately saw Future Husband. He was wearing worn jeans with flip flops, flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up, backpack, slouchy beanie, bracelets, big brown eyes. He looked like “I travel, I’m soulful, I’m way smart, but I want to dedicate my life to these kids, man. They deserve my best.” So.freaking.cute. I swooned. I started calling him “Ben” in my head. But some mom  (based on the high-waist Cosco jeans) was already sitting next to him! Curses! I grabbed a seat behind his desk for proper viewing. Then…the announcement – we were changing rooms! This was my chance! I let him walk in first and find a spot, but then a girl beelined for the seat next to him! Gah! So I settled for second best; a seat directly in front.

“Searching for a boy in high school is as useless as searching for meaning in a Pauly Shore movie.”

Then, despite my degrees and self-respect and having read books like The Rules and He’s Just Not That Into You, I became the stereotypical girl.

I refused to actually look at him or talk to him, but I made sure he could look at me. I felt like Cher in Clueless, sending herself flowers from an imaginary boyfriend became me pretending all my text messages were from boys. I played with my hair, positioned myself sideways, made witty commentary on the lecture.  I wrote my name at the top of my paper so he could easily see it. I found a clock on the wall behind his head and “checked the time” every ten minutes. The result of which is he probably thinks I can’t read face clocks.

Why do we do these things? Do boys even notice? I have tried tricks like these and similar since I was 11. I can remember doing stupid stuff like this for Eric’s benefit in sixth grade, Jeff’s freshman year, John’s sophomore year, Joey’s junior year, Jordan’s senior year. And actually…it worked on all occasions. And OMG a lot of J’s.

But unfortunately, not on Hottie who may or may not be named Ben. Or maybe it almost did. At the break I sprinted out to the courtyard to call BFF and he walked out after me, watched me walk around a planter box on the phone for a minute, and then walked back in. This could be because I was on the phone…or because I accidentally broke off a piece of the bronze sculpture dedicated to Cesar Chavez as I walked among the flowers….

But who knows. This was the first of many seminars. I hope I see him again. Maybe somehow, somewhere, he’s writing a similar blog (he looked like a writer) and pining after the girl he let get away. I just hope its me and not the tramp who sat next to him before I could.

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