Smooth Operator.

Why is it so hard to make a connection?

I had a nice time with Shortcake. I think it went well. I was nervous the entire time and as expected every piece of sushi was working against me. I got something stuck in my side molar and tried to keep one half of my mouth closed while relaying a story. I must have looked like a stroke victim. Of course, Shortcake handled her sushi like a Geisha, every movement perfectly choreographed, no rice spilled, no soy sauce dripped, no napkin necessary. I half-expected a fan dance and tea ceremony. Seriously, the woman gracefully ate a hand-roll with chopsticks! I thought the name alone implied a certain level of chicken-lickin’ slobbery. I picked mine up like a barbarian and crammed it in my mouth as if it were my wedding day and I alone was eating the cake. I am sure she was duly impressed.

Yes, my nerves got the better of me. And it turns out Shortcake isn’t one for excessive drinking (she obviously doesn't have children), now it could be a moderation thing or a first date thing. It remains to be seen. But I truly needed a second glass of wine during our 3-hour encounter, if only to rinse the seaweed out of my teeth.

We talked about family, people in the book club, marriage and how we met our husbands. There were no uncomfortable lulls in the conversation. She was intelligent and bright. I liked her. But I was informed that she had been seeing quite a few of the members for intimate one-on-one time. She wanted to make new friends, but needed to see if there was really any chemistry. The news came as a blow to my fragile ego. I thought I was the chosen one, I thought she found me irresistible and couldn’t control her enthusiasm or desire for another humorous encounter. I tried to keep my composure upon hearing the devastating truth. I was being interviewed.

So, I am just one of many, another trial for her study. I was also informed that she would be filtering out some of the people at the close of the query. And all of this confused and frightened me. I thought, “Is she telling me this because I made the cut? I am on the inside track and I get to know her strategy? Or is this a warning?” I had a hard time sleeping because you just can’t tell where a person is coming from when you don’t know them. This is just the type of stressful situation that triggers my anxiety.

I suddenly worried if she had gotten my jokes, and was amused or disgusted by my life stories. I couldn’t possibly know how I did—it was unnerving.

She did say as we departed, “Well, I invited you on this date, so it is your move next time.” Okay. I feel an undo amount of pressure, like I should be booking a hot-air balloon ride or champagne brunch cruise. She seems to be a professional meet-and-greet-gal, I am convinced she could run for office. She’s got a poker face of politeness and poise. I truly can’t get a good read on her.

In a geeky-dork way, I feel like I am back in college and rushing for Shortcake’s sorority. I am not sure I have the goods or the energy for a high-stakes game of friendship. With Gabriel upping the anti every damn day, I will be lucky to have anything left for rent, much less the right shoes or handbags.

Ultimately, it is all a good thing, whether we become friends or not—I am proud of myself for putting it out there. I guess being with a stranger for dinner naturally makes you miss your friends and family. Meeting people and establishing relationships is difficult and time consuming. It certainly makes me appreciate the long and rich histories that I have with my loved ones. I can’t imagine life without them.

I made a promise to myself that I will keep working at it on the drive back home. I am nothing, if not dependable in my commitment to bettering our lives—awkward encounters and all. I will build something original here, I only wish I had the blueprints and knew what the hell I am supposed to be creating with these particular raw materials.