Love in the Time of Smart Phones

Last night, I took my girl Christie Griffin’s advice and went out with two of my best friends and exactly 0 guys. And wouldn’t you know it? That CosmoGirl is worth her healthy weight in sex tips because while cruising the crowd to make sure all systems were go at the bar with a friend, four guys stopped me to chat.

Now, before you get your knickers in a twist about me giving myself undue props here, I have to note that they were standing together at the time, so if we we’re keeping score, (and, we kind of are) it would probably count as one come-on. But that’s one more than I would have were I was swimming in my usual sea of testosterone, so, let’s count it. A pattern seems to be punching me in the face here, and it’s this: G² – girls & glasses. Go out with your girlfriends, wear those glasses you hate and bam. Guys. Why? Because girls make you approachable and glasses are (apparently) a conversation starter, even if it means ignoring the first three Lisa Loeb references, which, spoiler alert, it’s going to.

Go. Me.

So I chat with this crew for a while until the crowd dissipates and the conversation continues with just one guy. He’s young, handsome, and a great conversationalist. (Life. It’s happening to me now!) Towards the end of the night he asks for my card so we can “keep the conversation going.” I don’t have one, so he takes my number and calls me so I have his. And just that gorgeous Manhattan area code is flashing across the screen, my phone dies.

And I mean dies. Like, complete loss of life-dead. Like, starts displaying snow-filled, never-before-seen screens featuring images from the past, future and hell before really dying-dead. So, now I may never know if he does in fact call.

But maybe that’s a good thing. I couldn’t help thinking that if that’s the kind of virus I can get from his phone, I better start backing away slowly from his pants. I’m only one Gardasil vaccine into the three-part series!

But I guess that’s dating in this city. Sometimes you can’t even give a guy your number without getting something you can’t get rid of. So here I am: one step forward, two steps back, and one strife-tastic reason to upgrade to a smart phone for dating in the information age.

How to Not Meet Men: A One-Step Guide.

Here’s a way to not meet men: Hang out consistently with 12 your best guy friends who can’t resist a dancefloor. Really. I do this all the time and it’s a foolproof deterrent, and exactly the reason I’m no closer to marriage.

And in this case, it’s not just the 1:4 ratio of girls to guys, though that alone is a reason enough to pass, it’s the fire burning on the dancefloor. The moves make this a compound problem. Because let’s lay it bare: no one wants to break up an intense round of double dutch (the rope is invisible), and you’d be crazy to interrupt the bobsled run happening towards the back of the bar. I can’t think of a single guy who’d brave the waters where a school of male sharks is circling some poor girl, preparing to attack. And it would be downright rude to interrupt a faux photoshoot wherein all my guys are unbuttoning each other’s shirts while the “paparazzi” are snapping their pics.

I know. I know. No red-blooded, even remotely acceptable man would touch this with a 10-foot pole. It’s social awareness 101. The first step is admitting I have (a huge) problem.

So, I’ve been doing my reading. Turns out, this belated social epiphany is right on: I am never going to meet a man in these shark-infested waters. I’m breaking Cosmo editor and professional wingwoman Christie Griffin’s first rule of Man Magnetism: Go out in groups of no bigger than three. In her article, “How to Be a Total Man Magnet,” (Don’t start with me. You read this post. I need this stuff.) she suggests not only smaller groups, but groups of girls. Fab. I’ve got my work cut out for me.

I’ll remember this the next time I’m watching a re-enactment of Cool Runnings at Joshua Tree.

Babysteps.