While on a recent business trip to San Francisco, and after a lengthy dinner with clients, my colleague and I helped ourselves to a “night cap re-cap” at our hotel bar. This is tradition for us, to convene about the meetings held throughout the day, and to discuss and prepare for the next day’s meeting line-up.
As I was taking another sip of my crisp Chardonnay, I noticed a brunette Mattel Ken-doll replica emerge from the elevator. He walked coolly toward the hotel bar, and joined a group of what seemed to be friends or coworkers, and what I could assume might have been a work-conference trip. I had seen this gentleman in the hotel earlier, and was smitten by his chiseled cheekbones, amazingly white teeth, Malibu tanned skin, and well-kept physique.
After round two of “night cap re-cap,” I felt that it was only appropriate—in my vibrantly single life, and while in San Fran—to uphold one of the most tacky approaches to an introduction that I’ve mastered thus yet. I had made friends with the bartender earlier in the evening (if you knew me, you would understand that this is second nature), which created a perfect messenger for my madness. I scribbled a note on a napkin with a ballpoint pen, wrestled in my purse to find my business card, and casually asked the bartender to “give it to the young man in the crisp white shirt, drinking a cherry martini …”
As the bartender received, and nodded in approval, my colleague and I made a masterful escape to the elevators and 11th floor. Our hotel room positions allowed us a brilliant view of the delivery of my golden business card, and Mr. Cherry Martini’s in-hand acceptance.
At 1:00 a.m., I received a text from Mr. Cherry Martini (aka Saul SanFran, as he was then saved in my phone). The 24-hour napkin relationship began.
As we sent rampant text messages overnight and between meetings the next day, I felt compelled to learn more about Saul. He was already attractive physically, and seemed to convey himself well via text-conversation. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he writes/types in a text message.
Our banter led to an agreement to meet after our client engagements later that evening, for post-dinner drinks. I was elated, and imagined a true connection being made as our professional stars aligned in between cocktail napkins and business cards.
Over a three-course dinner with clients, I found it hard not to check my phone for riveting text messages from Saul. In between bites of crab salad, smoked halibut and sweet scallops, I was looking forward to continue after-dinner drinks, and to learning more about this mysterious Ken doll.
My colleague was kind enough to be my wing-woman, and joined me in our nostalgic hotel bar (yes, the same bartender was working, and called me out on the napkin-drop). Saul arrived post-Giants game, with a friend in-tow, also. Herein lines incredible line which led to the foiling of my magical San Francisco treat …
Over discussion of our homes—mine, an owned-home in the Midwest, Saul shared with me that he “mooches off of his parents,” and has upgraded, post-high school graduation, and now lives in the basement. This might have been understandable and kosher; however, Saul then compared his living situation to the Matthew McConaughey movie; “Failure to Launch.” My Chardonnay-filled hopes of love were smothered, by thoughts of his mother folding his boxer-briefs, and making his Eggos every morning.
What does a woman do, when she reaches that point in a (somewhat) blind date, where she knows that she has completely lost interest? She takes three swigs of her wine, pulls out her phone pretending to miss a very important message, and calmly exits stage left.
Failure to launch, quickly became, failure to quench … and the appetite for Saul was lost
