I don’t believe in office romance. The romantic trainwreck known as Enemigo/Amigo was a lifelong cure for that contagion. Still, it’s not uncommon for thirtysomething women, myself included, to find themselves in the middle of a cutesy flirtation with the man in the next cubicle/office/wing/building–and/or regretting it. On the other hand, if you seem cursed to be a wingwoman, the pickings may seem slim.
Last week, I had two excursions with a number of professional singletons. The first was a movie night I hosted, my very first Kurosawa and samurai film. Apart from enjoying a successful turnout, I sat in front of an incredibly cute Chinese-Canadian guy. We actually had good conversation about my line of work before the movie started. Still, when the house lights went up, we shook hands and went our separate ways, with me thinking” he’s just not that into me.” Later, that week,I went to another movie night, this one hosted by a local young adult Catholic group. The only other person of color was a handsome Asian who sat on the other side of the theater. Somehow, we ended up on the same side of the long dinner table and had the sort of witty repartee I enjoy. Once again, the evening ended with a handshake, me headed toward the BART station in the cold and my Spanish-speaking Korean dreamboat headed to the bar with the night owls. It was nice to be reminded of the possibilities out in the world but an invitation to a date would have been wonderful.
This leads me back to the work issue. So many of us are too busy(or scared, insecure, out of practice, or all of the above) to venture out and meet new people. Work seems the best place to mix and mingle. I am one of the youngest people in my office and one of three single people. Lately, one of the single men has started acting like a sixth grade pest. He locks me out of the security office and prank calls me. I don’t find him attractive but I find his sophomoric antics somehow flattering. It’s important I convince myself he’s not my only prospect.
Being a wingwoman can lock you into that limited perspective. Last night, for example, Lisabet and I endured the hilarious attentions of a pretty boy barfly. In stereotypical Latin lover fashion, he showered us with compliments, jokes, kisses on the hand and cheek, and shots of Patron. By the time he labeled me “mean”, I knew I was the third wheel. I made a hasty exit once the game ended. I commiserated with a friend, who, unfortunately, is putting way too much energy into a cute co-worker(he misplaced her number the night of their first real date).
The moral of these interlocking stories is to get out into the world. I won’t meet anyone unless I make an effort to try new venues and activities. I’d like nothing more than to shake off these damn heavy wings.