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Ok seriously. As an avid reader of them, I must know: why won’t any of the plethora of adorable Toronto women that I see in the city Missed Connections me? It’s all that I, the helpless romantic Craigslist addict, want out of life (give or take a few other minor things). I dress fine, I make eye contact but not creepy pervy eye contact, I smile at people, I even go so far as to attend Missed Connections Addicts Anonymous meetings for the full two hours, hanging out in what I imagine to be the coolest section in the store. I see that others from the event got missed connectioned, and yet for me? Nuthin’. What must I do to have this pivotal life experience?
Yours in Missed Connections,
Insert Snappy Pseudonym Here
Here’s the thing. If one of these adorables did write a missed connection, it wouldn’t be about you. It would be about the tryhard romantic pretending to peruse French philosophers (or postcolonial literature, or graphic novellas) in what he “imagines” to be the coolest section of the store, instead of the sincere, deserving dude just doing his thing, whatever that happens to be at the time.
To our knowledge, Ms. Snappy Answers has never been “Missed Connectioned” (White and Strunk are rolling over in unison right now) either, and yet somehow, we routinely find ourselves writing this column in Friday night’s lipstick and someone else’s flannel. And it’s not (just) because we’re easy; it’s because romance, in the city, in the thronged streets, in the first paroxysms of summer, is easy. It’s everywhere, all the time, because more people are like you than you will ever know. You just have to stop looking so hard.
And stop missing your connections.
And try making them instead.
Use that imagination to think of something to say (in words, spoken words) to the honey-eyed fair trade barista who always gives you extra foam, or the pinstriped ice blonde who looks up from her ‘Berry for those two, three lingering seconds, or the Ray Banned, vintage-cruising babe cycling through Trinity-Bellwoods in a dress your favourite shade of sky. Fling your caution to the May winds and spend your two hours on—deep breath—an actual face-to-face date.
Life experiences should be exactly that—experienced. Lived. Breathed. In the moment. Not as many minutes later as it takes you to post from the nearest internet cafe. And this is coming from a blogger, so we really mean it.
All the best in luck, and someday love, we promise*,
*While taking absolutely no responsibility should you die in bitter solitude, in a basement bachelor, in a record-breaking pile of empty tuna cans (and not even the good albacore tuna, like the tinny pinky-beige valu kind).