Not Gone Fishing

There is a blogger whose blog I've admired for about two months now. Like, really really admired. Like, I read his blog regularly. No, I read it twice daily, maybe three times daily, or three times in between coffee breaks. Or in-between ordering from FreshDirect online. Or in-between, um, brushing my teeth and the flossing thingy. And maybe, for some odd reason, about two nights ago, I dreamt about said blog. Or blogger. I can't remember. Can I?

So I decided to do the absolutely Stupid and Ridiculous. I e-mailed him. And asked him out for coffee. To pick his brain. At least, that is what I tell myself.

Shortly after, I checked my e-mail inbox and stared at the screen. He replied. He said, "Yes." He also said, "This Saturday." As in, tomorrow.

A coffee meeting between strangers is absolutely Stupid and Ridiculous, because this is post-modernist New York. City of the uber-hip. The uber-cool. The post-moderns.

The blogger is likely married. With children. If he isn't, he will demand why I am demanding a coffee break. He will want subtext. He will say, "I am a post-modernist, and I demand subtext!"

What do I want? Why am I asking him out?

Just a couple of weeks ago, a man invited me "for a drink." In fact, it was a drink "to chat." Stupid. Ridiculous. And I did not demand subtext. And he had one. He touched, he cuddled, he fondled. He did not want to chat. He wanted a girl.

On the other hand, a male friend of mine recently told me that it is impossible for him to ask out lady friends for a drink. "They always ask me what do I mean. What do they mean, what do I mean? People don't talk anymore?" Of course they do not. They wind up being touched and cuddled and fondled and feeling uncomfortable.

So, Mr. Blogger, what do I want, really?

Just coffee.

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