Lessons in flirting

After the holidays, I went to New York City to visit my cousin Heather and her family. She’s lived in New York since I was in high school, and I enjoyed visiting her on the regular before our lives in the real world became so hectic.

One of the best parts of this particular trip was spending time with her kids and really getting to know them better. For years, relatives told me that her eldest, Catie, reminds them of me, but it wasn’t until this visit that I truly understood they weren’t exaggerating; her personality, interests and general disposition made me feel like I was looking in a figurative mirror.

In fact, all weekend long, Catie and I compared identical notes. I lost count of how many times one of us said, “Me too!” after the other described a personality trait or quirky habit. We had many of the same hang-ups and fears, and we even wore the same glasses. It’s one thing for people to tell you someone is similar. It’s infinitely more amusing to experience it firsthand—they weren’t kidding.

On Saturday, Heather and I went to see “Finding Neverland” with Catie and Heather’s younger daughter Hope. Before the show, we went to lunch at a French café near their apartment. Once we sat down, our eye-catching waiter quickly became the topic of discussion. Heather said they had seen him before and she had pointed out to Catie how cute he was. At the time, Catie asserted she wasn’t into man buns and that was the end of it.

Now, circumstances had changed. Instead, he sported a short, wavy mane and that perfectly manicured scruff that says, “I don’t actually want a beard; I just want you to know I have the manly ability to grow one if I feel like it.”

Message received.

While perusing the menu—and our hot waiter—the topic of flirting came up. I explained how awful I was at it, and Catie said the same. Go figure.

“Why aren’t you good at it?” Heather asked. “It’s pretty much eye contact and smiling. Hope’s pretty good at it, aren’t you, Hope?”

Hope shrugged her shoulders and smirked coyly—a telling indicator her mother was right.

Despite being the youngest of the group, Hope probably had more game than the rest of us combined. She already had boys asking her to a middle-school dance months away.

“I have no doubt Hopey’s better at it than I am,” I said. “I don’t handle eye contact well—especially with an attractive guy. My eyes tend to dart wildly in the opposite direction immediately after my eyes meet his.”

With this in mind, Heather suggested we had the perfect opportunity to practice right in front of us, and he was headed our way to take our order. As he went around the table, everyone said what she wanted. Finally, it was my turn. Smiling and eye contact, smiling and eye contact, I told myself.

While smiling and maintaining eye contact, I said, “Hi, can I please have a hamlet?”

Oh God, did I just say hamlet?

The table erupted in laughter. Yep, that’s what I thought. I could feel my face turning several shades of crimson, but I kept going.

“Um, I meant omelet, not hamlet,” I said laughing along with everyone else—our hot waiter included. “An omelet with ham and sautéed onions.”

On the bright side, my faux pas revealed our server had a good sense of humor, not to mention a killer smile and disarming dimples. He just kept getting better.

“And would you like fries with your hamlet like the rest of the group?” he asked, still grinning.

“No, I think I’ll be a rebel and eat my hamlet just as it comes,” I responded, finally loosening up.

“You know,” he added, chuckling as he collected our menus, “I think I’m going to have hamlet in my head all day now.”

“And…you’re welcome,” I said, winking and shooting a finger pistol in his direction for good measure.

When he finally walked away after what seemed like an eternity, I said to the girls, “And that’s how it’s done!” which only made us crack up all over again.

Except for Catie, who had been stifling her laughter—or attempting to, at least—the entire time. I was surprised she didn’t have tears running down her face. She kept saying, “I mean, we were just talking about it. We just talked about it, and then that happened?”

“I tried to tell you,” I said. “That’s how I roll.”

“It actually wasn’t bad flirting by the end,” Heather said.

“Well, it’s as close as I come,” I told them. “And sadly, that’s kind of an improvement for me. Before all this online dating stuff, I would have buried my head in the menu and waited for death after asking for a hamlet. Now, I just accept the fact that it’s guaranteed I’m going to say something ridiculous, and I make the best of it after it happens.

“I wonder how old he is,” I said, still staring at him across the room. “Man, I hope he’s not like 25. I don’t need to be Mrs. Robinson on top of everything else.”

“No way!” Heather countered. “I’d say 29 at the absolute youngest, but I think he’s closer to your age.”

“That makes me feel a little better, but you just never know,” I said. “I feel like I’ve lost all ability to determine guys’ ages, or maybe I’ve simply become delusional about how hold I am. Either way, it’s disconcerting!”

Although I hadn’t done empirical research on the topic, I have vast experience watching “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette” with my sister-in-law. And, to be honest, a recent season of the latter brought about startling revelations. There was a contestant we both thought was adorable and endearing. Every time he came on screen, we both reiterated he was our favorite and expressed wanting him to be the next Bachelor. I even joked maybe I should apply for the following season to have a shot at him. Then it happened—I glanced at the banner at the bottom of the screen when he appeared, and I noticed he was 26. Twenty-six? I’m 35!

I gasped when I realized the discrepancy. “Oh no, no, no! This is not OK, Karla!” I yelled. “He’s twenty-six? I’m nine years older than he is? I could have babysat him for crying out loud! How did this happen? How did I suddenly become a decade older than the people on this show?”

Karla started laughing.

“Whatever,” I added. “If you think that’s funny, just imagine: he could have been your illegitimate high school baby!”

I’m not sure she found that part as amusing, but sometimes intense emotional anguish makes you lash out at the ones you love most.

That night was educational, to say the least, and pretty disappointing to realize I had zero ability to gauge a guy’s age relative to my own. It was scary, and ever since, I’ve overanalyzed every prospect more so than I normally would—which is saying something.

Back in the café, our waiter continued to be attentive and charming. Every time he came back to the table, he smiled at me like we had a secret no one else was in on. Maybe I should say stupid things more often, I thought.

When we left for our show, he came back over to see us out the door. “You have a great day, miss,” he said, flashing that perfect smile one last time.

I took it as a positive he didn’t call me ma’am. That was something, at least.

As we left, I realized something else. It didn’t really matter whether I’d ever see him again (even though I did because we went back for lunch the next day like stalkers). In the end, I felt like it was positive reinforcement to know that I can be myself—i.e., awkward, clumsy and self-deprecating—and some people will actually find those to be attractive qualities.

Like Shakespeare said, “To thine own self be true.” Ironically, that’s “Hamlet”—just like my damn lunch.