Added: Shirlene Arbogast - Date: 22.09.2021 21:47 - Views: 14361 - Clicks: 5927
I have a penchant for reading Missed Connections on Craiglist. This didn't start when I got divorced; I've always read the personals. I love the back-and-forths between repeat posters, the angsty posts from the dreamy romantics, the posts about random encounters that are so vague they could be about almost anyone.
Or whether the year-old will find the girl he loved in seventh grade or the "boat trailer queen" will realize she was "dangerous on the boat ramp. Then there are the ones that read like little stories, perfectly crafted, the wheat culled from the chaff.
Gems like " David the poet on the blue line ," written after the conference I just got back from, from the Minneapolis Missed Connections. Why I looked at Minneapolis I don't know, except that I figured that after one of the biggest writing conferences in the world, there might be some well-written missed connections. And I was right about that: When reading it, I was instantly transported. I never rode the blue line when I was there, but Melissa put me there. I felt him "side-eye" her and I felt her angst. The images tranfixed me then and linger still, just like any good story.
I'm not the only one with this strange personal proclivity. When I lived in Cincinnati in the mid-'90s, my best friend read them too. Dan was more than just my neighbor; we shared an old converted house run by a quirky landlord who killed invading rodents with his bare hands and flung opposing political s into the street. Dan lived in the attic apartment; I lived with two other women on the bottom floor. On Sunday evenings, Dan and I would hang out on the porch and read the personals together, and joke about the weird ones.
Then I Houston chronicle personals feelings for Dan and didn't know how to tell him.
So I did. The headline read "Ruth seeking Boaz," even though Dan was actually a year younger. But he was into The Book, so I figured it would get his attention. It did not. It did, however, get the attention of about 70 other men.
At the time, the Internet was past its infancy but still a wobbly toddler, so the only way to get the messages was to call in. I listened to message after message, waiting for the one message that I wanted, the one that of course never came. I groaned and put the Houston chronicle personals on speaker. I motioned to my roommates to come over. The next voice was ragged, quavery, and dropped out Houston chronicle personals little in the middle of words.
And then I heard the voice. Deep, smooth, and slightly wistful, it wasn't Dan's. But it was a nice voice, an honest voice, and the way he began was just hopeful enough that I leaned in. I was reading this at work, and my buddies said I had to call you. It's got to be one of the funniest personal I've ever read. And it sounds like we have a lot in common.
We did. In fact, when we talked on the phone for real, we discovered that a couple we both knew had been trying to set us up for two years. On paper, it certainly seemed that way. I was a playwright; Jay was an actor. I was a graduate teaching assistant and volunteered at a juvenile detention center; Jay counseled chemically dependent children. We'd both been on the public speaking circuit and we both sometimes sang.
We both knew the lyrics to the musical Chess. But when Jay walked into the coffee shop to meet me, there was not a flicker of a spark. He was tall and built and had a prominent chin, but there wasn't even an ounce of chemistry. I found him attractive; I just wasn't attracted. The feelings were mutual. We lamented that there was nothing and tried to be friends after, but eventually, our schedules stopped meshing and even the friendship faded. I'd like to say that Jay was my own missed connection, the proverbial "one that got away," but he wasn't.
Neither was Dan. The day I left Cincinnati, I sat in Dan's car after we'd gone to a wedding together and told him that if he wanted to be with me, I would defer my acceptance into the UH creative writing program and not go to Houston.
It was stupid, and I will never make that offer again — particularly with nothing to warrant such devotion. But I was crazy about Dan and thought, wrongly, that he felt at least somewhat that way about me. Dan looked at me, tears in his eyes, and shook his head. I got out of the car and walked back into my apartment, sat between the stacks of boxes.
I didn't cry. At that point, there wasn't anything left to feel. The next day, I flew to Houston. August 6, I was 24 years old, at the start of a great new life. I'd gotten into the creative writing program, I'd won a fellowship, and I was about to start working for a great nonprofit organization. That day sparked so many necessary and long-lasting connections, so many fertile new beginnings. It was also the day I met Scott, my ex-husband, in person. We'd met before over the phone. I used to joke that I hugged my husband the moment I met him; technically, that was true.
By the time we met, we'd carried on a long conversation over and talked on the phone several times. We were just friends — then. But three short weeks after we met, we became more. I remember those days, the slow, reverent physical explorations, the endless conversations. It was the first time anyone ever grabbed me and pressed me up against a wall. I thought our kisses would last forever.
Until they didn't. And that's the thing about connections, Houston chronicle personals or otherwise. They aren't fixed, no matter how much we want them to be. The hottest fires can still burn out, can drown under so much water. Other connections warm over time, until they become enough to sustain us. And all of them, even — maybe especially — the hottest ones, need constant kindling and rekindling. Despite everything — the unrequited loves, the betrayals, the friendships that never became more, and the passion that lasted for years but couldn't quite stretch into another decade, I am still a believer.
I still believe in romantic love, in friendship that can grow into Houston chronicle personals, and in those fleeting, magical, once-in-a-lifetime connections. Maybe the problem is that we ask too much of them. Or maybe we don't ask enough. Kathryn M. Peterson happyinmyhead is a freelance writer, editor and dissertation coach. Names are changed, but the events are real. Bookmark Gray Matters. It's dangerous on the boat ramp.
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