Another Boy Below the Bracket

It had been awhile since any of my regular library hotties had wandered through the stacks. So I had basically given up hope on finding an attractive man in the library when in walked Charles.

Taller than me. Dark hair. Dark eyes. And a style and attitude that were neither high maintainance nor low. Perfectly in between.

Af first I wasn’t going to pay him any real attention. I didn’t strategically position myself in his line of sight or offer him my librarian services. But then I just happened to be at the circulation desk when he was checking out, so I casually inventoried the books stacked before him. And I fell in love.

Charles was checking out three books: a cookbook, a book of war poems, and The 9/11 Commission Report.

Now, attractiveness is always the first thing anyone notices when they meet a person. But, let’s face it, there are A LOT of beautiful idiots out there. The world is overrun with gorgeous bimbos, ripped morons, and drop dead sexy dumbasses. So when I find someone who is not only attractive but also smart, sensitive, and cooks, all my single girl antennae tune in.

So, as a coworker checked out the books, I violated his privacy by casually glancing at the library card application on the counter in front of him. His name, as you know, was Charles (not the sexiest name in the world, but it’s better than Bob). And his age was 24.

Now, I’ve already mentioned that my coworkers nicknamed me “Puma” for my tendency to be attracted to younger men. This is not something I do intentionally. It’s not like I want a younger guy. It just seems that the men I find attractive in the library tend to be in the age bracket below mine.

And I can’t help but wonder (yet again) why this is. Am I in denial about my age? Am I destined to become one of those desperate cougars who shops in the juniors department and stalks young men? Or is it just demographics? Do men in the 25 to 35 age bracket not enjoy reading? Did the brains and beauty combo skip the males in my generation?

Whatever the reason, I think there is a chance I may end up being some young thing’s sugar mamma one day (of course, that’s hard to do on a librarian’s salary). But please, dear friends, if I’m 60 and still wearing mini-skirts and four-inch heels, stage an intervention. Pronto.

An Adult Lives Here

This past weekend, I attended a baby shower for my friend Linda. Now, I usually loath baby showers. Nothing makes my ovaries shrivel up faster than the talk of Diaper Genies and breast pumps. However, Linda is going to be an awesome mom and she’s having a little girl. So, I couldn’t help but find myself super-excited, oohing and aahing over little pink dresses along with the rest of the shower guests.

But that’s not what this is about.

The shower itself was held in Carrboro, North Carolina. For those unfamiliar with the geography of my home state, Carrboro is literally right next door to Chapel Hill. And if you aren’t familiar with Chapel Hill, just know that the small town is known for two things: (1) it’s home to the awesome University of North Carolina (Go Tar Heels!), and (2) it’s home to former Senator John Edwards. Either of those ring a bell?

So Carrboro is a tiny, artsy-fartsy town known for what I like to call “eco-snobs”–middle- to upper-class people who only shop at Whole Foods, always have a vegetarian option at parties, do yoga, and practice reiki when they’re not conducting cancer research or working on their PhDs. They’re they type of people who make you feel like the biggest underachiever in the world. And I love them for it.

So the baby shower hostess lives in Carrboro and she’s one of those eco-snobs–she’s smart and fabulous, her husband is smart and fabulous, she has an adorable baby,and they have two Ragdoll cats that saunter around like supermodels. And they all live in this small house that looks like it should be featured in a design magazine–hardwood floors, pristine white sofa, artsy accents, strategically placed antiques, and it’s completely clutter-less. As my friend Meredith remarked, “An adult obviously lives here.”

Surveying the crowd of overachieving librarians (yes, the majority of the guests were librarians) and sitting in this fabulous house got me to thinking about my own life and current place of residence.

For starters, my apartment resembles the mind of a person with multiple personality disorder. Who spontaneously combusted. I have posters (yes, posters) of Marilyn Monroe and Albert Einstein on my walls. Marilyn seductively tells my guests that “Beauty is power” while Einstein reminds them that “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” All the while, the Buddha pillow sits quietly on the couch. Add to the mix a couple  hundred books stacked in piles, ten plants in various states of health, a four-foot-long replica of Excalibur in the corner, dirty dishes in the sink, clean dishes on the counter, framed pictures of my college days, the faint aroma of my neighbor’s dinner (it seeps through the floor), and a dozen or so of my own artistic attempts dangling from the walls. I think it’s safe to say that my apartment needs a therapist–and a maid.

And my current city is nothing like Carrboro. No Whole Foods. No reiki masters curing cancer. No PhDs discussing Nietzsche in coffee shops. No supermodel cats.

So, in the end, Linda got some fabulous gifts at her baby shower and I was once again reminded of just what I want from life and just how far from it I am. Which is why I’m blogging again. It’s time to get my act together and you can be the ones that laugh at me along the way. And I will be enlisting the help of friends (yes, I mean you, Anna), so get ready.

An Unexpected Admirer

It turns out that I have a secret admirer.

Or rather, I HAD a secret admirer. He decided today to tell his secret.

So there I was, sitting at the reference desk, being my librarian self, when a man about my age comes up to me and gives me this little bag. “To a beautiful librarian,” he says and walks (quickly) out of the library.

Now, considering that my library isn’t in the safest of towns (along with the fact that he nearly ran out of the library), I was very suspicious at first. My mind immediately jumped to the extreme–a bomb? No, too small. Anthrax? I don’t see any white powder…

But all it was was a letter. A typed letter. Addressed to “a Beautiful Librarian.”

(I can hear you awwwwwwing right now)

To sum up what the note says… I must have smiled at him one day (which I do to every patron I make eye contact with), and it really touched him. Apparently, my eyes give away just how nice a person I am (haha.. little does he know!). It was that niceness that he found attractive. But since it’s a rather awkward situation (in a library… he doesn’t even know my name… the possibility that I might be spoken for), he felt that he would just send me a note telling me that he’d like to be friends. He signed it “Your secret admirer,” along with his name and phone number.

I was creeped out. At first, anyway. I don’t like not being prepared for situations and this was one situation I wasn’t prepared for. I’m prepared for patrons trying to openly flirt with me. But a note from a secret admirer? Wasn’t expecting that.

But after some thought, I think it was rather sweet. He’s obviously incredibly shy (in his letter he mentions that he wishes he had enough courage to talk to me in person) and this was something that was obviously thought-out (he TYPED the letter).

But, in case you’re wondering, I’m not going to call him. From the extremely brief encounter we had, I can tell he’s not my type. And considering that this is my place of employment, I have to be professional and not encourage such things.

However, the whole encounter got me to thinking about how the love game has changed. I mean, we ladies don’t think anything of a guy approaching us on the street and going “Dam*, girl, you look fine!” yet we get creeped out by a note from a secret admirer? Why is this?

Make Like Jared

So, my little library may have slim pickings when it comes to eligible men, but it turns out that the Subway around the corner is overflowing with potentials.

I didn’t have anything to bring for lunch today, so I decided to go to Subway. Well, much to my surprise, there were at least 5 men in uniform also there to get their $5 dollar footlongs. A quick scan of left hands revealed that none of these young airmen were married. 

A group of unmarried men in uniform? That’s a single girl’s paradise.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have my game on today–along with needing to go to the grocery store, I also need to do laundry. And so, my attire today is more “frumpy librarian” than “sexy librarian,” meaning that my confidence level wasn’t up to par.

However, I’m treating this as an information gathering mission–I now have at least one spot on my list of “Local Places to Find Eligible Men.” So, from now on, when I’m feeling confident, I’m going to have to make like Jared and have lunch at Subway.

Slim Pickings in the Library

The library. That great, timeless symbol of knowledge. It is but a mere building yet holds within its walls the thoughts of countless men and women, ranging from the era of clay tablets to that of the modern cell phone. Everything you could possibly want to know can be found in a library.

Including books on dating. Books on love. Books on marriage. Books on flirtation. A librarian obsessed with figuring out the complex game of love has all she needs within the walls of a library.

Except for available men, that is.

Yes, sadly, the library does not seem to be a gathering place for eligible bachelors.

My little library is actually just down the road from a military base, so you would think we would have hordes of men in uniform coming in to use our computers or borrow our books. But alas, it is not so. Uniforms occasionally come in, but the men are actually boys. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty at most. They remind me more of my little brother than of potential dates.

Now, occasionally I do get a couple of male patrons that try to flirt with me. Unfortunately, the flirtation is always unwanted… and usually creepy.

For instance, one day a male patron kept asking me to help him find books on the music industry. As I helped him, he would make odd comments: “Are those your real nails?” and “Nice shoes. They look like they make your feet hot.”

Needless to say, I found him a book and made a quick exit.

And patrons trying to flirt with me isn’t as creepy as it gets. It’s the ones that DON’T talk to me that creep me out the most. The ones that just stare at me like serial killers eyeing their next victim.

Oh, the joys of being a librarian. Perhaps that is why librarians originally sported the “bun, cardigan, and glasses” style–to deter the creepy male patrons. Of course, somewhere along the way the look became a turn-on. Go figure.

So, if this young, single librarian plans on ever getting a decent date, I guess I’m going to have to venture outside the library. Besides the bars and the usual online dating sites, where else can one go to meet eligible bachelors?