Ballad of the Beardies

I have never pretended to be the luckiest girl in the world when it comes to the menfolk. The reasons for my lack of success are legion (complete lack of personal charms, still trying to find that elusive combination of unibrow and accordion-playing ability, etc.)

So, today's tale will be another tale of woe, but this time one of woeful amusement instead of woeful horror.

There's an adorable café near my house, seemingly populated at all hours by an endless array of healthy BC folks wearing scarves, Cowichan sweaters and typing on the Macs. (Full disclosure: I write this in that self-same café on a Mac, but am wearing a striped hoodie.)

A few weeks ago, I had what I thought was a torrid smile affair with a charmingly bearded chap sitting next to me on the couch. He smiled at me, I smiled at him, then briefly considered asking him about the article he was reading in the Times-Colonist.

Of course, I didn't, but I held high hopes that Beardy would reappear in the café eventually. Would we move on to complete sentences at some point? Why, no, I have my reputation to consider, after all. But he didn't! Oh, there were other beards, but they didn't belong to my Beardy.

Oh so I thought.

Eventually I realized that nearly every patron, save the mustachioed hippie with the bubble wand, is a tall, handsome white dude with some kind of fuzzy facial outgrowth. I could have seen my Beardy a thousand times AND NEVER EVEN KNOWN. And maybe I did. So, I wrote Beardy off and decided to pursue my next dream: becoming Mrs. Comic Book Store.

And then I found out that Mr. Comic Book Store is married and has a child. Stay tuned next week for another episode of "Ill-Advised Days of our Lives."