Coffee Talk? No, Coffee Telepathy?

The other day a man called me brave.
A man I'd never met.
A man who knew nothing about me beyond what he could see, beyond what he discerned from learning that yes, I was hiking alone.

It's kind of amazing... how someone can say something really small and it just resonates inside you. It's kind of amazing how you can spend a lifetime defining who you are under very specific terms. If asked to describe myself in a series of words on the grand questionnaire of life, I would never choose brave. But here he was, this stranger, using it so openly, so matter of fact.

A dear friend recently wrote me a letter in which she called me adventurous and daring , more so than she ever would have guessed.

I'm beginning to think I don't really see myself as others do. I'm beginning to think I've gotten stuck in my own time container, in my own careful labeling of things, and neglected to notice this shift. Somewhere along the way I became someone brave. And adventurous. And daring. Woah, that girl sounds awesome. I'd love to meet her!

Maybe it's a difference in definitions. Perhaps how I see brave and daring differs from that of those peers describing me. And it all became clear tonight.

As I type I'm sitting in a coffee shop. I'm sitting next to a remarkably beautiful man. It's really the incredibly attractive and handsome ones who get to be called beautiful in my book. And he is classically beautiful. He very well could have stepped out of a Vogue photo shoot or a delicious French film moments before perching his plaid shirt and dark blue jeans next to me. As I type I'm not so subtly staring at him, blushing, and quickly averting my eyes when his meet mine. We both smile. And now I blush even more.

A brave woman would talk to him. A brave woman would utter a few recognizable syllables, continue smiling and maybe in a truly daring moment, ask him to coffee. Okay maybe not coffee, since we're in a coffee shop and all but she'd ask him out, or ask for his phone number. Or perhaps more subtly ask for the time, comment on the quietness of the place so late at night, note how rare it is to see someone touching pen to paper amidst a room full of laptops. And all the while she'd admire that perfectly coiffed head of jet black hair he undoubtedly took no time at all to style. He just jumped out of the shower looking like Dr. McDreamy and Mr. Darcy with a French accent all at once.

Now I don't actually know what his voice sounds like or what he's scribbling into that little notebook as he hardly touches a cup of iced coffee. He's just sitting there, one leg crossed over the other, foot tapping to the beat of the songs coming through his headphones. For a few beats our feet move in sync. Again, I look, he looks, I avert... we smile.

The brave woman would make a point of noting the silliness of this game. She'd see it as an entry into conversation and ask what he was listening to or how to get to the Whole Foods (he's carrying a re-usable Whole Foods bag so we can only imagine his love of food and being green. It's not TJ's but I'll take it... oh stupid girl! Talk to him!). But no, I sit here, typing about him, creating good conversation topics in my mind, idealizing scenarios of where he's from, what he does, how he'd say my name if I ever had the courage to tell him what it is. In the past half hour I've daydreamed about our wedding and what our kids would look like...did I mention he's an amazing dancer? Haha.

Even the way he runs his fingers through his hair is beautiful. He does the gentle toss of the head then tucks a piece behind his ear, as if he's trying to listen more intently to whatever it is he's listening to.

This man is beautiful. We are sitting close enough to talk. Silence. In this moment, I am not brave. Not by any stretch.

But sure, I'll fly thousands of miles to live on an island without any sort of plan.
And I can take adventurous 18 mile treks all by lonesome.
I'll buy a new instrument on a whim and teach myself how to play. And I can make the choice to live an ideal based life, in this moment, with honesty and integrity and gusto... without a real clue as to where I'll end up.

Yet, I cannot open my mouth to speak to beautiful men with beautiful hair and ink stained fingers. And after I publish this post I will pack up my things and take the roundabout way out the door, if only to get one last look at this gorgeous creature. In the day dream I've asked for his number and we've made a date to go to dinner. In reality, I'm headed home to watch Pretty in Pink for the umpteenth time.

Well, baby steps.
After all, how many episodes did it take before Angela Chase finally talked to Jordan Catalano?