The one in which Rachel says “No more to handing out my number to strangers"

Here’s the thing: I can be naive.

Attending college in Salem, Oregon – what I like to call the civic armpit of the Northwest – probably didn’t do much for teaching me the social mores of fast-paced city dating. Where a conversation (either in real time, real life, or real whatever) leads to a whirlwind of flirtatious texts (and boy do I appreciate a good texter), drawn out email conversations at 2:00 AM and inevitable Facebook stalking. And then, like all the gusty sighs that preceded it, it loses wind, or momentum, or something, and it ends just like that.

All this to say, Salem-style relationships were different. Slower. More inbred. People there are not quick to ask you for your number. (And for the record: getting asked by the at large homeless community, product of budget cuts at state-run mental hospitals, does not count).

So maybe my naiveté was not wholly my fault. In my defense, I had no one to explain the significance, or lack thereof, of a “can I get your number?”

I remember the first guy who asked me for my number in New York. I’d been here two weeks, was still looking for work, and when attending a work party of a friend, inevitably gravitated toward another recent college grad. After talking to “Joe” (fake name not used to protect “Joe,” but simply because I can’t actually remember his name) for a good hour or two, we parted ways. Him – with my number in his iPhone. Me – with my feelings lifted after regaling him with all my job interview sob stories.

Big surprise, “Joe” never called. Not so big surprise, I still hadn’t caught on to the complete lack of follow up inherent in a good-natured “can I get your number?”

So I kept on handing it out to any guy I met. The way I handed it out – despite my pretensions of privacy (epitomized by my “private” settings on Facebook) – you’d think I was into guerrilla marketing or self-promotion or selling some type of service. That, or just plain dumb.

The cycle continued. And like a law of nature, it always followed the same mold: chat with cute guy, cute guy asks for number, I act all easy-breezy and give it out – all the while feeling a rosy glow of “this is what New York is about…meeting random, cute people in a Serendipity-inspired fashion.” Cute guy never calls.

So finally this week, I’m saying “enough.” No more. After handing it out for the umpteenth time (and please note that this is not a vanity blog post…I just have zero capacity for saying no to even the very weirdest, most odd characters who you should NEVER give your number to), I’m calling it quits.

Ask me for my number, and all you’ll get from now on is my email address.

So here’s to a year of email spam.