Single In Sarasota by Loren Mayo

My head is floating in the clouds. My brain is running on empty. Come to think of it, my car is, too. I am a mess.

I’m behind on laundry, household chores, calling my mother, grocery shopping, paying cable, ridding my family room of the accessories to my old bed — you get the idea.

I am going to blame all of this on a scintillating facebook romance that sends so many swarms of fluttering butterflies from my fingertips to my toes every day I don’t just pinch myself to make sure it’s real — I pinch him, too.

I’ve been smitten for five weeks and two days. Probably longer than that because I think it happened as soon as I heard his voice.

If you’re on Facebook, then you’ve seen the little photo gallery that pops up every now again, letting you know Facebook has some people in mind that you might know, based on your friend list. Well, about a few months back, a rather attractive photo of a guy appeared, and we had probably nine or so mutual friends. Based solely on the facts that A.) I found him attractive and B.) He lived in Sarasota — I “friended” him.

A month or two later, he commented on one of my blogs and, later on, messaged me on Facebook chat. I’m trying to remember our first conversation, and I think it was about my former coworker coming down to visit. He asked for my phone number so we could all meet up at the beach.

Anyway, he never contacted me so I called him out on it. He apologized and said I should stop by Livingston’s for some go-carting. I admitted that I didn’t feel at all comfortable meeting up with 15 people I didn’t know (plus, I had just gotten home from the gym and needed primping time).

A few days later, he messaged me about coffee. He was skipping town to head home to Ohio and wanted to meet. I felt rushed and goosebumpy and too nervous, so I said I’d rather meet after he returned to town.

We ended up talking the rest of the day and night via computer, even while he was in the airport the following day. He had to sign off unexpectedly, which was followed by his first text to me. The next text was a day or two later, saying he had a “ghost story” to tell me. Now, if that isn’t an excuse to talk to a girl, I am not sure what is. So he called. I’m not sure how long we chatted, but I learned about his grandparents’ 200-year-old farm, some creepy guy whose face mysteriously appeared in a photograph and some old racehorses. I sat on my bed teetering back and forth with a lovestruck grin on my face like a little kid eating an ice cream, just listening to him talk and thinking, “I’m done for.”

So, after texting on and off for the rest of his trip, I agreed to let him take me out.

I happened to be in Orlando while he was in Ohio, so I took advantage of the shopping there and grabbed a few dresses. The night of our date, I had Brandy keep watch outside while she walked her dog. She texted “Oh no’s” every few minutes just to get me frazzled. It worked. I changed shoes twice, fluffed my hair constantly and pursed my lips in the mirror — anything to distract myself from becoming a nervous wreck. But, let’s face it, I was. When I got a message from him that said he was downstairs (and one from Brandy saying “He’s here! And he’s cute!”), there wasn’t much more I could do except get a move on already.

On the way downstairs, I met Brandy in the mail room and borrowed some cash from her because I had forgotten to visit the ATM. Then I rounded the corner to the lobby.

When I saw him, the butterflies flip-flopped and somersaulted through my stomach. My breath caught in my chest. My palms got clammy. My cheeks quickly became the color of my hot pink Barbie heels.

And then our eyes met.