The surgeon’s new digs are fabulous, swanky but comfortable, and I want to hang out for hours in the waiting room with the woman I’ve been chatting with. We’ll call her “D”. When the receptionist calls me in for my procedure, I want to do the equivalent of hitting a snooze button a few times, because I haven’t had the chance to ask the woman if she’s on social media or if we can exchange contact information. I have her name, though, and I know where she works, so I plan to call to say hi and hope she doesn’t think I’m a stalker.

Several days later, I call D’s office. The receptionist asks which client this is in reference to. I say, “I’m not a client. I’m a personal person,” with magnificent eloquence, and state my name. She puts me on hold, and when she returns, she says D isn’t available, which naturally means D said, “JFC, what a stalker. Tell her I’m not here,” which I believe even more when I don’t hear back from her.

“Oh, well,” I think. “One less person to make lunch plans with that I’ll want to cancel.”