Last year, the nonprofit where I work went from requiring employees to come into the office twice a month to three times a week. I was grumpy about the change. It’s not that I don’t like the people I work with. I genuinely do. It’s just that, particularly at rush hour, I’m not such a fan of the 101 and the 405 or the alternate canyon routes. On top of that, I have an elevator phobia, and our West L.A. office is on the ninth floor. (Props to the kind and wonderful security guard who rides up with me most mornings.) But good things come to those who return to the office, in addition to camaraderie and free snacks. We’ll call him J.
A few months ago, some new tenants moved into the office just off the elevator bank on our floor. It appeared to be an office of young guys, so many of them, but too young for me. Many of them didn’t look much older than my 19-year-old son.
Then one day I spotted J waiting for an elevator. I was just passing through. But I liked what I saw: a strong jawline, a little scruff, broad shoulders and the unmistakable curve of biceps under his shirt. J was older than the younger dudes. There was another thing. In the corner of my eye, I could tell that he was checking me out too as I walked away. I get that not every woman welcomes this kind of attention. But a few years post-divorce, I am capital-S single. I liked the feeling, at least in this case.
I saw J in passing a couple more times. He seemed friendly, but I’m not the best at picking up or putting out those kind of vibes: the “I’d like to get to know you better” ones. I’m not sure what the straight equivalent of gaydar is — “straightdar” just doesn’t have the same ring — but I am pretty sure I don’t have it.
Then one day, as I was heading back to my office with my senior dog, Loki, who comes to work with me, I bumped into J. I don’t recall exactly what he said. But he was super sweet to my pup. He knelt down to pet him. A guy who is cute, employed and nice to my dog? I’m not saying that is necessarily the holy triumvirate. But it’s pretty good. Who was this guy? I wanted to know his name. Because most offices in our building, including J’s, have a plaque outside with the business name, this hardly required complex detective work. I found him right away on LinkedIn. I was happy to have a name. I had no further plans.
A day or two later, late at night, past my usual bedtime and, apparently, past the hour of my inhibitions, feeling like I had nothing to lose but my pride, I decided to do something out of character: See if I could get a message to J. I went back on LinkedIn and discovered I could send him exactly one message, even though we have no connections in common. (Without a reply from the recipient, LinkedIn informed me, my message would basically be DOA.)
My subject line: Bold Question. My message: “Hi. I work on the same floor as you. I am the woman with crazy curly hair. Do you want to go on a walk or get coffee or a drink sometime? I am not in the habit of doing this but you’re cute and seem nice. If you are not single, I hope you will accept the compliments and disregard the rest. Leslee”
I hit send and immediately had two distinct reactions. One was the equivalent of “You go, girl!” The other was sheer horror. What had I done? What was I thinking? I pictured him opening the message in his office and reading it out loud to the gaggle of 20-something colleagues. They would all know exactly who I was, each and every one of them. It wasn’t exactly a Hester Prynne situation. Still.
A day passed without a response, and I came up with a new scenario to worry about — a specialty of mine. How would I know if he got my message? The lack of a response meant one of two things: He hadn’t gotten the message at all or he had gotten it and chose to ignore it. I wanted some assurance against the first possibility. But even if I could figure out a way to send him a follow-up message — or horror of horrors — were forced to ask him in person if he had received my message and, in fact, he had gotten it but was indifferent, then I would seem even more foolish.
But that’s not what happened. Instead, the next morning, I received a short and flirtatious but totally appropriate message from J on LinkedIn.
From there, we started texting. “Good morning Leslee. This is J from the 9th floor. How are you this AM?” it began. A few days later, we met up at Teaspoon, one of the many boba spots on Sawtelle Boulevard.
Toward the end of our time together, he put his elbow on the table and raised his open palm. I thought maybe he was challenging me to arm wrestle. Did he know I used to beat all the boys in elementary school? He asked me to put my palm to his. He made sure I was OK with it. I didn’t hesitate. It felt good.
Because both of us prefer to keep our work and personal lives separate, neither of us necessarily wants our co-workers to know about this, whatever this is, which has made for some exhilarating and funny moments. There is a shared understanding between me and J that this isn’t a happily-ever-after story, but it’s been really fun. I’m glad I decided to go for it — in my own restrained way. As J wrote in his LinkedIn response to me, “Fortune favors the bold.”
The author is a Los Angeles native and mom to two teenagers. She lives in Sherman Oaks.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
