I'll take S'More....

S'mores cocktails that is. Last night, I had a couple of these beauties, and somewhere between sips of delicious, alcohol embellished campfire-y goodness, an epitome hit (along with some lightheaded tipsiness): no internet created, mechanical match system can compete with the sparks inspired by genuine chance encounters, the non-premeditated interactions which leave one giddy, breathless, mystified by fate. Sure, match.com has my credentials in place systematically, my stats are engrained in the magical computer's memory bank, but what this site cannot simulate is honest to goodness first meeting flurries of joy. Butterflies, as it were. I hand select the male counterpart to my female, checking to make sure his prerequisites are in line with mine, scanning photos for hints of psychotic tendencies, and once background checks have been thoroughly completed, then and only then is date number typed into iCalendar. No brushing of shoulders, no stolen glances and nervous tittering chatter leading to stories exchanged, laughter shared, and numbers passed (or an iPhone "bump" now-a-days).

Last night, I had a business meeting. (Hilarious, coming from the girl who spends hours on end lazing away the day on her computer, musing about little nothings.) An honest to God appointment which had been set up due to a random encounter at a charity event previously in the week. I was "bartending" (aka shaking up pre-mixed cocktails and attempting not to drip alcohol infused juices on celebutantes' dainty paws), soaking up a the luxury that somehow manages to be incorporated in New York not-for-profit events. (Which certainly end up costing a great deal more to put on than is actually raised from donors by night's end, I have no doubt.) Through this event, however, I was fortunate enough to meet a man who is involved heavily with the charity and happened to create the cocktails of which we were shaking. A mixologist of some renown, preparing to embark on his own globe-trotting show (akin to Anthony Bourdain, cocktail style of course), it was with great interest that I soaked up his tales of childhood travel. Days in Kenya raising lion cubs, surfing the coast off Sydney, sojourning in France, the standard lines of which I am usually too terrible of a cynic to buy into. Something about his generous spirit, his honest eyes, his carefree manner, the countless shots of Patron, led me to follow his life story with the zest of a young child enjoying her first fairy tale. Business card exchanged, he mentions that he is looking for assistants for his travel show, which is undoubtedly my dream job.

We arrange a meeting. We discuss more of our lives' great experiences. He owns turbans from Dubai, I mention my fetish for baggy Turkish pants. While he waxes poetically about Japanese sakes, I regale with tales of my tours through Tuscany, the days luxuriating with glasses of Chianti, Sangiovese Whites and Venezian Prossecco. It is either an evening of two potential AA candidates, or a meeting of souls that in no way involves computers, data entry, forced conversation and awkward evening endings. The fact that it was not necessarily a romantic rendez-vous was truly the most precious fact. Two people, two minds, one evening of endless possibilities. No match.com necessary.

All I can be sure of now is that no matter how much we compartmentalize our mate-making requirements, create check-lists, categorize and sub-categorize, sometimes what makes people connect cannot be put into a general data-entry system. The criteria cannot simply be computed, allowing us to "Accept" or "Decline" people who may or may not play a role in our lives. Experience is everything, and the guy sitting next to you in the coffee shop, tossing back his red-eye and skimming through the "Times" could be a potential partner. I am learning the value of opening up oneself to the possibility of providence, and while my match.com account shall certainly remain active, I'm ready to give face-to-face fate a fair shake.