I am pretty good at keeping New Year’s Resolutions. Which might come as a surprise. I can’t make deadlines (senior year 80% of my papers were turned in late, the most impressive tardiness: 3 months after the original due date), I’ll probably be 10 minutes late to my own wedding (should it ever occur), I always say “I should keep my room cleaner” and never do. But some how I can make one resolve at the beginning of the year and generally stick to it. Perhaps it’s because my resolutions are usually vague, like “Take More Risks” (totally rocked that one). Or they involve goals that only have no other option but moving forward- “Floss more” (considering 22 years previous of…pretty much never flossing this was hard not to achieve). This year I intend to improve my posture and stop touching my face so much (2 high incentives: looking better and not getting sick. One week into 2010 and so far so good.

Dating resolutions on the other hand…. Remember that time I said “no more actors” shortly followed by the resolve to “cease the virtual and focus solely on reality” (both direct quotes!)? Yeah…about those.

It was the night of our Company Holiday Party (CHP). Just that sentence makes you think “Uh oh….what did you do…?” Every December issue of any women’s magazine I have ever picked up has at least one article, more likely several- What to Wear, Do’s and Don’t, Embarrassing Stories sent in by readers- about this annual, fraught with danger, “fun”, event. While I had read these articles for years (I must explain myself: Trashy mags were in a free flowing supply at the gym in college. I went to the gym a lot in an effort to shed the cliché Freshman 15. Ergo, I did more trashy than academic reading  as an undergrad.) this was my first experience actually attending a CHP. Grumbling slightly because going to a party “like it’s my job” is weird, I borrowed the advised “flattering, fun, but not too sexy dress” from my roommate, put on the only pair of boots I own that make me understand why so many women have love affairs with shoes, and with the resolve to not get too drunk I headed downtown.

I arrive on the early side, (ie no one is there ) still 10 minutes later than the time I was told to arrive. I’ve been at this job about 3 weeks, I’m still in the ‘they say jump, I jump” phase. I take off my coat and find myself face to face with the bar. The open bar. The I-can-order-ANYTHING-regardless-of-cost bar. This is beyond exciting. And dangerous. My frugality generally keeps me sober which in turn generally keeps my tolerance low. It all works out very nicely. Until I’m faced with an open bar or benefactor(s). Then it becomes much harder to count drinks,  then I stop caring about counting, and before long I stop caring about anything.

For a while I’m fine. Great in fact. I’m mingling like a champ, introducing myself and being charming with small talk. I’m even doing some networking as I meet a fellow employee who is also an actor. I think I’ve made a friend in him, he’s easy to come back to when I find myself in a awkward stand still conversation lull with some one else. He mentions he has a plus-one showing up. Ugh couples. Lame. He then mentions his plus one is his roommate- figured he’d share the open bar/free food bounty. Not so lame.

When his roommate actually shows up my “not so lame” turns into “totally awesome!” See, new work buddy failed to mention that him roommate is ridiculously cute. He’s got quite a few inches on me in spite of my heals,  gorgeous blue eyes that show sweetness and intelligence, and side burns that make you want to touch his face not rip them off of it. And it’s not just that he’s cute. Let’s be honest. It’s not his eyes that tell me he’s sweet and intelligent, it’s more that after he showed up I ceased my mingling. I spend the rest of the night pretty much just talking to him. Oops. That’s breaking Company Party Rule #4 but I don’t care. He and his roommate tell me about how they met- a summer theatre production of Anne of Green Gables. He’s an actor. Of course he is. My cousin was right when she said half the men I meet here will be actors. I give up. There’s no way I staying clear of actors. It’s silly to even try.

By the end of the night he’s touched my arm several times, the kind of touches that mean nothing coming from most people, but when there’s chemistry their memory lingers in your arm hair that’s standing on end. We’re pillaging the dessert tray, bantering about cannolis, and unless some how my inebriated memory has betrays me, I feed him one. After another round of champagne and engaging conversation that’s it. I want him to be my Gilbert Blithe. Stat. Everything about the night has the distinct feeling of “really hitting it off with someone”.

Then suddenly, without warning, he’s leaving. What? No! “It was great to meet you, I hope I see you again sometime. Friend me on facebook or something?” No! I’ve sworn off the virtual! I don’t want to do such a passive form of contact, screw that- Actually, I kind of want you number. Ha, “kind of” my cannoli, but I’m not used to asking adorable boys for their phone numbers. Cut me some slack. “Okay” he says, and enters it into my phone. I’m sure a huge smile plastered itself across my face. Not sure I even made an attempt to hide it, and if I has any success.

So there I am, giddy with champagne bubbles and prospect. He didn’t ask for my number, but so what? I send him a cute witty “was nice to meet you” text so that he has it. His response is prompt and encouraging.

And then? Then I went home for the holidays. I’m sitting in JFK, awaiting my flight back to San Francisco, fighting boredom with JetBlue free wireless my thoughts drift to my crush. And then, because it was right in front of me? Because I wanted to be proactive? Because I wanted to see pictures of sideburns? Because I couldn’t not? Because I’m lame? I think you can guess what I did. I friended him on Facebook.

Idiot. This should be my New Years Resolution 2010. Do not friend people you are interested on Facebook! It causes more harm than good! And this isn’t just me. As the New York Times article I just read thoroughly discusses, Facebook creates ridiculous romantic complications. My predicament? Facebook says he’s In A Relationship. FACEBOOK SAYS. He never said! He never implied! Nothing! But because Facebook fucking says it, I give pause, give doubt to everything. My original ballsy plan to call him when I get back from San Francisco? Out the window. All because Facebook says.

I’m torn on this. On the one hand, he probably does have a girlfriend. On the other hand, just because Facebook says so, does not mean it’s true. Cute Theatre Boy is a good example- Facebook labeled him as “Single” the whole time we were dating and continues to do so  2 girlfriends after me. I asked him about it the other day (we are still friends if you’ve missed my previous mention of it) and his answer was “I don’t want people to see when I change it, ask questions, blah blah blah.” I decided to leave the ball in my crush’s court. He could contact me. Lame, passive, but I really don’t care to chase the unavailable.

Fortunately it was Christmas, New Years. Both very happy and spent with people I love. Perfect devises to forget about a crush. And I did too. Of course the minute I forget him, he writes on my facebook wall. Teasing me about my profile picture. Great, now I’m back where I started.

What stupid, virtual (ie NOT REAL) predicaments the decade presents.