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One thing that always made me jealous of Carrie Bradshaw — aside from the oft-maligned improbable shoe collection — was her ability to meet men. Except when otherwise committed (to Big, Aiden, or the small pool of others who lasted longer than a single comedic arc), Carrie routinely hooks up with at least one man per episode. She is a dating machine, and she meets them everywhere: in bars, in the park, in her psychiatrist’s office. My favorite is when she goes out with a guy she meets when he…accidentally hits her with a cigarette butt. I mean, seriously!
As a perpetually single 23-year-old, I’ve always found this frustratingly unrealistic. I struggle to find a summer fling and Carrie can start a relationship in 24 hours. But recently, I’m starting to come around. Because recently…I’m starting to meet men. Everywhere.
I’ve always liked talking to strangers (you really do meet the most interesting people on NYC subways), but lately more of these strangers are fleshing out into real people. A friend of a friend at a bar. A kindhearted hippie in Penn Station. The guy on the dance floor at a friend’s engagement party. A reporter who approached me on the beach while writing an article about Memorial Day (seriously, this guy just comes up to ask me about my day at the beach). Suddenly, decent twenty-something guys are coming out of the woodwork.
I haven’t quite experienced that instant spark with one of these strangers — the spark that Carrie seems to generate with every romantic-comedy meet-cute she stumbles into — but I’m still glad I didn’t listen to my parents when they told me never to talk to strangers.

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