Why do I...

keep getting asked out in elevators?

That's not some zen koan...at this point I'm truly, sincerely, wondering what's *ahem* up.

I've been *ahem* elevated to this whole new dating world, in which it's such a candystore out there I now don't even have to leave my apartment building to meet totally quality menfolk. Or apparently even shower. Though that's not really news to me; it's always been a befuddling irritant that I get asked out more in no makeup and sweat pants.

I suppose it's like my dating strategy of keeping a little extra weight on: it sorts out the riff raff.

You wouldn't even believe me if I described the last elevator encounter. Okay, I'll try. Vaguely, to protect the innocent and smoking hot.

I was sweaty from being in the basement storage area getting props for the film, and Mr. foreign-accent-my-age-writer-producer-at-glamorous-Hollywood-company is quizzing me about who I am, making sure I know he lives in my building, stooping over to pick up the photographs I dropped everywhere... Huh?

Wow. I wonder what would happen if I did a little experiment and ran around town one day riding in elevators. And I could try all sorts of different kinds of buildings to catalog the men, and see who comes up with the coolest date idea for us. How fun!