<a href="http://wemetonaplane.com/" target="_blank"><img class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-10030" title="homeLogo" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/homeLogo-300x170.png" alt="" width="300" height="170" /></a>If you have an <em>ounce</em> of hopeful romanticism in your DNA, then please pass this on via facebook, twitter, email, pinterest or whatever social media outlet floats your boat.  Because it's Spring!  And love is in the air!

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Think of this as a virtual message in a cyber-bottle.  The old-fashioned message in a bottle seems ridiculously impossible, but people have tried it for centuries.  <a href="http://www.mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/36541" target="_blank"><strong>It's even worked!</strong>  </a>(And I'm not referring to a Nicholas Sparks novel.  Although....sigh....Does that man know the heart of a woman or what?!)

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<span style="font-size: medium; color: #008000;"><strong>Since it's Spring, and since love is in the air, my virtual message is aimed towards a Handsome Stranger.  </strong></span>

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Who knows if he's Mr. Right, Mr. Wrong or Mr. Unavailable?  What I do know is that he's Mr. Intriguing, and I am not a hope<em>less</em> romantic but a hope<em>ful</em> romantic which means . . . .

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I believe anything is possible.  With a little help from my friends.  (Cue Ringo.)

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<span style="font-size: medium; color: #008000;"><strong>And kooky, hair-brained quests with your friends on the Interwebs are fun and often life-changing.</strong></span>

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Remember <strong><a href="http://oneredpaperclip.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Mr. Red Paperclip Guy</a></strong>?  If he could harness the power of Internet peeps to barter his way from a paperclip to a house, then why can't I ask you lovely ladies and 3 token gents to help me find a gorgeous bloke in London?

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Will you please ripple the cyber-waters and move my virtual message in a bottle along?  I've made it easy for you:  See the facebook, twitter, pinterest and email icons at the bottom of this post?  Psst!  Pass it on!  Thank you!

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<span style="color: #008000; font-size: medium;"><strong>Oh!  How could I forget?  You're probably wondering, "What does he look like???"</strong></span>

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<strong><span style="color: #000000; font-size: medium;">Answer:  Tall, dark, and handsome.</span></strong>

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<span style="color: #008000; font-size: medium;"><strong>Seriously, 6 foot 2"-ish, full head of dark hair, and piercing blue eyes.  (See?  I wasn't exaggerating.)  Age?  I would guess early 40s.</strong></span>

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On the day of January 28th, 2012 at London Heathrow Airport, he was wearing a cream cable knit turtleneck sweater, jeans, and Sorels.  (For my fellow desert dwellers who don't know what Sorels are, think fashionable snow boots worn by a man who knows how to dress.)

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Here's what I posted the other night on<a href="http://wemetonaplane.com/" target="_blank"><strong> WeMetOnaPlane.com</strong></a>:

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<a href="http://wemetonaplane.com/?s=london+geneva&amp;submit="><img class="wp-image-10049 alignnone" title="Screen shot 2012-03-19 at 7.41.44 PM" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/Screen-shot-2012-03-19-at-7.41.44-PM-1024x402.png" alt="" width="717" height="281" /></a>

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You can also click the image above to take you directly to the site where you can fb, tweet, and comment your little hearts out!

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<span style="font-size: medium; color: #008000;"><strong>If you'd like to know the<em> rest</em> of the story -- i.e, the juicy bits -- keep reading.</strong></span>

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THANK YOU for humouring me!  May Spring fill your world with love and excitement!

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It all started in January.  I was flying into Geneva, Switzerland with a tight 60 minute layover at London Heathrow.

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Always up for a challenge, I booked this too-good-to-be-true flight with fingers crossed.  If I could cut my travel time by 4-6 hours, then bring it!  Worse case scenario:  Blimey!  I miss my connection, drink pots of PG Tips to stay awake after my red-eye, and shop at Harrod's.

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Fast forward to January 28, 2012.  British Airways was a tad tardy.  Updated layover time:  50 minutes.  At one of the busiest airports in the world.  Bloody hell!

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<span style="font-size: medium; color: #008000;"><strong>I am not a runner.  I am <em>fit</em>, but a runner I am not.  </strong></span>

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<span style="font-size: medium; color: #008000;"><strong>Except on January 28, 2012 when I ran like an Olympic sprinter through Heathrow.  </strong></span>

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Fantasies of PG Tips and Harrod's might sound appealing when you are well-rested, but when you've barely squeaked in 4 hours of Zzzzz's on a 10.5 hour flight (and I was lucky to get that in coach), all you can think about is a comfortable mattress.

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Thanks to the kindness of French and German strangers who graciously allowed me to cut in front of them in security, I made it to my gate with only minutes to spare.  I was a hot, harried mess.  Not hot as in "I looked good" (unfortunately), but hot as in "I was sweating from Olympian feats performed in a severely sleep-deprived state".

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<span style="font-size: medium; color: #008000;"><strong>Somehow, I caught Mr. Gorgeous Bloke's eye.  </strong></span>

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Perhaps he was sleep-deprived as well?  Although he appeared to be a Brit and this was already mid-day.

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Or perhaps it was because I was breathing heavy?  (From running, but maybe he didn't know that.)  We American women are so tarty, you know.

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I collected my disheveled self together and waited to board.  I tried not to notice that Mr. Gorgeous Bloke kept looking my way.  After all, <a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/2012/01/27/photo-du-jour-begins-on-sunday/" target="_blank"><strong>I was in transit to see my Romeo.</strong> </a> I don't flirt with other men when I'm with someone.  I'm not <em>that girl</em>.

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Little did I know that a mere 48 hours later, the smoke would clear, the mirrors would crack, and Shakespeare would roll in his grave.

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Little did I know that a mere 48 hours later, my heart would be sliced to bits.  Because cracked mirrors have sharp edges, you know.  <strong><a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/2012/02/17/playdate-5-a-week-in-the-french-alps/" target="_blank">Sniff, sniff.</a></strong>  (Cue hauntingly heartbreaking violin music.)

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<span style="font-size: medium; color: #008000;"><strong>Bloody, <em>bloody</em> hell!  I should have snogged Mr. Gorgeous Bloke while I had the chance.</strong></span>

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<strong><a href="http://www.heathrowairport.com/about-us/media-centre/press-releases/love-is-in-the-air-at-heathrow" target="_blank">This kind of thing happens every 49 seconds at London Heathrow.</a></strong>  Haven't you seen <strong><em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0314331/" target="_blank">Love Actually</a></em></strong>?

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As fate would have it, Mr. Gorgeous Bloke and friend boarded the plane directly in front of me.  You know how long that takes.  10 minutes of looky-looing later (I tried not to notice -- Really I did!)  it was time to hoist my luggage into the overhead bin.

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Mr. Gorgeous Bloke chivalrously offered to lift my flowery purple carry on for me.  He stood there and smiled.  If I remember correctly, he donned a Colgate smile.  Which.  Always.  Does.  Me.  In.

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As a friend later pointed out, if he's a Brit with a Colgate smile, he's probably an actor.  :-D

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But honestly, I was sleep deprived at the time, so I'm not completely sure about his chompers.  Good teeth or not-so-good teeth, it doesn't matter.  He was hot.  Hot as in "he looked really good", not as in "sweaty mess" although I'm sure he . . . . never mind.

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Focus, Michelle.  Focus!

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<span style="font-size: medium; color: #008000;"><strong>He stood there and smiled.</strong></span>

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I think he expected for me to sit next to him.  I awkwardly mentioned that my seat was two rows behind.  His expression wilted.  I noticed.

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Fast forward to Geneva Airport . . . .

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I collect my luggage and step out to the lobby to find my Romeo whom I just crossed the ocean to see.  I gazed into a sea of Europeans trying to spot him.

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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #000000;"><strong>Me:</strong>  </span><em>(inner monologue)  </em>Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou?</span>

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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #000000;"><strong>The Ex Formerly Known as Romeo:</strong></span> <em> (shouting out loud)  </em>What, are you blind?</span>

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<strong><span style="font-size: medium; color: #008000;">(Cue eerie music of foreshadowing.)</span></strong>

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The Ex Formerly Known as Romeo then laughed as he approached me.  Because greeting the woman who just crossed the ocean for you with an insult is hysterically funny.

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Not.

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Mr. Gorgeous Bloke passed by just as The Ex Formerly Known as Romeo snogged me.

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Bloody hell.

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But no need to feel sorry for me, my friends.  I'm the kind of woman who turns lemons into lemon chiffon cake!  I've signed up for April's <a href="http://www.scriptfrenzy.org/" target="_blank"><strong>Script Frenzy</strong> </a>where I will turn my Fairytale Gone Bad story into a screenplay in 30 days flat.  Think <strong><em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0328589/" target="_blank">Under the Tuscan Sun</a></em></strong> meets <strong><em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0337741/" target="_blank">Something's Gotta Give</a></em>.</strong>

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<strong><span style="font-size: medium; color: #008000;">Let The Ex Formerly Known as Romeo eat lemon chiffon cake!</span></strong>

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And you already know what the sequel is about, right?  Do I need to completely make up the ending, or can you help me base it on true events?

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psst!  Please pass this on!

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Thank you!

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<span style="color: #008000;"><strong>P.S.  If you are Mr. Gorgeous Bloke and you have receive my virtual message in a cyber-bottle, <a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/talk-to-me/" target="_blank">I look forward to hearing from you.  </a></strong></span>

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Do you know of any real life stories of missed connections?  Perhaps it even happened to you?  Please share in the comments section below.

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