I have a slew of wonderful girlfriends, all of whom I love dearly.  Yet they all share one major flaw: They live very far away from me.

This wasn’t a problem until recently.  I’ve had plenty of opportunities and occasions to visit and connect with these ladies, and as an added perk I’ve gained a lot of Southwest points doing so.  However with my jet setting ways rapidly coming to an end, I was recently hit hard with the realization that I have no close friends where I actually live.  Damon and I moved to our current hometown eight months ago – what the heck have I been doing?

Well, for one thing, I used to work from home.  While my dining room is very comfortable and cute, it is not the best place to meet people.  Combined with the fact that I’ve spent probably 85% of my weekends (not an exaggeration) out of town, I haven’t been Ms. Social Butterfly of Norfolk.  Sure, I chat with the other moms-to-be at my prenatal yoga class, but it’s very superficial.  Yes, I volunteer with a local Girls on the Run Chapter and absolutely adore the elementary school girls I help coach.  But they aren’t going to join me for post-pregnancy cocktails; at least not without me getting arrested.  I’ve even signed up for a church small group and a MOPS group, but those don’t start until mid-September.

To avoid turning into a lonely old hag, disheveled and crazed with no friends to stop by and help out with the baby or more importantly, drop off home-cooked meals after I deliver, I needed to take action, STAT.  So here goes:

The other night Damon and I are out to dinner.  He recognizes a woman who enters the restaurant as the wife of a fellow Naval Academy friend.  As we walk out, he stops by her table to say hi.  This is my chance.  We get to talking. I find out she has three little girls and loves to shop.  This could be something.  As we’re leaving, she hands me her phone.  “Give me your info. We should go shopping sometime.”  OHMYGOSH she just asked for my number!!!  I tried to keep my cool.  “Yeah, sure, that’d be great,” I replied nonchalantly.  Damon and I walk out of the restaurant, with me pondering a common dilemma: how soon is too soon to facebook her?

The next day is pre-natal yoga day.  There’s been this woman who I’ve been getting to know the past few weeks; we’re mat buddies.  Could she be the one?  A potential friend? I decide that today I’m going to take the plunge:  I’m going to invite her out to lunch.  We exchange the routine pre-class pleasantries and then dive into our practice.  That went well.  I can do this.  The minutes tick by slowly as I anticipate the moment after class I’ll have to approach her.  Don’t chicken out.  Don’t chicken out.  Class ends.  We go to store our mats.  Palms sweaty, heart racing, I consider backing out.  Stop being such a coward! Just get on with it!  “So we should grab lunch or something sometime.  I mean, if you’re free,” I hurriedly blurt out.  That was so not cool!  “Sure, that would be great!  I have Mondays off.” Did she just say yes?  We exchange info, and off I go, reveling in my success.

Following yoga is a MOPS social event at Starbucks, prior to the actual meetings in September.  I go, meet some nice women, chat about things like breast pads and epidurals, and get ready to leave.  Emboldened by my earlier yoga conquest, I turn to the woman I was sitting next to and say, “It was nice meeting you.  We should hang out sometime,” but immediately regret my brash actions.  Can she sense my desperation?   “Absolutely!  Facebook me!”  What?!  Another score!

Two nights, three numbers (sort of).  I am officially a friend-seeking slut.

But hey, at least I went after what I want.  Where I go from here is yet to be determined.  I’m currently in California, and then will spend the next several weeks attending reunions, weddings and showers with my real friends.  But I’ve got those numbers securely entered into my iPhone, those facebook friend invites pending, ready to use whenever I recover from the anxiety-induced heart attack of putting myself out there in the first place.  How do men do it?