Foolishness:

Oh, God, do I love ginger girls.

I mean, I love most pretty girls of all races and hair colours. I'm not really that picky - I've dated plenty of brunettes and blondes in my lifetime. Hair colour is a very minor thing, and I am fully aware of this. When I think of "Dream girls", hair colour is very low on that priority list.

Be that as it may, I do find myself distracted by ginger girls. Oh god, do I get distracted. I really cease to be myself, and instead turn into an even more awkward lad. It's terrible, it really is.

Thursday, for example. I was walking down Government street, threading my way through the throngs of tourists and avoiding the outstretched hands of street people. I was crossing the street near the Empress hotel when out of the corner of my eye I saw a twenty-something ginger girl talking to her grandmother or something. They were sitting at a table outside a coffee shop, within a few feet of a beautiful kilted blonde fiddler.

Most guys passing by were enamoured by the fiddler. I had my music on, so I don't know how good her playing was, but I have a sneaky suspicion people weren't so interested in her playing. Blonde hair, low-cut shirt, great boobs, short skirt, beautiful legs. I don't blame any of them But I barely gave her a second glance. Because I had my eyes on one of the most beautiful people I've seen in months.

Light red hair, the kind that has wisps of blonde in it but isn't quite "strawberry blonde". A face covered in freckles. Glasses. Small frame, no-nonsense capri jeans, and a plaid blouse. Earbuds around her neck.

Animals have a "flight or fight" reaction in stressful situations. It's how they instinctively respond in times of panic. For human males, in what could be termed "cross-gender social interactions", they have what could be called a "Game or Lame" reaction.

In short, do they swallow their nervousness, man up, and bring their "game"? Or do they shrivel up like a little girl and wind up being "Lame"?

I wish, wish, wish I went with "Game". Although, I suppose if I had, I wouldn't have any blog material. But that would be a problem I wouldn't mind having.

Unfortunately, I went with "lame". And I went with "Lame" with the exuberance and passion of a hipster trying to find a new band ("I listened to that band before their lead singer was even born, man. Their In Utero album is fucking intense").

I just stood there, in the middle of the street, with my jaw agape. I looked her up, and then down. And then up again. I even looked sideways, once or twice. Passers-by had to detour around me, with more than a few looking at me to make sure I wasn't on drugs, or having some sort of epileptic episode.

While ginger girl was oblivious to all of this ogling, her grandmother (unfortunately) was not. She thought it was funny as hell, and kept smiling at me. It was, however, an encouraging smile, and this broke my trance. After all, if the girl's grandmother liked me, maybe I had a shot? I had to think of an approach. Maybe I should grab a flower, and tell her it was for the most beautiful girl on the island? Or ask to buy her coffee? Or-

I got pushed out of the way by some burly dude with a Canucks jersey. I stumbled off the curb like some guy getting pushed around on the beach in those old Charles Atlas comics. As I stumbled, my ipod flew out of my hand and skittered across the cobblestones, and as I dove to grab it, my cell phone, keys, and change spilled out of the pockets of my hoodie.

As people walked by, I scrambled to pick up all my stuff, awkwardly looking over at ginger girl. Who had, by this point, noticed me. And was giving me an "aw, you poor thing" smile of sympathy.

I knew at this point it was probably not going to work out. No "How I met your mother" story begins with "well, she felt so sorry for me, looking like a fool on the curb, that she gave me her number".

I awkwardly scooped everything up, giving her an embarrassed glance and a nervous shrug. I caught the eye of the grandmother, who was laughing quietly under her breath. As my music had stopped playing (I had dropped the ipod), I now realized the fiddling had ended - the fiddler had stopped playing and was watching me. This, somehow, made it all worse.

I blushed beat red, and decided "flight" was the best option. I power-walked away like a friggin' Gazelle, man.