In comparison to these self-esteem vampires, I provide a public service. So I make fun of these famous-people-specific idiosyncrasies on a blog followed by twenty million people. It’s all in good fun.

The look-alike continued to smile and sign napkins for the group of ladies. He might not have actually been the Irish actor, but he was definitely a somebody. Luckily for him, it was 3:30 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon; that meant Tom’s Southern Kitchen was virtually empty of customers. Surreptitiously, I angled my telephone and clicked out of my email, pulling up my smartphone’s camera.

I then took about forty or fifty shots over the next two minutes until my view of the hubbub was blocked by a waiter bringing over my bag of takeout. I didn’t quite make eye contact with my server as I paid for the food, collected my belongings as leisurely as I could manage, and left the small restaurant.

Eye contact is difficult for me. I know that seems strange; it is strange. For the longest time, I assumed I was just very shy—that is, until I started engaging with people online. That’s when I discovered in-real-life-Annie might be introverted. She is reclusive and quiet. She observes. She seldom speaks. She dislikes attention of any kind.

But The Socialmedialite, my online handle, is gregarious and silly. She is opinionated. She craves interaction and attention. She is clever and witty (mostly because, online, wittiness is not a factor of time; in real life you have to be quick-witted in order to be considered witty).

My bag slung over my shoulder, I carried the takeout in one hand and held my phone in the other. I was eager to thumb through my new pictures on the short walk back to my apartment. I hadn’t taken notice of much while sitting at my table, pretending to check my email, except for the guy’s resemblance to the Irish actor.

Therefore I was anxious to analyze what he was wearing, what he was carrying, and any other potentially remarkable external manifestations of eccentricity. I turned the corner, now just a half block from my building, and studied the shots.

Initially, all I saw was a guy who looked like Colin Farrell with a strange-looking, albeit small, apparatus strapped to his back, his feet in those godawful toe-shoes that make the wearer look like a hobbit. His shirt was lime green, skin tight, highlighting his impressively muscled physique, and appeared to be made of Lycra; his thighs were corded and thick, plainly visible because he wore spandex—black spandex, not lime green.

On 99.9% of people, this outfit would have looked completely ridiculous. But not on this guy. He looked hot. Really, really hot.

However, during my second, third, and fourth perusals—and especially in the pictures where his face was turned toward the natural light of the windows—I noted something remarkable about his eyes. Though his mouth held a wide, welcoming grin, his eyes struck me as sad. Terribly, terribly sad. And when I say “struck me,” I mean his eyes made my steps falter and slow, and caused a sudden involuntary intake of breath.

Here was this guy, physical perfection, obviously living a charmed life, walking around with mesmerizingly sad, soulful eyes. They were the kind of eyes that pull you in, ensnare you, bind you, hold you and your focus and your priorities hostage.

They took my breath away.

Some strange, long-dormant, and heavily suppressed instinct urged me to run back to the restaurant and wrap him in my arms. My heart gave a little twist. I wanted to kiss away his hurts…or at least make his hurts some cookies.

I shook myself, forcing my feet to move purposefully forward toward home, where I intended to bury these arresting and unwelcome instinctual reactions.

The critic in me reassessed the image and couldn’t ignore the toe-shoes, the lime green workout shirt, or the spandex—SPANDEX!—shorts. Even the top 1% of good-looking men should know better than to wear spandex shorts outside of a sporting event.

Just…no.

Sad and soulful notwithstanding, this man needed an intervention.

Although, spandex is nice for highlighting….

Struck by sudden curiosity, and because I am a red-blooded woman, I zoomed in on the area of his groin.

That’s right, I’m a reclusive pervert, and I make no apologies for it. And, giving the matter some thought, a reclusive pervert is much preferable to an extroverted pervert. I might also be a tad sexually starved, since I avoid all physical, real-life human interaction.

Just a tad.

I walked past my doorman and into my building, keeping my attention fixed on the phone as I studied the bulge in the man’s spandex running shorts. Tearing my bottom lip between my teeth, I boarded the elevator and tried another picture; in this one, he was angled toward the window, half facing the camera. I zoomed in a bit more.

“Whatever you’re looking at must be really interesting.”

I jumped back and away from the voice, sucking in a startled breath, jostling the bag of takeout in my hand, and clutching my phone to my chest. I hadn’t realized that I was not alone on the elevator.

I found him, my companion, looking at me with an amused smile. His blue eyes were suspicious, but good-natured, slits. I recognized him immediately as my very tall, very nice-looking, ambiguously single next-door neighbor.

Ambiguously single because he always had a date, but it was never the same lady friend twice.

I didn’t blame him, not at all. By all outward appearances, this guy was a hot commodity. Impeccably tailored designer suit and Italian leather shoes that announced both power and wealth; a chiseled jaw beneath perfectly formed lips framing stunningly white teeth; strong nose, bright blue eyes, expertly spiked and shaped blond hair. He looked like the type that subscribed to a beauty regimen. I was pretty sure his eyebrows were plucked and shaped by a professional.