One of my dating-related New Year’s Resolutions is to work on being more “approachable” to men. Like, smiling at a guy I’m attracted to. Or initiating polite conversation with a man I think is hot.

I’m a whiz at doing these things if I’m not attracted to a guy.

Well, today, I resolved to change that.

The sun was shining. People filled the sidewalks. Conversation and laughter wafted through the air. Spring had sprung and I was feeling happy and confident, bordering on cocky. Until I saw H.I.M, standing outside one of my favorite coffee shops.

His dark brown hair, a tad too long, was combed back from his face. A neat mustache and goatee, sprinkled with a strand or two of gray, framed his sexy lips. The tip of a triangular tattoo traveled up his neck, ending near his jaw. His tall, toned body, encased in drab brown, transformed his Muni bus driver uniform into designer clothing.

He looked like no San Francisco transportation worker I’d ever seen. His bad boy image was totally at odds with his profession. And, for the first time I can remember, I experienced that “raw energy” emanating from a man that I thought only existed between the pages of the books I write.

Feeling shell shocked, I totally forgot to invoke I Am Approachable Rule #1: Smile.

As his friend held the door open for me, I thanked him, and went inside. I dropped my backpack at an available table and then joined them in line. All the while, my heart raced and my mind scrambled to come up with a witty I Am Approachable line.

Mr. Sexy ordered his coffee drink, his deep voice sending heat to my stomach.

I remained silent, dumbstruck.

When the owner handed him a paper cup overflowing with foam, he politely asked her to scoop it all off. “I’ll get it in my moustache,” he added.

My tongue became unstuck. Remembering I Am Approachable Rule #2: Say Something, I said with a chuckle, “Then you can do one of those milk commercials.” (Okay, so it was a weak opening line. But you gotta give me points for hormonal distress!)

He returned my chuckle without turning around, giving me a side glimpse of dazzling white teeth.

And then he was gone.

The conversation behind the counter invaded my hormone-induced coma.

“I would do anything to be on his bus,” said one.

“He can take me anywhere,” said another.

Feigning nonchalance, I asked, “Do you know him?”

“He’s filming Mission Street Rhapsody nearby. That’s Benjamin Bratt.”

I frowned. “Who’s Benjamin Bratt?”

At their incredulous looks, I took my latte and slunk to my table. Booting up my laptop, I Googled ‘Benjamin Bratt’ and then clicked on the link: http://www.askmen.com/men/apr00/20_benjamin_bratt.html.

My mouth dropped open.

That was Benjamin Bratt? Sandra Bullock’s love interest in Miss Congeniality? Julia Roberts (ex?)boyfriend? But, most importantly, he was the guy I had lusted after in Love in the Time of Cholera last November?

A sense of pride buzzed through me. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t noticed me. And I probably wouldn’t have said a thing, had I known who he was. But I’d inadvertently practiced my New Year’s Resolution on the Benjamin Bratt.

Confidence and cockiness returned to my chest. Mr. Bratt today. Who would be tomorrow?

Until yesterday, I thought I knew what men like to see on a woman: Pretty much anything that makes us miserable. Like a wedgie-inducing thong. Or a micro-miniskirt that reveals an ass cheek with each micro-step, despite repeated attempts to pull it down. Or 3-inch stilettos with neck-breaking potential.

True, these accessories are sexy to men. But want to know what the #1 accessory is?

A book.

Yeah, I hear your skepticism. And, until yesterday, I would have been skeptical, too.

But, in yet another procrastination maneuver designed to avoid writing, I decided I needed to take a l-o-n-g walk. In the rain. So, bundled up in a shapeless sweater my grandmother probably wouldn’t wear and a scarf looped around my neck so many times that I could barely turn my head, I grabbed my eye glasses, a book, and my umbrella.

And off I went, umbrella up, FOREVER ODD in my hands, reading as I walked the streets of San Francisco.

“That must be a good book,” came a deep voice in front of me.

I looked up into the smiling face of a man walking his Pomeranian or some such faux dog. I smiled. “Yes, Dean Koontz is always a good read.”

He smiled, we made arcane small talk, and I went back to reading as I entered the crosswalk.

“Hi,” came another male voice.

I looked up. “Hi,” I said to the good-looking Latino man in front of me.

He smiled. I smiled. And, after spotting the wedding ring on his left hand, I went back to reading and walking.

“Hey,” said another guy.

I looked up and my heart did that stutter thing that I write about in books as I looked at the bad boy with the dazzling smile, wearing the hard hat. Dammnnn.

“Hi. Looks good,” I said motioning to the wall he was building, proud of the confidence in my voice, as if I knew a good wall from a bad wall.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. And you look good, too.” I said, smiling.

Surprise flitted across his face and his smile widened.

Surprise flitted through my body – I was surprised because I can rarely flirt without the help of a Long Island Ice Tea. Or two. Sometimes, it takes three.

Despite the lack of a wedding ring on his finger and the tingly thing his smile was doing to my insides, I walked away. Twenty-three years old was too young, even in this Decade of the Cougar.

But, this time, as I walked along, that tingly feeling was preventing total concentration on Koontz’s tale of a man who saw the dead.

“Wow. How do you do that?”

I looked up at the guy leaning against a wall, taking a cigarette break. “Do what?” Lust after twenty-something year olds?

He motioned to the book. “Walk and read. Don’t you stumble?”

Oh. That. “Well, occasionally I stumble. Once I walked into a street sign.”

I described the lump on my head from the metal pole, then the conversation went deep, as my stumbling became metaphoric for stumbles in life.

I won’t bore you with the remaining encounters. The point to all this is: When I’ve walked the streets in this same attire, book-less, rarely has anyone said a word to me or spared me much of a second glance. But, book in hand, suddenly half the guys I pass want to chat.

So. I’m convinced that men find books on a woman sexy. And I’m convinced that books are the new guy magnet. Imagine the possibilities of combining a book with that little black dress I wrote about months ago. Mind boggling, isn’t it?

Anyone want to borrow FOREVER ODD ?

I’ve always loved the elderly.

Some of my happiest memories are summers spent with my grandparents … Holding Grandaddy’s hand and chattering non-stop as we walked to Mr. Lee’s store, then sitting on his lap and listening to stories of Pancho Villa. When I tired of that, I’d scramble onto the sofa next to my great grandmother, Te-Te. Armed with a pair of tweezers, I was honored with the task of plucking her chin hairs.

Other times, the days were spent with my other grandmother – going shopping downtown, rolling around on the department store floor in the throes of a temper tantrum … uh, anyway …

Never did I think that I would be elderly.

And I still don’t think I will be – until little things surface to remind me. Like, when I go in for my annual eye exam, and my optometrist says, “You know, you’re going to need bifocals soon.” Or when, in the middle of a dreamless sleep, I suddenly wake up, sweating and unbearably hot, and think, “Oh no! Was that a hot flash?!” Or like, when I move close to the mirror to put on my mascara and exclaim, “My God, is that a chin hair?!”

The final straw – the thing that finally convinced me – was the sudden appearance of A.A.R.P. announcements in my mailbox.

But I don’t think I’ll mind being old – it’s the getting there that is sometimes shocking – since I’ve had such great role models. None of my grandparents let a little thing like age deter them. Sure, it slowed them down, but it didn’t stop them. Just like is hasn’t stopped Elsie McLean, the golfer who landed her first hole-in-one at 102 (did you see the video? She gets around better than I do!) or the 95 year old woman who set a trap and caught a thief.

That’s how I want to be when I’m older. Still pursuing the things I want to do in life. Still living and believing that “life is about the chase…”

Do you think about getting older?

Whew! Sorry for the long blog absence. Life kind of got in the way of things. But, I’m back. And what better way than to acknowledge a very special person’s birthday today.

Here goes, in no particular order.

Without you …

… I’d still be curling my lips in disgust at things I don’t approve of. Whenever I catch myself being judgmental, your words come back to remind me.

… M’s blood pressure wouldn’t be the lowest it’s been in years.

… I wouldn’t know the secret to drinking, thus I’d never know what it feels like to be the sexiest, Soul Train dancer who ever lived, desired by every man in the club.

… I wouldn’t have experienced the best birthday of my adult life.

… A. wouldn’t be the happiest he’s ever been, on the verge embracing a new life that you made happen.

… when a “great” idea hits, tears would fill my eyes as I stare at the silent phone, for there’d be no one squealing with excitement on the other end as if I hadn’t shared a million “great” ideas before.

… R.L. wouldn’t have anyone who thinks like he does or to discuss politics with.

… when the next Mr. Right-Gone-Wrong crushes my heart, there’d be no one calling him names while I sob, and then telling me what a wonderful person I am, that I am too good for him.

… no one would’ve made me stop my then-new Lexus to pick up the mangy dog, search for his owner, and feel the rush of relief because he’d been saved.

… there’d be no ongoing rescue of the ever-increasing number of “unique” animals with “special” needs and placement of them in the perfect homes.

… T. wouldn’t be the smartest, most beautiful, most loved, most well-adjusted, being in the whole world, primed to accomplish spectacular things.

… there’d be no box filled with childish drawings of houses and princesses with “I love you” scrawled in block letters that I go through when I’m feeling down, that make me feel special.

… I would be a mother, for there would be no one to teach me that I am not mother material.

… cherished memories of daily coffee dates in Walnut Creek, shared secrets in Savannah, and salads in Atlanta would be replaced with memories of meaningless hours and loneliness.

Without you, I’d cry every day because there’d be an emptiness in my heart that only you can fill.

I love you. Happy Birthday!

There are two times in my recent history that I can remember being clueless to the point of an embarrassing ditzy-ness. The first was two years ago, when I joined a singles motorcycle club, despite the fact that I knew nothing about motorcycles or riding – and showed up for my first ride wearing high-heeled sandals and a sleeveless shirt. Can you spell h-u-m-a-n P-o-p-s-i-c-l-e ?

The second was last week while I was writing in the bar at Kincaid’s with my friend, Mary B. Morrison (BTW – Mary just made the New York Times bestsellers list! Woo-hoo!!). Yes, we were writing — sometimes writer’s block demands more than caffeine inhalations to unstop it. Sometimes it requires a crab dip, teriyaki beef, and coconut shrimp sampler, followed by a huge bowl of peach cobbler with ice cream, and a mango mojito chaser, and a fellow writer to listen to me whine about the injustice of deadlines.

So, in between stuffing my face and whining, I’m writing away – or trying to– when a male voice behind me says, “What are you two working on?”

“We’re writers,” I say. I tell him what we’re working on. His friend joins the conversation. Introductions are made – he is Aaron Brooks and his friend is Kent Smith. We all talk about books and writing.

“I’ve written a book, too,” says Aaron.

“Great. What’s it called?” I ask.

“Rise Above,” he says. I learn that the book is about his life and is a motivational tool aimed at youth. I also learn that Aaron and Kent are quarterbacks for the Oakland Raiders. The conversation turns to football, which I know nothing about. I share this ignorance, admitting that I don’t know what, exactly, a quarterback does, and that I used to watch games with my dad as a kid, picking the winning team based on the color of their uniforms.

Yes, sometimes it is best to remain SILENT.

By the time the conversation was over and we each went our separate ways, I can’t say I was much more knowledgeable about football – except for the fact that quarterbacks are nice people.

Photos: (left) Rachelle & Aaron Brooks, (right) Rachelle & Kent Smith