FOR seven years, I read Missed Connections on Craigslist where would-be star-crossed lovers leave messages for those they’d been too shy to talk to. Living in a city as big as New York, I figured love could bump into me at any corner, and if it did, I hoped it would write a witty anonymous love note to let me know.

I wasn’t just idly wishing, either. I made frequent eye contact with people on the subway. I tried to wear something memorable every day — like a newsboy cap or a set of suspenders — so I could recognize myself in the ad. I even made a mental list of the traits most likely to be used to identify me: my bright green eyes, my snorting laugh.

“This could be you!” said my friend Julissa, who scanned postings with me at work.

“Sure,” I’d respond. “If I were five inches taller and Dominican.”

Or it was a post that could have been me, but also could’ve been half of Brooklyn. (Note to all would-be Missed Connectors: “You wore red and smiled” is not enough info.)

But I never found one for me until I stopped really looking. There, under “Atlantic Post Office This Morning — M4M” I found a Missed Connection that was unquestionably for me: rattail, black shorts, suspenders and wifebeater. He catalogued my entire outfit. I’d been waiting for this moment for years and yet it still felt unreal.

The post described me as looking like “a sleazy convict” — not really how I wanted people to think of me even if I was wearing a wifebeater and had a mid-’80s mullet. But it said I was cute, and that he wanted to take me out for coffee. I wasn’t certain

who had written it. And while I’d hoped my eventual Missed Connection would be mutual, i.e., one where I had noticed the other person too, I had determined long ago that if I were ever lucky enough to get a Missed Connection, I would go on the date, no questions asked.

My first impression upon seeing him was: Oh my God, he’s 13. But it turned out he was just a prepubescent-looking 23-year-old — still quite a bit younger than most of the people to whom I, at 30, am generally attracted. He had dark hair and

light skin, and one of those wispy mustaches high school kids adopt when trying to pass for 18. He was cute, in a pinch-his-cheeks-andgive-him-candy kind of way. After our initial greeting, his additions to the conversation were like the G train: slow, infrequent and short.

“So, do you live in the neighborhood?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Me too. How long have you been here for?”

“Awhile.”

Silence.

We studiously avoided the topic of posting and looking on Missed Connections itself. It’s a private pursuit, after all; something lighthearted and fun in the office, but a little reminiscent of passing notes in high school when said aloud.

At the end of our “date,” we exchanged numbers, even though it was obvious we would never call each other. He seemed as disappointed by our “Connection” as I was.

In hindsight, I’m not surprised the date was painful. Missed Connections is a Web site for people too shy or neurotic to say hello. It’s about possibility. Fantasy.

For those who just read the posts, it’s a window into that impossible grail: love at first sight. Like playing the lottery or hunting for an apartment, it’s an activity based on faith, which is rarely rewarded in quite the way we hope. A Classic Six on Central Park might be out there for some people, but most of us live in studios in Brooklyn.

When I look at Missed Connections now, it’s like reading a book of short stories. As for dating? I do that in person. Look for me at a bar in Brooklyn; I’ll be wearing a newsboy cap and suspenders. Don’t be afraid to say hello.