I once went to a silent dance party.
When you walked in, someone gave you a pair of headphones to wear - the funny, ear-muff looking kind. Each pair came with a little remote control allowing you to choose to listen to one of three stations. So, you could go up to someone, start dancing with them and tell pretty much right away if they were on the same wavelength as you (pun intended). It was pretty amazing. You had so much control! If you got sick of a song, you could change the station. You could decide how loud you wanted the music to be so you didn't have to go home with your ears were ringing (unless you wanted to). But soon enough the novelty wore off. The headphones were uncomfortable. It was even harder than usual to talk to people. And you weren't actually in control of what music you listened to since your choices were limited to three stations. After about five minutes, it was just weird.
This is kind of how I've come to feel about silence from an ex. At first it's great. There are no reminders of them in your inbox or your call log. You don't have to talk to them or see them if you don't want to. Out of sight, out of mind. But soon enough, you realize that you're not actually in control. The silence becomes uncomfortable. And then it just becomes weird.
Take 'C' for instance. 'C' is an old flame who I haven't heard from since December 2008. It is February 2010! It is driving me a little crazy. I just want to email him and say, "Are you alive?" Yes? Good. Okay, bye. 'C' and I never talked on a regularly basis to begin with; we'd email randomly maybe every two to three months. Actually, I used to hate it when he contacted me. I swear he had this sixth sense. I wouldn't hear from him and then boom. Completely out of the blue, he'd email or call me at a moment when I was feeling down or when something significant was going on in my life. So naturally, when all this happened, I almost expected him to pop back into my life. But no. All is quiet on the western front.
What's funny is that I think I should probably be more bothered by the radio silence coming from 'D'. 'D' is my most recent disappointment and I haven't heard from him at all since things ended. Sure, I may have said something along the lines of "don't bother" when he said he'd call me. And sure, I guess it's not that crazy that I haven't heard from him, since it's not as thought I ever contact boys after I end things with them, but still! I can't help but think things should have played out differently with 'D'.
Okay, I know, I could break the silence. It's mostly pride (and gmail's mail goggles) that's stopping me from emailing 'C' and 'D' myself. Maybe one day I'll give in, but for now, I'm okay with dancing around in the silence, and maybe I'm just not quite ready for those funny-looking ear-muff headphones to come off.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
How It All Began
I think it's safe to say that I have been dating in New York for a full year now. Why, you ask, has it taken me a whole year to start writing about it? I believe it was Thoreau who said, "How vain is it to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live?"
Hear hear. Leaving aside the fact that I think it's still a bit vain to write about yourself regardless of how much you've lived, I think I was just too green to be able to write about dating in New York a year ago. Occasionally, I can't help but feel as though I am in exactly the same place I was a year ago - same job, same apartment, still single. But the fact is, I'm not in the same place I was a year ago. Cheesy as it may sound, I've grown, learned and well, I stood up and lived this past year.
So just how green was I in early 2009? Well, it all started with a boy named 'B'.
In early 2009, I made the affirmative decision to "get out there" and meet people, even if it meant getting dressed up and putting heels on when it was 15 degrees and there was a foot of brown slush that New Yorkers call "snow" on the ground. So there I was, on a cold, icy January evening, feeling just a little bit silly in 3-inch heels, going to yet another birthday party of someone else that I didn't actually know. When I walked into the bar, it was clear that everyone there was under 22. It was one of those moments when I looked around the room and thought, when did I get so old?
And that’s when I spotted 'B'. Cute, preppy, your typical boy-next-door. Plus, he looked to be in the 26-35 range. I was just about to nudge my friend to point him out to her when he looked up. He looked at me. Our eyes met. And for a second, it was just like that magical moment in the movies when everything else goes quiet.
But five seconds later the crowd filled in again. The music was insanely loud and there was definitely a couple or two making out in the corner. My friends and I were trying really hard to stay out of the way of the under-age undergrads who looked like they might spew up their Malibu bay breezes at any second. Finally, I ended up next to 'B'. We chatted. He seemed interested. He asked for my number. I gave it to him. He never called.
I was so shocked. He was the first guy in New York I had given my number to who didn’t call. No, correction, he was the first guy I had given my number to in the entire world who didn’t call. What. the. hell?
I spent a lot of that week obsessing. I tried not to, but I couldn't help it. By the following weekend, I just wanted answers. I got drunk. And then I started raving to anyone who would listen about how awful guys are in New York. I mean, why would you ask for a number and then not call? Why even bother asking a girl for her number in the first place? I wound up talking some poor kid's ear off, demanding from him an explanation and an apology on behalf of the entire male species.
Since no one could give me any real answer to my dilemma, I started giving out my number with reckless abandon. I mean, if not calling wasn’t anything personal then surely I could at least win at the numbers game. Someone would have to call...eventually. It became my own little New York dating experiment. How many times would I have to give out my number before someone actually called? I gave my number to a 23-year-old at the Upper East Side frat party that is Dorian’s who "worked in real estate" and lived in Westchester (at home?). I gave my number to a 40-something at Employees Only who bragged about splitting his time between Los Angeles and New York, as though that was supposed to impress me. I even gave my number to my friend’s closeted gay friend just to see if he would call. No, no and no.
The One Who Actually Called was number four, well five, if you include 'B'. I met him at a bar called Plan B (only unintentionally ironic). But This Guy didn't just call. He called and when I screened, he left a voice mail and followed it up with a text asking if I wanted to go to a play in Brooklyn. It was really quite perfect. And that's when I saw the flaw in the whole plan. I had no interest in seeing this guy again. I certainly wasn't about to go all the way to Brooklyn to go on a date with some guy I wasn't even attracted to. I considered not calling or texting back. But then the guilt set in. How could I complain about guys who never call and then turn around and be the girl who never calls back?! So I waited a reasonable amount of time and texted a polite but clear response. He didn't call again. And I had my answer.
How many times does a single New Yorker need to give out her phone number before a guy calls?
Four or five, depending on how you're keeping score.
And that’s when I spotted 'B'. Cute, preppy, your typical boy-next-door. Plus, he looked to be in the 26-35 range. I was just about to nudge my friend to point him out to her when he looked up. He looked at me. Our eyes met. And for a second, it was just like that magical moment in the movies when everything else goes quiet.
But five seconds later the crowd filled in again. The music was insanely loud and there was definitely a couple or two making out in the corner. My friends and I were trying really hard to stay out of the way of the under-age undergrads who looked like they might spew up their Malibu bay breezes at any second. Finally, I ended up next to 'B'. We chatted. He seemed interested. He asked for my number. I gave it to him. He never called.
I was so shocked. He was the first guy in New York I had given my number to who didn’t call. No, correction, he was the first guy I had given my number to in the entire world who didn’t call. What. the. hell?
I spent a lot of that week obsessing. I tried not to, but I couldn't help it. By the following weekend, I just wanted answers. I got drunk. And then I started raving to anyone who would listen about how awful guys are in New York. I mean, why would you ask for a number and then not call? Why even bother asking a girl for her number in the first place? I wound up talking some poor kid's ear off, demanding from him an explanation and an apology on behalf of the entire male species.
Since no one could give me any real answer to my dilemma, I started giving out my number with reckless abandon. I mean, if not calling wasn’t anything personal then surely I could at least win at the numbers game. Someone would have to call...eventually. It became my own little New York dating experiment. How many times would I have to give out my number before someone actually called? I gave my number to a 23-year-old at the Upper East Side frat party that is Dorian’s who "worked in real estate" and lived in Westchester (at home?). I gave my number to a 40-something at Employees Only who bragged about splitting his time between Los Angeles and New York, as though that was supposed to impress me. I even gave my number to my friend’s closeted gay friend just to see if he would call. No, no and no.
The One Who Actually Called was number four, well five, if you include 'B'. I met him at a bar called Plan B (only unintentionally ironic). But This Guy didn't just call. He called and when I screened, he left a voice mail and followed it up with a text asking if I wanted to go to a play in Brooklyn. It was really quite perfect. And that's when I saw the flaw in the whole plan. I had no interest in seeing this guy again. I certainly wasn't about to go all the way to Brooklyn to go on a date with some guy I wasn't even attracted to. I considered not calling or texting back. But then the guilt set in. How could I complain about guys who never call and then turn around and be the girl who never calls back?! So I waited a reasonable amount of time and texted a polite but clear response. He didn't call again. And I had my answer.
How many times does a single New Yorker need to give out her phone number before a guy calls?
Four or five, depending on how you're keeping score.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Valentine's Day
What kind of girl would I be if I didn't write about Valentine's Day?
This year, I got an email from a friend almost a full MONTH out in anticipation of what us girls were going to do for Valentine's Day. A full month out! It got me to thinking about what I'd done the past few years. And honestly, I could barely remember. I had to go back to my outlook calendar to figure out what I'd done in 2009. (I was out-of-town and spent Valentine's Day as my parents' third wheel. If I had been anywhere in the 15 and 23 age range at the time, I probably would've been mortified, but last year, I enjoyed it. I mean, what better way to spend a day dedicated to love than with the two people who love you most in the world?) I have no idea what I did in 2008. (A 15 minute search through my inbox revealed that I was again out-of-town and spent Valentine's Day on a plane to visit my brother who had just had ACL surgery and was being taken care of by mom. Hmmm. Pattern?)
Well, this year I can't hide from Valentine's Day with my family (only because they moved to a place that is prohibitively far away from me). The thing is, I don't become extremely depressed at not having a date on Valentine's Day (because after 26 years, well no, 25 years, of not having a date on Valentine's Day, one really does get used to it). But I still feel the need to do something on Valentine's Day. I guess maybe if I were left alone to my own devices, at home, alone, on Valentine's Day, maybe I would get a little bummed.
But getting gussied up, sipping cosmos, toasting girlpower and plotting the demise of immature boys with 10 other single girls sounds pretty effing miserable. Don't get me wrong, I love my girlfriends and I love going out with just the girls. It's just that the thought of celebrating our collective singleness when I know that as much as everyone tries to deny it, every single one of us would have chosen having a boyfriend over being single that day (and probably 5 out of 7 days of any other week)...well. It just sounds a wee bit pathetic.
So, my plan for Valentine's Day? Go to a random dive with my friends, both guys and girls, drink beer, play shuffleboard, and celebrate nothing but a shuffleboard victory or two.
This year, I got an email from a friend almost a full MONTH out in anticipation of what us girls were going to do for Valentine's Day. A full month out! It got me to thinking about what I'd done the past few years. And honestly, I could barely remember. I had to go back to my outlook calendar to figure out what I'd done in 2009. (I was out-of-town and spent Valentine's Day as my parents' third wheel. If I had been anywhere in the 15 and 23 age range at the time, I probably would've been mortified, but last year, I enjoyed it. I mean, what better way to spend a day dedicated to love than with the two people who love you most in the world?) I have no idea what I did in 2008. (A 15 minute search through my inbox revealed that I was again out-of-town and spent Valentine's Day on a plane to visit my brother who had just had ACL surgery and was being taken care of by mom. Hmmm. Pattern?)
Well, this year I can't hide from Valentine's Day with my family (only because they moved to a place that is prohibitively far away from me). The thing is, I don't become extremely depressed at not having a date on Valentine's Day (because after 26 years, well no, 25 years, of not having a date on Valentine's Day, one really does get used to it). But I still feel the need to do something on Valentine's Day. I guess maybe if I were left alone to my own devices, at home, alone, on Valentine's Day, maybe I would get a little bummed.
But getting gussied up, sipping cosmos, toasting girlpower and plotting the demise of immature boys with 10 other single girls sounds pretty effing miserable. Don't get me wrong, I love my girlfriends and I love going out with just the girls. It's just that the thought of celebrating our collective singleness when I know that as much as everyone tries to deny it, every single one of us would have chosen having a boyfriend over being single that day (and probably 5 out of 7 days of any other week)...well. It just sounds a wee bit pathetic.
So, my plan for Valentine's Day? Go to a random dive with my friends, both guys and girls, drink beer, play shuffleboard, and celebrate nothing but a shuffleboard victory or two.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The Law of Threes
My freshman year roommate was a Macedonian from Kuwait who went to a British school and hated Greek men.
One day, I came home from class to find her intentionally breaking a glass over our trash can. I don’t think I even bothered to ask what she was doing. It was far enough into the year that she could spot the what-the-hell-are-you-doing look on my face that I never could manage to hide even though I tried.
“My grandmother always says that things break in threes. So whenever I break something, I intentionally break two other things.”
It was an especially odd thing to hear from her, of all people, because it wasn’t as though she was like Keri Russell’s Wiccan roommate on the first season of Felicity. My roommate was probably the most reasonable, rational person I’d met that year. Hardly someone I would've pegged for being superstitious.
I didn't think of her grandmother's words again until 7 years later. With every new apartment I lived in, I accumulated more and more kitchenware from Ikea, Crate and Barrel, Anthropologie - the usual for a 20-something. Somehow, even with my clumsy tendencies, I had never broken a glass, a plate, a bowl. Nothing. I don't think I had broken so much as an tomato sauce jar on its way out to be recycled.
And then I broke three things in one week. I pulled a mug out of the dishwasher and the handle literally fell off of the mug when I shook it to get rid of the excess water. I mean, it flew right off! I was left holding half a mug handle in my hand, and there were red shards of a corporate-logo-ed ceramic mug ALL over my floor and under my refrigerator. Then, a day later, I pulled a water glass out of the cabinet and set it down directly on top of another water glass that was already on the counter. The bottom glass shattered. Shattered! Damn clear glasses. I went from searching for red shards to searching for clear shards. Much worse.
I pretty seriously considered following in my roommate's footsteps. I had plenty of empty glasses around that I didn't need and could intentionally break. But then again, I was curious. I kind of wanted to tempt fate. What would break next? Or rather, what would shatter into a million little pieces all over my kitchen floor? The answer? My favorite vase. Darn. Should've broken that empty tomato sauce jar.
A few months later, the law of threes struck again.
This time, it was much worse. My week had already been shitty. There's really no other word for it. It was the first time in a year that I felt true hatred towards my job. I was definitely on my way towards becoming one of those people who lives from weekend to weekend and this one in particular held such promise. A first date on Thursday, poker with the boys on Friday and a sort-of third date on Saturday.
You can obviously see where this is going. Thursday afternoon - I get a text from my date, "Sorry, work is super busy, rain check?"
Okay, fine. I didn't really even care that I got canceled on via text. The date was with some random guy I'd met at a bar and who was fun but nothing spectacular. Plus he lived in Jersey. Next.
Friday afternoon - our poker email chain starts blowing up.
"Friday night in the office for me."
"Ditto."
"10% chance I'll get out in time."
"Not looking good."
Fail! Game was canceled. It sucks not having a 9-5 job (do those even exist anymore?).
So I wake up Saturday morning completely dreading what the day had in store for me. It's not like I could even break a glass to break the curse of the law of threes! What could I do? Make plans for brunch and deliberately ask that person to cancel on me? No. So I just waited. Maybe, just maybe everything would be fine and my week would end on a high note. Not so much. By noon, my sort-of third date had canceled too.
The worst part about the law of threes is that independently, none of these instances would have affected me much at all. Any other week, I probably would've been a little relieved by Thursday's cancellation. Sure random first dates can be fun, but there's also the super awkwardness of being on a first date with someone totally random. Any other week, I wouldn't have felt anything but indifferent that my poker game was off. Sure I enjoy taking the boys' money, but it would've also been nice to have spent Friday night out with the girls. And any other week, I would've had mixed feelings about being canceled on by my sort-of third date. Sure I would've been peeved for essentially being stood up, but I was already a little hesitant about him for a number of reasons, one of which was that he had backed me into a corner by asking me out for a Saturday date when we'd only been on one and two half-dates (which maybe I'll go into more detail one day, but it's why this date-that-never-was would have only been a sort-of third date in my book).
So instead of being three easy-to-shrug-off cancellations, when they happened back-to-back-to-back, each cancellation became a bigger and bigger disappointment. Three events that independently would have caused little buzz in my world morphed into The Shitty Weekend that Ended A Shitty Week. "Things break in threes," Macedonian grandmothers say. In this case, these three things taken together broke me, just a tiny little bit. It just goes to show how much sequence and context matter. For me, the law of threes is just another lesson in relativity.
One day, I came home from class to find her intentionally breaking a glass over our trash can. I don’t think I even bothered to ask what she was doing. It was far enough into the year that she could spot the what-the-hell-are-you-doing look on my face that I never could manage to hide even though I tried.
“My grandmother always says that things break in threes. So whenever I break something, I intentionally break two other things.”
It was an especially odd thing to hear from her, of all people, because it wasn’t as though she was like Keri Russell’s Wiccan roommate on the first season of Felicity. My roommate was probably the most reasonable, rational person I’d met that year. Hardly someone I would've pegged for being superstitious.
I didn't think of her grandmother's words again until 7 years later. With every new apartment I lived in, I accumulated more and more kitchenware from Ikea, Crate and Barrel, Anthropologie - the usual for a 20-something. Somehow, even with my clumsy tendencies, I had never broken a glass, a plate, a bowl. Nothing. I don't think I had broken so much as an tomato sauce jar on its way out to be recycled.
And then I broke three things in one week. I pulled a mug out of the dishwasher and the handle literally fell off of the mug when I shook it to get rid of the excess water. I mean, it flew right off! I was left holding half a mug handle in my hand, and there were red shards of a corporate-logo-ed ceramic mug ALL over my floor and under my refrigerator. Then, a day later, I pulled a water glass out of the cabinet and set it down directly on top of another water glass that was already on the counter. The bottom glass shattered. Shattered! Damn clear glasses. I went from searching for red shards to searching for clear shards. Much worse.
I pretty seriously considered following in my roommate's footsteps. I had plenty of empty glasses around that I didn't need and could intentionally break. But then again, I was curious. I kind of wanted to tempt fate. What would break next? Or rather, what would shatter into a million little pieces all over my kitchen floor? The answer? My favorite vase. Darn. Should've broken that empty tomato sauce jar.
A few months later, the law of threes struck again.
This time, it was much worse. My week had already been shitty. There's really no other word for it. It was the first time in a year that I felt true hatred towards my job. I was definitely on my way towards becoming one of those people who lives from weekend to weekend and this one in particular held such promise. A first date on Thursday, poker with the boys on Friday and a sort-of third date on Saturday.
You can obviously see where this is going. Thursday afternoon - I get a text from my date, "Sorry, work is super busy, rain check?"
Okay, fine. I didn't really even care that I got canceled on via text. The date was with some random guy I'd met at a bar and who was fun but nothing spectacular. Plus he lived in Jersey. Next.
Friday afternoon - our poker email chain starts blowing up.
"Friday night in the office for me."
"Ditto."
"10% chance I'll get out in time."
"Not looking good."
Fail! Game was canceled. It sucks not having a 9-5 job (do those even exist anymore?).
So I wake up Saturday morning completely dreading what the day had in store for me. It's not like I could even break a glass to break the curse of the law of threes! What could I do? Make plans for brunch and deliberately ask that person to cancel on me? No. So I just waited. Maybe, just maybe everything would be fine and my week would end on a high note. Not so much. By noon, my sort-of third date had canceled too.
The worst part about the law of threes is that independently, none of these instances would have affected me much at all. Any other week, I probably would've been a little relieved by Thursday's cancellation. Sure random first dates can be fun, but there's also the super awkwardness of being on a first date with someone totally random. Any other week, I wouldn't have felt anything but indifferent that my poker game was off. Sure I enjoy taking the boys' money, but it would've also been nice to have spent Friday night out with the girls. And any other week, I would've had mixed feelings about being canceled on by my sort-of third date. Sure I would've been peeved for essentially being stood up, but I was already a little hesitant about him for a number of reasons, one of which was that he had backed me into a corner by asking me out for a Saturday date when we'd only been on one and two half-dates (which maybe I'll go into more detail one day, but it's why this date-that-never-was would have only been a sort-of third date in my book).
So instead of being three easy-to-shrug-off cancellations, when they happened back-to-back-to-back, each cancellation became a bigger and bigger disappointment. Three events that independently would have caused little buzz in my world morphed into The Shitty Weekend that Ended A Shitty Week. "Things break in threes," Macedonian grandmothers say. In this case, these three things taken together broke me, just a tiny little bit. It just goes to show how much sequence and context matter. For me, the law of threes is just another lesson in relativity.
Friday, January 29, 2010
A Half-Hearted Apology & A Story
I was brainstorming what I should write about today and 9 out of 10 ideas were about...dun dun dun. Boys! Dating too, but mostly boys. I paused for a moment of self-loathing. And then I got over it.
I do hate that so many of these posts are probably going to be about boys. I bet I sound super boy crazy. Maybe I am. I don't really feel like I should have to apologize for it (because wouldn't that essentially be apologizing for who I am at this moment in my life?), but I kind of want to apologize for it. I want to apologize to the 18-year-old me who hoped never to become one of those girls whose life revolved around boys. Sorry hon. But you also thought you would be married by the time you were my age.
So I admit it. Sometimes my life does revolve around boys. In any case, it's certainly the most interesting topic in my life right now. I hardly think there are many people out there who want to read about my dating escapades, but I'm quite sure there are even fewer who would want to read about how I skipped out of work today for 2 hours to go to MoMA, or how I got free shipping on my last J.Crew order or how I hit Bobby Flay with my shopping cart when I went grocery shopping at Whole Foods. Ha! I just threw that last one in there to make it seem like my life is a lot cooler than it is (though I did almost bump into him once). Anyway, this is all to say that sadly this blog may end up becoming a little one-note. So, sorry.
And now for the story!
I wanted to write about the worst date I've been on in the last year. But in the spirit of not becoming That Bitter Single Girl, I decided instead to write about the BEST date I went on this year. When I first starting thinking about it, there wasn't actually a clear winner. Despite all my griping, I actually did go on some pretty great dates this year. There were several nearly-perfect dinner dates where we never ran out of things to talk about, continued with drinks after, and ended the night with a good-night kiss (or two or three). There was an amazingly cheesy date when we went ice-skating at the outdoor rink in Bryant Park, surrounded by skyscrapers and a beautifully-lit Christmas tree, just after it had snowed and everything was dusted with a film of white. And then there were those great "dates" when we ordered greasy take-out, sat on the couch and relished being comfortable enough with each other to just stay in.
But the date I recall the most fondly was none of the above. Actually I'm not sure I can even call it a date. The night I recall the most fondly then.
His name was...hmmm. No, no, I remember his name. But maybe it isn't exactly fair to put his name on here when I'm not even sharing mine. So, let's just call him 'A'. I was out with some friends at Spitzer's one night when I spied these three guys in the corner of the bar, chatting amongst themselves. When I looked over, one of them gave me this big, toothy, super cute smile. I smiled back (I think) but that was it. My friends and I left the bar not too long afterwards and went down the street to another bar, where the night continued pretty uneventfully. The bar was starting to empty out and we were getting ready to call it a night when three guys walked in. The SAME three guys from Spitzer's. 'A' took one glance at me, pointed and practically screeched, "YOU! You were at Spitzer's!!!! I gave you a HUGE smile and you didn't even come over and say hi!"
I have to pause the story for a second. Doesn't this sound like the beginning of the most perfect how-I-met-your-mother kind of story? Yeah. Sadly, it didn't turn out that way. Instead it turned out that 'A' was moving to Seattle in three days. Three! Just my luck. We ended up talking until we closed the bar down at 4am. There was no initial plan to exchange numbers. What was the point, right? But then his friend practically forced him to ask for mine. And I figured, what the hell. It's not like he was going to call anyway.
But he did. Since he was moving, he had a pretty jam-packed schedule, but I agreed to meet up with him and oh, just TWENTY, of his friends the next night for drinks. They were throwing him a going-away barbeque and then heading to their favorite bar for one last hurrah. So, I went. And I brought two friends along as airbags. I couldn't quite believe myself. Was I really about to meet up with some random guy who was about to move and his entire group of friends? Sure, I'd done some out-of-character things in the past year but certainly nothing this pointless?
One of the first things 'A' said when we arrived was, "I bet in 19 hours, you'll wish I wasn't moving to Seattle." Oh god. Really? I rolled my eyes. And then four hours later, I was wishing he wasn't moving to Seattle.
Apart from the slightly cocky personality, he was amazing. He was easy to talk to and struck just the right balance of talking to me AND my friends but without completely ignoring all of his friends. He was a recently laid-off architect whose latest project had just been completed. He asked if I'd seen it (I hadn't), so when everyone else cleared out, we hopped in a cab and headed over to check it out. It was a gorgeous building. Even more gorgeous was the passion with which he described it. I know nothing about building construction, so he could have been making everything up, but even if that was the case, it was pretty hot. We wandered through all these back areas of the building with him pointing out all sorts of architectural details along the way. And then made out in a stairwell. And then he moved to Seattle and I never heard from him again.
Sometimes I wonder if that's why I can still look back on that night so fondly. Is it simply because there was nothing for me or him to feel sorry for at the end of the day? Is it simply because no one got hurt in the process? Would I still feel the same way about him if he hadn't moved to Seattle and we had actually gone on a second or third or fourth date? I guess I will never know the answer to these questions, but I do know this.
Sometimes it's the things we do in life that we think are pointless that end up becoming the things we enjoy the most.
I do hate that so many of these posts are probably going to be about boys. I bet I sound super boy crazy. Maybe I am. I don't really feel like I should have to apologize for it (because wouldn't that essentially be apologizing for who I am at this moment in my life?), but I kind of want to apologize for it. I want to apologize to the 18-year-old me who hoped never to become one of those girls whose life revolved around boys. Sorry hon. But you also thought you would be married by the time you were my age.
So I admit it. Sometimes my life does revolve around boys. In any case, it's certainly the most interesting topic in my life right now. I hardly think there are many people out there who want to read about my dating escapades, but I'm quite sure there are even fewer who would want to read about how I skipped out of work today for 2 hours to go to MoMA, or how I got free shipping on my last J.Crew order or how I hit Bobby Flay with my shopping cart when I went grocery shopping at Whole Foods. Ha! I just threw that last one in there to make it seem like my life is a lot cooler than it is (though I did almost bump into him once). Anyway, this is all to say that sadly this blog may end up becoming a little one-note. So, sorry.
And now for the story!
I wanted to write about the worst date I've been on in the last year. But in the spirit of not becoming That Bitter Single Girl, I decided instead to write about the BEST date I went on this year. When I first starting thinking about it, there wasn't actually a clear winner. Despite all my griping, I actually did go on some pretty great dates this year. There were several nearly-perfect dinner dates where we never ran out of things to talk about, continued with drinks after, and ended the night with a good-night kiss (or two or three). There was an amazingly cheesy date when we went ice-skating at the outdoor rink in Bryant Park, surrounded by skyscrapers and a beautifully-lit Christmas tree, just after it had snowed and everything was dusted with a film of white. And then there were those great "dates" when we ordered greasy take-out, sat on the couch and relished being comfortable enough with each other to just stay in.
But the date I recall the most fondly was none of the above. Actually I'm not sure I can even call it a date. The night I recall the most fondly then.
His name was...hmmm. No, no, I remember his name. But maybe it isn't exactly fair to put his name on here when I'm not even sharing mine. So, let's just call him 'A'. I was out with some friends at Spitzer's one night when I spied these three guys in the corner of the bar, chatting amongst themselves. When I looked over, one of them gave me this big, toothy, super cute smile. I smiled back (I think) but that was it. My friends and I left the bar not too long afterwards and went down the street to another bar, where the night continued pretty uneventfully. The bar was starting to empty out and we were getting ready to call it a night when three guys walked in. The SAME three guys from Spitzer's. 'A' took one glance at me, pointed and practically screeched, "YOU! You were at Spitzer's!!!! I gave you a HUGE smile and you didn't even come over and say hi!"
I have to pause the story for a second. Doesn't this sound like the beginning of the most perfect how-I-met-your-mother kind of story? Yeah. Sadly, it didn't turn out that way. Instead it turned out that 'A' was moving to Seattle in three days. Three! Just my luck. We ended up talking until we closed the bar down at 4am. There was no initial plan to exchange numbers. What was the point, right? But then his friend practically forced him to ask for mine. And I figured, what the hell. It's not like he was going to call anyway.
But he did. Since he was moving, he had a pretty jam-packed schedule, but I agreed to meet up with him and oh, just TWENTY, of his friends the next night for drinks. They were throwing him a going-away barbeque and then heading to their favorite bar for one last hurrah. So, I went. And I brought two friends along as airbags. I couldn't quite believe myself. Was I really about to meet up with some random guy who was about to move and his entire group of friends? Sure, I'd done some out-of-character things in the past year but certainly nothing this pointless?
One of the first things 'A' said when we arrived was, "I bet in 19 hours, you'll wish I wasn't moving to Seattle." Oh god. Really? I rolled my eyes. And then four hours later, I was wishing he wasn't moving to Seattle.
Apart from the slightly cocky personality, he was amazing. He was easy to talk to and struck just the right balance of talking to me AND my friends but without completely ignoring all of his friends. He was a recently laid-off architect whose latest project had just been completed. He asked if I'd seen it (I hadn't), so when everyone else cleared out, we hopped in a cab and headed over to check it out. It was a gorgeous building. Even more gorgeous was the passion with which he described it. I know nothing about building construction, so he could have been making everything up, but even if that was the case, it was pretty hot. We wandered through all these back areas of the building with him pointing out all sorts of architectural details along the way. And then made out in a stairwell. And then he moved to Seattle and I never heard from him again.
Sometimes I wonder if that's why I can still look back on that night so fondly. Is it simply because there was nothing for me or him to feel sorry for at the end of the day? Is it simply because no one got hurt in the process? Would I still feel the same way about him if he hadn't moved to Seattle and we had actually gone on a second or third or fourth date? I guess I will never know the answer to these questions, but I do know this.
Sometimes it's the things we do in life that we think are pointless that end up becoming the things we enjoy the most.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Español
So, my first (slash second) post was pretty sappy. And really, for the most part, when I haven't just been disappointed by a boy for the hundredth time, I am overall a pretty happy person. Cynical? Yes. Bitter? Oh alright, yes, sometimes. See above. But overly emotional and always talking about my feelings? No. Today I reviewed my first (slash second) post and was a little shocked to see that I had used the word "cry" not once but three times. Like I said, I forget half the things I write. So for today, something a little more lighthearted.
Like my Spanish phrase-of-the-day calendar. I know, it's like a thousand percent dorky. But at the beginning of 2009, I bought one of those tear off a page each day calendars in an attempt to learn a little bit of Spanish. And by a little bit, I really do mean a little bit. For the first 3 months of the year, I could only remember one phrase: "Mi dia favorito es el viernes." Translation: My favorite day is Friday. We decided it actually was quite a useful phrase to know. Very multi-purpose. For example, at work it could be used like this:
"When do you think we should have this conference call?"
"Mi dia favorito es el viernes."
Or if you were at a bar:
"We should grab a drink together sometime."
"Mi dia favorito es el viernes."
Or if you were planning a trip:
"Let's go to Rome."
"Mi dia favorito es el viernes."
Ok so maybe it doesn't work so well in that last example, but nonetheless a relatively versatile phrase. A full year of Spanish phrases later, I've only mastered a few additional key phrases, like "Vamos a tomar algo" (Let's go get a drink) and "Es fea" (It's ugly). Perhaps it's not the most effective way to learn a language, but I keep it around (and even bought a new one for 2010) because occasionally, my calendar surprises me with a slightly creepy insight into my life. Like the time that I spent a terrible, horrible weekend at work. Monday's phrase was "Me merezco un aumento" (I deserve a raise). True dat! And then there was the day when I showed up to work completely hungover and my calendar said, "Necesito dormir la siesta" (I need a nap). And then there was today. "Eres soltero?" (Are you single?) Why yes Calendar, thanks for reminding me. I AM single. Ugh. I suppose though, together with "Vamos a tomar algo," I can now start picking up Spaniards and Mexicans at bars! Just as long as they don't call me "fea."
Like my Spanish phrase-of-the-day calendar. I know, it's like a thousand percent dorky. But at the beginning of 2009, I bought one of those tear off a page each day calendars in an attempt to learn a little bit of Spanish. And by a little bit, I really do mean a little bit. For the first 3 months of the year, I could only remember one phrase: "Mi dia favorito es el viernes." Translation: My favorite day is Friday. We decided it actually was quite a useful phrase to know. Very multi-purpose. For example, at work it could be used like this:
"When do you think we should have this conference call?"
"Mi dia favorito es el viernes."
Or if you were at a bar:
"We should grab a drink together sometime."
"Mi dia favorito es el viernes."
Or if you were planning a trip:
"Let's go to Rome."
"Mi dia favorito es el viernes."
Ok so maybe it doesn't work so well in that last example, but nonetheless a relatively versatile phrase. A full year of Spanish phrases later, I've only mastered a few additional key phrases, like "Vamos a tomar algo" (Let's go get a drink) and "Es fea" (It's ugly). Perhaps it's not the most effective way to learn a language, but I keep it around (and even bought a new one for 2010) because occasionally, my calendar surprises me with a slightly creepy insight into my life. Like the time that I spent a terrible, horrible weekend at work. Monday's phrase was "Me merezco un aumento" (I deserve a raise). True dat! And then there was the day when I showed up to work completely hungover and my calendar said, "Necesito dormir la siesta" (I need a nap). And then there was today. "Eres soltero?" (Are you single?) Why yes Calendar, thanks for reminding me. I AM single. Ugh. I suppose though, together with "Vamos a tomar algo," I can now start picking up Spaniards and Mexicans at bars! Just as long as they don't call me "fea."
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
The Beginning, Take 2
I think it's only fitting that my first (slash second) post here is about how terrible my memory is. Short-term, long-term, all equally bad. Case in point: this morning, I was clicking through some blogs and thought, oh hey. I started a blog about a month ago too! So I tried to go to it. I went to allinthedance.blogspot.com, then I tried wereallinthedance.blogspot.com, then I tried allindance.blogspot.com before I gave up and just logged into my gmail account. I must say it's a good freaking thing that blogspot and gmail are linked otherwise I never would've remembered my password and I would've given up on the blog thing altogether.
So all that being said, the thing that I love about writing and journaling and well nowadays emailing, is that I can go back and read exactly what I was thinking at a certain point in time. Because usually I can't actually remember. I used to really love (well, I still do) a good old-fashioned, hand-written letter. But the problem is, you pour your heart out in a letter, stuff it in an envelope, slap a stamp on it, send it off, and it's gone forever. I mean, unless your ex-boyfriend is just crazy and sentimental enough to tuck it away into a book for safe-keeping, and you're on good enough terms with him to say, "Hey you, remember that letter I wrote you when I was 16? Can I read it?" (Although hypothetically, just hypothetically, if I were to ever write a letter like that, I would obviously make a copy of it before licking the envelope... ) Anyway, I've been pretty introspective the last few days (a direct result of boy troubles, job troubles, and general quarter-life what-the-hell-am-i-doing-with-my-life troubles), which always puts me in a reading and writing mood. I write long-winded emails that I'm sure are really hard to respond to and I read back through old emails that I wrote to girlfriends, ex-boyfriends. The amazing thing is that whenever I'm emotional and start fishing through my inbox, the emails my exes wrote me don't make me cry (at least, not usually). No, it's my emails that make me cry. My own words make me cry. So I have no one to blame for my puffy eyes but myself!
More than that though, I'm really just surprised at my own words. Like, wait, was that me? Did I write that? Did I actually think that? Did I really feel that way about him? I guess my surprise is a result of being really good at compartmentalizing my feelings. Pushing them aside and just forgetting that they exist. So, the point is, I had initially planned on writing this blog completely in the third person. It was going to be an experimental ground for unrelated posts, loosely autobiographical but largely fictionalized. A collection of short stories and maybe on occasion, a baby novella of a few related stories. And while I think I probably will still post in that way every now and then, the point of this right now is more for me. For me to remember. For me to remember what it was like to be 26, living in New York in 2010. The ups and the downs. The good and the bad.
So here goes. Here's to remembering the present.
So all that being said, the thing that I love about writing and journaling and well nowadays emailing, is that I can go back and read exactly what I was thinking at a certain point in time. Because usually I can't actually remember. I used to really love (well, I still do) a good old-fashioned, hand-written letter. But the problem is, you pour your heart out in a letter, stuff it in an envelope, slap a stamp on it, send it off, and it's gone forever. I mean, unless your ex-boyfriend is just crazy and sentimental enough to tuck it away into a book for safe-keeping, and you're on good enough terms with him to say, "Hey you, remember that letter I wrote you when I was 16? Can I read it?" (Although hypothetically, just hypothetically, if I were to ever write a letter like that, I would obviously make a copy of it before licking the envelope... ) Anyway, I've been pretty introspective the last few days (a direct result of boy troubles, job troubles, and general quarter-life what-the-hell-am-i-doing-with-my-life troubles), which always puts me in a reading and writing mood. I write long-winded emails that I'm sure are really hard to respond to and I read back through old emails that I wrote to girlfriends, ex-boyfriends. The amazing thing is that whenever I'm emotional and start fishing through my inbox, the emails my exes wrote me don't make me cry (at least, not usually). No, it's my emails that make me cry. My own words make me cry. So I have no one to blame for my puffy eyes but myself!
More than that though, I'm really just surprised at my own words. Like, wait, was that me? Did I write that? Did I actually think that? Did I really feel that way about him? I guess my surprise is a result of being really good at compartmentalizing my feelings. Pushing them aside and just forgetting that they exist. So, the point is, I had initially planned on writing this blog completely in the third person. It was going to be an experimental ground for unrelated posts, loosely autobiographical but largely fictionalized. A collection of short stories and maybe on occasion, a baby novella of a few related stories. And while I think I probably will still post in that way every now and then, the point of this right now is more for me. For me to remember. For me to remember what it was like to be 26, living in New York in 2010. The ups and the downs. The good and the bad.
So here goes. Here's to remembering the present.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
