I moved to New York City knowing that the most exciting
moments of my life would find me here.
They have. So much, in fact,
that I think it may be time for a move to South Dakota.
March 2013
A handsome stranger flirts with me on the platform of the
Acela train. We grab a beer in the
café car, talking and laughing for an hour. He is successful, fun, and works for a bank not far from my
office. I am the most charming
version of myself, and I know he is picking up what I am putting down. My mind races to all the places it
shouldn’t: picnics in the park, weekend get-aways, cozy dinners, sex (!) and (of
course) having a great story to tell about how we met. I am… ridiculous.
Imagine my disappointment then, when he tells me: “We are not a match.”
Irritation, shock and self-doubt wash over me.
LG (Me): “Why”
SHS (Said Handsome Stranger): “Because you said you
were very Catholic, and I met my last
girlfriend at a Swingers’ Party.”
LG: “Do you have sex
with men?”
SHS: “That’s a personal
question, but yes. It’s a part of
our lifestyle.”
LG: “You’re very
intuitive. We are definitely not a match.”
Invigorated by the memory of how great that initial spark
can feel, I go home and decide I need professional help. I activate my online dating profile because
that’s just as sexy as meeting on the train. Right?
I must admit, dating.com is fascinating. Well, not literally www.dating.com; I just checked and it’s
actually an escort service (with which I have no affiliation). I mean, dating behind a computer
screen. In the loneliest city in
the world, there’s comfort knowing that normal, attractive, educated, single people
congregate to look for love men congregate to look for sex and women congregate
to look for free drinks.
April 2013
My girlfriend (stuck at work on a Friday evening) stands me
up for a Festival we plan to attend together. I go to the event alone. Afterwards, I walk home with nothing to do on a gorgeous
Friday night in the most bustling city in the world. I feel pathetic.
I crash my roommate’s date with his girlfriend. I pull open a bottle of wine and do
what amounts to sitting between the pair on the couch during a rom-com. We play Jenga and I get tipsy. I graduate from wine to tequila and
then… I go online. Tragedy ensues.
I end up responding to a man who uses every manner of
flattery to woo me in an email.
His pictures look great. He
is from Ireland, a former “professional” rugby player (whatever that means) and
an investment banker. I tell him
to rescue me from my roommate’s date and we settle on grabbing a beer before he
claims he has to meet his friends.
I down my tequila, crush my competition at Jenga and take off in search
of adventure in Manhattan.
As soon as I see him, I know he is not the one. His cheap cologne cloaks him in a
five-feet radius. His Irish accent
is more Eliza Doolittle common than Gerard Butler sexy. Still, I am happy to be off the couch on
a Friday evening. He speaks:
IG (Irish Guy): “Wow, you’re
beautiful.” This is normally
enough to make me swoon.
LG & IG:
Small talk, small talk.
IG: “So, tell me about your divorce.”
**Sirens and red flashing lights go off in my head.**
LG: “Nothing to tell,
really. We just got married too
young. What’s your story?”
IG: “I was very Catholic growing up. So
much so that I was a virgin until I got married at the age of 30.”
**Missiles Incoming.**
IG: “Then, two years after we got married, I
found her in bed with her personal trainer and I guess she was sleeping with
the whole town back at home.
**Eject! Eject!**
IG: “I moved to America and completely distanced
myself from anything or anyone having to do with religion or God.”
**Simulation Over.**
I make the sign of the cross and chant, “The power of Christ compels you,” over
and over like Father Michael in The Exorcist.
LG: “I am
very Catholic.” And those of you who know me best
understand my aversion to pre-marital sex, birth control, a woman’s right to
choose and gay rights. Naturally.
IG: With a sour
combination of condescendence and indignation: “This has no shot of working out.” He chugs his beer, slams it down and says (angrily), “Good luck. Enjoy the rest of your evening,” then storms out
(like-his-hair-was-on-fire).
This is not a dramatization.
I sit in the bar.
Alone. Stunned. Unbelieving.
Captain Save-A-Ho witnesses this from the end of the bar and
swoops in coming to my rescue. I
indulge it, yearning for validation.
I actually stand up, turn around, and show him my ass asking how a man
(who, incidentally, I was not the slightest bit interested in) could turn
himself away. Delight sweeps his
eyes and I realize I’ve gotten everything I wanted from the captain. I bid him a good evening and walk home.
May 2013
I leave my friends at a crowded bar with standing room
only. My feet are killing me and I
am desperate for a taxi. I see one
across the street and run for it.
As I get there, I see a 6’7” tall, universally gorgeous, dangerously
sexy man holding the taxi door open while people get out. Not in the mood to stand one second
longer, I get in before he has the chance and tell him we can split it. The next morning I receive the
following text: “The highlight of my evening was the taxi
ride home.”
Trust me when I say that Lance, the only name that could do
justice to this meet cute, is (on the surface) everything a man should be. Our first date is perfect but there’s
no invisible magnet pulling me across the table drawing me into him. After a few half hearted texts and
promises of a second date, I am neither surprised nor hurt when I do not hear
from him again.
June 2013
So, maybe I’m not ready to trade in my life in the Big Apple
for the prairie lands of the Midwest just yet.
Manhattan is neither as glamorous as I want it to be, nor as
overwhelming as it sometimes feels.
None of this is perfect, but all of it is exciting. It’s a whirlwind of adventure,
suspense, comedy, romance, drama, embarrassment, heartache, and time again failure. I have no idea if I will meet the love
of my life online or out of the pages of a Nora Ephron script. But I do know that every day that I
wake up is either the day that I will meet the
one or at least one day closer.
