Complicated

C - Confusing. I like you! You're sweet, you listen to me, you're patient, you want to see me more, you're honest and I'm not ready to commit.

O - The "Oh, Shit." factor that happened last night when blast from the not-too-distant past, Mr. Kiss, texts me again.

M - Man, I want to have sex like that again... Mr. Kiss is flakey, a stereotypic hot-guy who repeats himself several times ("because you haven't heard that story yet, right?") and is one helluvah hot piece of ass.

P - Pausing, because I really like the Musician. He's sweet, he listens to me without any kind of "shut up, lets fuck" attitude, he's patient, and really smart. He's also not the tall, chestnut-haired prince charming.

L - Love is what I'm after. I want to love someone, desperately. And I could, if I wanted. Yet, I keep thinking of all the men who are seemingly coming out of no where, and I pause the "L" button. Example: The Friend who recently revealed he wanted to sleep with me. "YOU DO?! I guess... I could do that. Maybe. If I'm drunk and single and we're hanging out... but, I'm not attracted to you. Or am I?"

I - I'm single. I'm not emotionally. I'd feel really, really bad if I acted on an impulse and didn't tell the Musician. My friends tell me that unless we've decided that we're officially seeing each other exclusively I'm off the hook, but that doesn't mean that's a Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card.

C- Considering my options. Because behind "Door Number 4" is the College Buddy who made out with me on my bed a few weeks ago and wants to casually sleep with me. "I'm a really good kisser, like, really, really good. And I love to go down on women. We'd have fun. No strings."

A- All of them are cute. All of them are worth considering. I'm at the point where, hell, I could sleep with them all, right? Take a chance on a college buddy I would never slept with when I was 20, a friend I never considered, an old lover I've been hoping would reach out again, and a guy I'm getting more and more comfortable with.

T - Totally loving this attention, but trying to play my cards right. Honesty is the best policy. Or is it? I'm learning, here. Being 25 has given me a sense of duty to adulthood, and adults (mature ones anyway) act on the healthiest options for everyone involved because that's the right thing to do.

E - Even if I called off everything with everyone and just chose one guy, whoever that be, would that be the right call? Mr. Kiss would probably flake on me again (the old "radio silence" never-got-your-text bullshit he's pulled in the past). Or, I start dating someone: The College Buddy, The Friend, The Musician... and even with a big fat "TAKEN" sign on my forehead I'd get surreptitious texts at 2am from other "TAKEN" guys who feel like their drunkenness is an excuse for telling me they want me to sleep over.

D- Despite the complications, I'm loving the attention. It's ego boosting. However, I'm in no way looking to hurt anyone, because I've been burned in the past and wouldn't want to inflict that pain on someone else (My ex, Serendipity, whose send off was: "I slept with someone else while you were in Thailand because I thought we had come to a 'break' in our relationship." coming into sharp focus, here). Don't know what I'll do, trying to stay in the moment as much as possible. I'm going to call a few girlfriends and get their advice. I don't have enough women in the mix.

The blip-blop scoobity doo-da walla walla ding dong

What does it mean to be "dating" someone versus "seeing" someone versus having a "boyfriend"?

Where does one draw a line and declare that something is indeed happening with someone? There is no definitive word that can describe it all and one is left using a lot of vague hand gestures and facial expressions (usually involving a shrug) to try and give an idea about the complicated nature of what's going on on a daily basis with another person. Who happens to be male. And not just a friend.

I'm single.
I'm single?
Wait... am I single?

So, single means I am a free agent. A gal who can look a guy in the eye and say "let's do this" and not feel a shred of remorse about hurting anyone else's feelings by making that choice.

And, therefore, by default, not being single means the opposite.

BUT WAIT! I don't have a boyfriend! Therefore: no relationship! HA!

Nope: Single.
No... I'm... not single.
Wait...

I feel a fear grip me in this regard. On the one hand: this complicated jumble of emotions toward another human being who also has complicated (or not) emotions toward me is exactly what I've wanted! And on the other hand: I'm still thinking with a single-gal brain! "He's hot." and "I'll do you, once I'm drunk, though." and "Can't wait to flirt the hell out of the room." All fly through my mind. I've also got: "You'll hurt him." and "He'll let you down, eventually." whizzing in my brain as well. Ouch.

My Mother told me to relax and live in the moment. "Enjoy yourself. Let it just be and have fun." She said, scrolling through his Facebook profile pictures and exclaiming: "He's Cute, Nat!" I felt myself relax a bit. She's right. I'm trying to define a thing that's a thing without a definition or name.

For now: I'm in a "blip-blop scoobity doo-da walla walla ding dong," with The Musician.

I don't know where it's going, but *shrug* I'm enjoying myself.

Day-Lay

After giving each other a big hug at the subway, The Musician thanked me again for the wonderful day. I agreed, feeling really excited about life in general. That was exactly what I wanted and needed.

When I got home I got on the phone with my buddy from Chicago.

"So you just left when you were done?"

"...No. He made me dinner and we relaxed a bit. He even walked me to the subway. He was really sweet."

"But, you're not sleeping over?"

"Ha! No! I have to wake up at 5:30am. I wasn't going to sleep over. I couldn't."

"Wow. I've never done that before."

"What? Had sex with someone and then left once it was over?"

"Yeah."

"Really!?"

"Wait... lemme think... yeah, no, never. I always slept over."

"That's because I had a Day-Lay. We were all wrapped up before 9pm. And I had to go."

We chatted for a while longer before I hung up the phone.

Day-Lay [Dey-layeeee.] Verb. An action describing a homerun with a person during "Afternoon Delight" hours. (See: Afternoon Delight for reference.)

I don't think "Good Girls" have Day-Lays. However, I think if a date went really well and all the ingredients add up (work gets cancelled, the day out is beautiful) and there was a 4+ hour discussion involving feminism, philosophy, religion, science, long international flights, point of views on naked neighbors and all happening over the refreshing taste of cold white wine, then... well... Life's a peach. And "Good Girls" who would walk out on that can be so boring.

The Musician

Sitting at a bar with my sister, I survey the room.

Nope. Nope. Uhhhhh... nope. 

I sip at my bourbon and twist my hair between my fingers. I fiddle with the tank top I'm wearing and try not to think about the self doubt that keeps creeping into my subconscious.

Does my hair look okay? Do I look like I have a gut? Am I easy looking? 

I think about all the times I've felt forgotten, and try to ignore those thoughts. What the hell do those thoughts have to do with the eyes of the guys on the bar looking at me now? I feigned disinterest and felt the big smile on my face protect me like a blanket.

I'm here to meet people.

The jazz band strikes up again. The bar fills with swing music. My sister gets up to dance. She loves to dance. I smile. I love to smile.

The singer announces a break for the group. My sister winks at me. "Go talk to them, Natty." She says.  I felt the bourbon filling my head and the self doubt begins to be muffled behind my smile. I think, as I flounce across the room toward the musicians: IDontKnowWhatI'llSayButI'mGonnaFlirtHard.

"Great Set." I begin, locking a pair of blue eyes in the face. I smile. A waiter brings over a steaming plate of food. "I'll let you eat." I say, and turn on my heel to flounce back to my spot.

"Let's get out of here." I say, once back, checking my phone. It's getting late, and I have to be up at 8am to prepare for a callback. My sister groans. She wants to dance. I smile.

We walk toward to exit. The band has started up again. The musician I made eyes with is eyeing me as I walk out. We locked eyes all the way across the bar. On the street I turned around and saw through the window that he was still looking. He waved. I blushed.

My sister and I walked a block. "I don't know what to do, Cait. Was he cute? Should I do something?"

"YES." She demands. She taps her foot, and the orange glow of the street lamp gives her a halo.

"Whuddoaydo?" I ask. I bite my lip. I don't have to smile with my sister. She knows.

"Leave your number in the tip jar!" She suggests, hands on her hips, fingers tapping.

I love her so much I could hug her forever and ever.

I pull out my business card. "Would this work? You think?" I ask. I look at my smile printed on the small piece of paper in my hand. "You gotta pen?"

I walk back into the bar. The hot air of the joint hits my face. The band's playing still. I look at my musician briefly and then toss in my business card. I leave quickly.

Outside, I exhale the bar's air from my lungs. "I did it, Cait!" I make a getaway as I squeal.

"You think he'll call me?" I ask the night sky.

"Maybe." My sister responds. "If he doesn't, you're no worse off than before."

I think of the men who have asked me out and my "No, thank you's" and not so direct "Uh, not now's" and feel guilty. I think of an idea I read in a book L Is For Lion  By Annie Lanzillotto who got it from Soren Kierkegaard: The opposite of freedom isn't slavery: it's guilt. Being trapped in a jail of my own beliefs. Stunning. I listen to my sister's heel tapping the rhythm of our walk home. I try to bat away the self doubt that continues to nibble at my cuticles and make my fingers bleed in protest.

I put my number in the jar. I did that. 

"Let's walk a bit." My sister suggests. I agree. It's late, but those dancing heels of my sister need a place to click, and I felt like smiling in the quiet dark, thinking about the musician playing his tunes with his eyes on me.

Phase 3: Relationships

If one morning I woke up and was a man, but with my brain, what would I do?

Phase 3: Relationships

It's later that evening. We're sitting at a window in a pizzaria in midtown. The date with Jane went pretty well. She's pretty and funny and I like her. All I could think about was how to get her home later. After the fist few minutes of conversation she started to vent about how annoying her friends were and I started to lose interest. Why do girls get so whiney about things that don't matter? It's like, they take an idea or a concept and then beat it to death with the sound of their voice. I patiently listened, but found my mind wandering to what her chest would look like once I've taken off her shirt. 

At one point she excused herself to go use the bathroom. As she stood up she readjusted her waist high, skin-tight, black pants and pulled down her V-neck T-shirt to fit her sternum better. I smiled as I watched her do this. Girls need to adjust, we have to wear so many things that even the act of sitting can throw everything out of wack. I looked at my plain T-shirt and pants and felt blessed. Even if I am a guy for only 24 hours, this is pretty cool. No bra. No thong. I'm not even worried about what my hair looks like. Jane's probably going to the bathroom to not only pee, but to fix her hair, adjust her make-up and give herself a pep-up by texting one of her girlfriends. 

I watched her leave and caught the eye of two middle aged Italian men also watching Jane. They looked back at me. "You've got quite a nice little thing." Said the first. He was balding and had two pinky rings on. The second chuckled. "If I were younger, I would waste no time eating pizza, but get her back to my place lickety-split." The Pinky Ring guy said again. His partner, a salt-and-pepper haired man wearing a polo shirt, chuckled. I smiled, unsure of how to respond. Men NEVER talk to me like that as a woman. Instead, they watch me as I cross the room, and caress me with their eyes so hard I feel like I develop bruises. These two Men were now forming a fraternity with me just because we all have a penis (well, all of us at the moment.) I suddenly wished I could change back into the woman I was and then take hold of the bread roll in front of me and beat them with it. I felt ashamed. Not even five minutes ago I was planning on which ways to have sex with this girl the fastest and now felt totally perverted. She deserves to be worshipped! 

Jane got back from the bathroom as the middle aged men were paying their check and getting up to leave. The one with the pinky rings came over and slapped my back. "Nice." He said as he pulled out a twenty dollar bill and put it in my hand. "Buy her some flowers or something." He murmured, never taking his eyes off of Jane, who was pretending to check her phone and not notice. "Thanks." I said, taking the money and watching them leave. 

Outside the restaurant, Jane was quiet. I tried to recall what would be pissing her off with what was quickly becoming a weaker memory of being a girl. As a guy, I was back to imagining what her butt would feel like. I tried to clear my thoughts. "You okay?" I asked. She was quiet for a minute. I felt a stab of deep awkwardness. Oh, the silent treatment. God, that sucks. Once I am a girl again, I'm going to try not to ever use the silent treatment. As a guy, it's really fucking annoying because I truly don't know what's wrong. Really. I don't. I didn't catch some stupid nuance that you caught and decided to make a big deal out of. Explain it to me. I felt incredibly annoyed because something happened that I did wrong and I don't know how to rectify it. Plus, I had to pay the whole damn bill, so you can at least be nicer to me. She didn't even offer! Thank god I had the twenty, it made a really expensive evening a do-able evening. 

"Why did you take that twenty from that creepy old man?" Jane finally asked. 

Ooooohhh... There it is. "Because he was offering." I said. Duh.

"They were really weird and were looking me up and down and you took money from them. I feel like I did something to get them off, and you got paid for it." She quipped, her voice getting higher.

"Do you want the twenty?" I asked.

"NO. I don't WANT their money! Okay? I wish you had been a MAN and given it back to them. They were GROSS." 

We walked in silence again. If I were a girl, we probably would have laughed about this. This was dumb. Just another "guy not getting it" situation. But, I'm not a guy. I mean, I am, but only temporarily. I went over a mental checklist of things I could do to save the situation. I still wanted to feel her up and feel what it would be like to have a blow job, but was feeling less and less likely that any of that would happen. 

As we walked I watched New York City around us. A small pudgy girl walking next to her mom was wearing a tiara and sucking her thumb. She was covered head to toe in pink. She looked up at Jane and took in the image of a young woman, probably to obsess over in years to come and use as a reference for why she wasn't as pretty enough. Jane was pretty. I was handsome. Of course we would go on a date together. I thought of the men I had turned down. The men I had humored. The men I had ignored. Getting Jane to go out with me was just about one of the easiest dates I had ever accomplished. Guys never just "go out." As a woman, I had to wait for them to text me, wait for them to pick a spot. Wait for them to pick a day. Then, if the date went well, wait for them to respond. That's the game I've found with attractive men. They can get a girl instantly. Like I got Jane. I looked at her walking next to me. A thought flashed in my mind: you're totally replaceable. I don't have to put up with this. 

A subway stop came into view. "Is that the NR stop?" She asked, squinting. It was. "I think I'll hop in here and head back to Astoria." She said, looking at me. Ah, doing the whole "You gonna ask me over tonight?" look. I recognized it immediately. I took her hand, feeling how fancy it felt in my big hand. Damn, women are beautiful. 

"I'm sorry about the twenty." I said. "I had a great time. You're really pretty. It was nice getting to know you." I pulled her in for a kiss and felt her melt into my chest. For the record: telling a woman they look nice is ALWAYS a good way to bail oneself out of a nasty situation. Whether you are a guy, a girl, or a girl in a guy's body. Seriously. We smooched for a minute or two before pulling away from each other. 

"I'm going to go home." I said. Feeling an unnatural exhaustion coming over me. 

"Wanna do this again sometime?" She asked. 

"Maybe." I said. Feeling more and more tired by the second. I needed to get home and go to sleep. Something was telling me that this romp as a dude was coming to an end. I looked at my cell phone which read 11pm. Carriage turns back to a pumpkin at midnight, I guess. I thought. That's really cliche. I turned to the street and hailed a cab to take me back home. Jane stood a little dumbfounded on the corner as my cab pulled away. 

That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about the adventures I had had as a man. The difference in how I was treated. I wished everyone could have the same experience. I felt different, but more ready to be a woman than I had ever felt. I'm going to write a book about this and no one will believe that it actually happened. I thought before drifting off to sleep. 

Phase 2: Society.

If one morning I woke up and was a man, but with my brain, what would I do?

Phase 2: Society.

I'm on the subway. I'm sitting like I would if I were a female: legs crossed at the ankles, shoulders hunched in, and I'm picking my nails. I realize, as I look at the other men on the car for guidance, that that is not usual. There are some guys picking their nails, but as I look around, most guys are sitting slouched, feet firmly on the floor, checking their phones, listening to music, maybe biting their nails, or staring off into the middle distance. Interesting. Very few seems to want to make themselves smaller, like I'm habitually doing. 

I stand up and worry that somehow someone will pick up on the crazy fact that yesterday I was a woman and today I am a man with a woman's brain. I catch myself looking away whenever I make eye contact with someone. Although, here's an interesting moment: people now look away from me as well. As a woman, I had to constantly dodge the stares of bold-faced men who would look me up and down from ankle to neck. As a man, however, the energy is different. I experiment. 

A woman walks on to the train at the next stop. She looks at me, I look at her, she looks away, I keep looking. It's that easy!? As a woman, is it that easy? If I keep looking at a man, as a man, am I too bold? I pick a dark haired, middle aged man a few feet away from me and look at him. He looks at me, then looks away. There is not a hint of sexual tension, no wink from him, no small smile, he just: looked away. This is great! If I were me, but like, really me: boobs, long hair, mascara and jeans, and I looked at that man for longer than a few seconds, I might get the wink, the smile, the "look", etc. Maybe not, but more than likely I would. And then, for the duration of the train ride, I might feel awkward and worried that if I look at him again he'll "get the wrong idea" about my intentions. As a guy, however, I feel no such thing. 

At my stop I step off the train and bump into an older, gray haired woman with a large black scarf wrapped around her prodigious shoulders. She gets gruff, "Watch were you're going, dick head." She mumbles, looking at my face. I'm shocked. As a girl, I'm never spoken to in that way. The animosity is palpable. I feel stupid. "Sorry." I say and immediately cover my mouth with my hand. WAS THAT MY VOICE!? My voice is so deep!! As a woman, I wouldn't say I have a particularly high voice, but certainly a higher timbre than my male friends! I just said sorry and could feel the deeper tones come through my throat, my more pronounced adams apple moving, my lips forming around the syllables differently. This is TOO COOL! I want to talk more! 

I'm Taller! I'm pushing 6'2" easily. I'm a tall woman, but as a man, I'm one of the taller guys in the subway. I see over most people's heads. As I approach the steps to get out of the station a young mother is struggling with her small child, a bag of groceries, and a stroller she has to heave up the stairs. Most people pass with barely a glance, all of the women make their way up the flight without a second look. I'm about to as well when she catches my eye and gives me a "Well, are you going to be a gentleman, or not?" look. I hesitate for a minute. Shorter men walk past without a pause, but as the tallest dude around, suddenly I'm expected to help this chick out. I do, relishing the deep sound of my voice as I say, "Would you like some help?" And then pick up her bags and stroller effortlessly. She thanks me profusely when we reach the street level. I feel like a white knight of goodness. As I set down her things I see passerby's giving me a nice smile, not a sexual smile, a "that is a good man, his mom raised him right to help that lady" smile.

As a treat, I decide to get myself a coffee. I turn in to walk to the nearest starbucks and pause at the entrance. A woman on her cell phone has stopped and is looking at me. I look at her, then realize she's waiting for me to open the door for her. Oh, come ON. You can open the fucking door I think, using my large hands to swing open the entrance for her. She walks in and gets on line in front of me. I want to shove her. So, just because you're a girl you can get on line ahead of me?! You're such a bitch. I think, getting more and more worked up. I think to all the times I have taken advantage of being a woman and getting served first, or getting the last piece of cake or having the first turn or getting any kind of advantage just because the men I am with feel obligated to do so because it is the "polite" thing to do. Wow. That's fucked. I promise, that if I am a woman again, I'll try and be more sensitive to that. 

The cashier is cute. She takes my order and begins to flirt with me. I'm loving the giggles and winks as she writes my name down on my cup. She writes something else and then passes it along to me after filling it with coffee. "Jane (917) 845-4447" is written under my name, "Nate." I smile and look back at her taking someone else's order. I'm going to give this gal a text. I whip out my phone after leaving the coffeehouse and shoot her a quick no-brainer text (no: should I send this? Will that sound stupid? How do I write something effortless sounding without sounding like I'm trying too hard to be effortless?) Instead I write: "Hey, Jane. This is Nate from Starbucks. Want to get some coffee sometimes?" And then instantly forget I sent the text because I see a big dog coming in my direction and I want to pet the shit out of it. 

To be continued...

Phase 1: The Anatomy.

If one morning I woke up and was a man, but with my brain, what would I do?

Phase 1: The Anatomy.

First off, I'd probably wake up with an erection. Oh Cool! Now I get to wack off! I've never wacked off before, so it'll take me a few times to figure out what I'm doing. I'll try  thinking about girls as I do it. Ew. Vaginas? Not really my cup of tea... wait, though. I'm feeling surges of testosterone and urges I've never felt to be inside something... huh. I GET IT! Oh my god! I GET IT! I want to screw every girl that walks in front of me! I want to have sex with them! I must do that today.

I wake up and look at myself in the mirror. No boobs. My chest feels lighter. No hips! My hair is so short! I scratch my chin and feel gristle. At first I panic. Oh my god, my face feels so rough and scratchy! I'm a beast! And I have some hair on my chest, too. Not really on my back, but my legs are covered in hair as well. Again, I have to fight another panic attack about my furriness. Am I kidding? I'm a guy, this shit is sexy, dammit!

After not having any dilemma about what to put on for clothing (this shirt's clean-ish, and I'll wear these jeans). Nor having to put on any makeup (just splashing my face with some water) I try to pee. FUN!! I get to try and aim for the bowl! Guys have all the fun, I can stand up, awkwardly whip out my junk, and pee. I laugh as I try and get my crotch ready to unleash. HAHA That's a penis. It's so funny looking. I never have to look at my vag, it's always just... under there. This thing, however is right out and flopping around like a wet noodle.

I'm hungry! In fact, I have a voracious appetite. I feel like I can eat a whole pig worth of bacon and follow that up with a hen house full of eggs. I walk into the kitchen. WOAH! This thing between my legs, like, flops a little when I walk! It's like, OUT THERE! HAHA! I stand still for a moment and wiggle my hips, feeling the weight of my crotch move. I check to see if anyone is around and then try a windmill. Sick. I jump up and down. No boobs to painfully bounce! Men have all the luck, even the absence of a bra feels like freedom. Nothing tight around my chest.

I scrounge up breakfast quickly and sit down to eat. Funny, as I eat: I just, eat. I'm shocked. Where are all the thoughts about why my friend didn't call me last night when she said she would and why I'm gonna be really pissed at her the next time I see her? No thoughts. Just: food. I get excited when I realize I'm not thinking and I hit my hand to the table top in celebration. I underestimate my strength and my plate of half finished breakfast flops right into my lap. PAIN!!!!!! PAIN!!!! Seething, deep, untouchably awful PAIN. Oh my god! When guys get hit in the balls it is NOT FUNNY. OH GOD it HURTS! I don't know what to do! I don't want to move! I just want to curl into a ball and lie on the floor for a while. So I do. I hope all my future children didn't just get crunched in that moment of idiocy.

Ten minuts later I am ready to move again. I'm not hungry anymore. I want to get outside! I want to discover the world as it is through a man's eyes! I check myself in the mirror before stepping out. I'm tall. I'm white. I'm a guy. I'm college educated. I'm an actor (can't wait to see how that changes things for me now that I'm a dude.) I'm good looking (If I were me again, well, me with a female anatomy, and I saw me as a guy walking down the street, but like, it wasn't me, it was some other guy I've never met, I'd TOTALLY do me.) I take a deep breath, feel the residual pain in my balls (ouch.) and walk outside.

To be continued.

Dominos Returns

I got down to the station. A big black guy wearing an MTA vest with a bored look on his face waved in my direction. "No Trains" he said. I stare at him dumbly. "No 7 Train." He repeats. "No 7 train?" I repeat. "No 7 Train." Right! No "7" train! OKAY!! I'll just wait on the "N" train platform for the next "N" train to take me to queens and then transfer for the "7" out there. A simple obstacle.

The platform for the "N" is packed. I play Plants VS Zombies on my phone, killing bosses with my flower pots. It's a nice escape from the ever growing number of people streaming down the steps at 1am to get to the "Plan B" of the Un-Lucky number 7. I try not to get too upset. I'll be home in no time.

An "N" pulls in across the platform and, like the sheep I was trying very hard not to feel like, I pushed onto the car. I sat and continued to kill nasty Zombies until the game finally beat me. I look up from the "Game Over" flashing across the screen and take in the now packed car. Everyone looked tired, staring off into the middle distance, not making eye contact. I felt exhausted, too. I scanned the faces.

Wait a minute.

I know that face. But, from where? Wait. Do I know that face? No. Yes. No. Yes. Noooo! That's DOMINOS!

Oh my god. It's been over a year since I saw that guy! He lives not too far from me in Queens, but we've never seen each other since I broke it off with him. Cray-zee.

I felt really weird. That guy and I saw each other a couple times. I liked him alright, albeit I thought he was just a "filler." But, like, I knew him. And, like, we avoided each other. I didn't look up again. I didn't want to. What do I say? "Hello. Hi. How are you? Um. Wow. You look... good. I'm good. The trains suck. Remember that time we had sex? haha! The end."

The "N" pulled into Queensboro and I filed off, carful to look like I was concentrating really hard on remembering how to walk so I wouldn't look behind me.

The Un-lucky "7" took another 20 minutes to arrive at the packed station and pick up the couple thousand people shivering on the platform. I felt incredibly small. Dominos and I are still friends on Facebook for crying out loud. Why? And, why was getting home taking so long!? And I felt lonely! And I felt angry! And cold! And I blamed New York for all my problems and I blamed the MTA for being single and I cursed whatever "god" there is or isn't and I muttered to myself about all that was wrong in my life, including how badly my toes were starting to hurt in my new shoes.

Where's the big black guy in my life who can wave at me and not-so-patiently tell me there are no trains running? Except, the trains would be a metaphor for all the dead end guys I've dated. I need a "Take this train. It's the G train. G for 'Great', 'G-spot', and 'Gravy'" announcement. Oh man, if I got that announcement I would totally know how to get to where I needed to go. Yes. I need a big, stern looking, authoritative, government employee of life to direct me to the Gravy Train. That'd be sweet. And when I boarded, there'd be no Dominos or Mr. Kiss or Kismet or Cutie, there'd be... something better. I just don't really know what.

The "7" finally pulled in, and for the second time that evening I felt like a sheep. I wondered how Dominos felt. Maybe I was his Dominos and he was thinking about how glad he was to see me engrossed in killing zombies on my phone so we wouldn't have to talk to each other: "Um. Hi. Hello. You look... good. Remember that time when we--? Oh you do. Haha. Funny. Another delayed train, huh? This blows. Takes me forever to get where I want to go."

Yup.

Remember Me?

"You look familiar." He said, his brown eyes looking at me out of their corners. He stood leaning against the half-wall that divides the Cabaret I work in. I could tell he was trying to look casual and suave, but the wrinkled collar on his teal colored polo shirt, the rigidness of running his hand through his hair, and the way he fidgeted with a piece of paper gave him away as a total timid wreck. I smiled, trying to give him the "green light" to talk to me.

"Do I?" I laughed. I'm flirting with you, OK? I tried to place his face, which didn't ring a bell to my memory at all, although he looked pretty confident about recognizing me.

"Um. Did you grow up in Manhattan?"

"Yes."

"Where did you go to High School?"

"Beacon."

"Ah." He said, opening and closing his eyes and nodding his head. "I thought so."

Shit. He recognizes me and I have NO idea who this guy is. I tried to pry open the dusty tome of faces in  my memory bank and place his, but my mind was turning up with nothing. "I was class of '05" I said, trying to place him. "Were you in the Theatre department?"

"Yes. You were in 'Hair', right?"

"Yeah! I was! That was sophomore year! You were in that!?"

"No, I did the light and sound, though."

I felt flat out stupid. He was looking at me square on now, the confidence at having placed me making him bolder. He was cute, sorta', in a really sweet and dorky way. If he asks for my number, I'd give it to him, I thought. Hell, this guy can remember me from 10 years ago, I think he deserves a coffee with me. 

I nodded and smiled again. This was the second guy to come up and remember me from decades ago. The first guy asking if I remembered him from Miss Cruz's 2nd grade class. Back in 1993. Um. No. And c'mon: you remember me!?!? What the fuck?

"It's nice to see you again, Natalie." He said, shaking my hand. I agreed, still not remembering him at all. Was it the pounds of pot I smoked in college? Or was I kinda' tuned out in High School? Who else am I going to meet in the future that will remember me and totally confound me when they reintroduce themselves?

I chatted with the High School guy for a few more minutes. He spent the last 4 years in Japan as a translator and came back to the states to pursue something different. I found him interesting, but far too timid to take very seriously. At the end of our conversation we nodded at each other. "Well, it was nice to see you again, Natalie." He said, holding out his hand. I shook it. He then looked at our hands interlocked and quickly pulled his away. "I can't believe I just shook your hand!" He exclaimed under his breathe as he walked toward the exit. I laughed.

"How do you say goodbye in Japan?" I asked. He smiled and took a small bow. I bowed back. "That's better!" I said and waved as he walked out the door. I turned to my co-worker and shrugged.

"Who was that?" She asked.

"I have no clue." I answered.

The Parting Point

We walked across 5th avenue, my scarf pulled up around my cheeks as the cold, early February wind made me want to whine while it whistled through the caverns the midtown skyscrapers create. I glanced to my left and noticed we were close to the "parting point" where we say our good-bye's and then go our separate ways. I'm no expert on guys, nor am I an expert on what the etiquette is when you say goodbye to someone you spent the night with, so I was eager to collect more data: starting with what he would do when I sarcastically said, "Well, I'll let you go here. My stop's right over there. Are you sure you're safe enough to walk the twenty feet to work? Or should I escort you to the entrance? It's a dangerous neighborhood, you know." I looked up at his 6'4" face that seemed feet above me. He chuckled. "I think I'll be alright." He answered.

In the past, when I say goodbye the next morning I'll try and keep it light. Hey, uh, good hanging with you... uhm, bye? See you...around? and then there's an awkward hug, or a kiss on the cheek or (my favorite!) the arm squeeze (which is really not my favorite at all!). Then, off they go on their important missions (because men ALWAYS have an important mission!) and they don't look back or do any of that bull-shit romantic movie crap where they linger inches above your face, stroke your hair tenderly and tell you how wonderful last night was. I've given up expecting anything more than an arm squeeze at this point, because that seems to be all I can get from them when I've awkwardly stood by our "parting point" and waited for them to make a move they never make. (Is it because kissing is so scary!? I mean: c'mon! We had sex for chrissake!)

So, it came as a pleasant surprise when I delivered my sarcastic IDidntGetMuchSleepLastNight line and he pulled me in for a kiss. UH, WHAT!? You're kissing me goodbye!? On 44th street!? We could be SEEN! And right after that thought I could only experience and analyze the phycological equivalent of light, fluffy, pink bubbles popping in and around my head and body.

"Do me a favor." He said, when he pulled away. "Don't eat when you get home. Just, go right back to sleep. Do it for me. Hell, do it for the both of us, please? Today's gonna suck and one of us should at least get a good nap." I nodded. I smiled a big goofy I'veOnlyGotBubblesPoppingInMyBrain smile. I turned on my heel and walked toward the subway as he waved goodbye and walked toward work.

He kissed me! He kissed me full on! Like, a real goodbye should be! I want to kiss everybody! *Pop!* *Pop!* *Pop!*

Alright, Mr. Kiss: that's how to make an entrance.

Mr. No Call No Show

We meet at a function of some sort, we hit it off (or at least, I think we hit it off), numbers are swapped, and then I go home with a smile on my face about the excitement over meeting this cool new dude. 

He seems fun the more I know about him! He knows some of my friends, we've got similar interests, and when asked, mutual friends have nothing but great things to say. Awesome. 

He sets up a date. Great! Let's meet on that day we said we were both free! Ok! See ya!

That day comes around and, whoops... his grandma died, so he is really busy. Could you reschedule?

No problem. I'm patient, and grandmas dropping dead are a big deal. I understand. 

He said he'll let me know when he's free, like, really soon. Then, we'll both go on a wonderful date and hit it off and then start dating and get married (in a beautiful country setting with a stone house and a farm in the background) and then the kids we will have will be beautiful and when they are old enough we'll will tell them how we met. How romantic!

A few days go by....

Then a few more.

Um... hmm. Hey? Is your grandma still dead? You free any time this week?

No response. 

Wait a minute. 

Oh no. I just met a Mr. No Call No Show, didn't I?

Fuck. 

What a waste! Dammit! Your grandma isn't dead, is she!?! NOOOO!! I believed you! 

Argh! Mr. No Call No Show's are so annoying because there is no sign around their neck that indicate their flake-fest! Damn! Where's the warning label? 

Whatever. I'm fine. Just, for my own good, Mr. No Call No Show, please don't text me in a month and ask to hang.... 'Cause I might say yes despite myself, and that's really a thought I don't want to think about. Then the sign around my neck will say: "Little Miss Sucker" and you'd be able to read that loud and clear.

-Natalie

Whiney The Poo

There are many types of people in the world: The Pessimist, The Optimist, The Realist, The Asshole, etc. Being that I am an incredibly opinionated person with a penchant for quick judgement, I am especially annoyed by: The Guy Who Has No Time For Anything, Ever. I'll call him the TGWHNTFAE or, for short: Whiney the Poo.

Whiney the Poo is quite the entertainer with all his stories of just how busy he is. He even made a joke when we sat down for dinner about how long it took for him to even get this evening free. He loves to talk about his job, and the funny cat posters that adorn his office walls. He'll list off all the emails he answered today and go into details, that are far too gory, regarding the strange looking stain he spotted on his boss' tie. Oh, Whiney the Poo just loves to pontificate on all the important strides he's making toward his career. He's even picked up a new hobby on his new iPhone were he flicks a digital paper ball into a digital garbage can whenever he's waiting for an especially large PDF file to get sent to the "big wigs in London."

Whiney the Poo hates his mother, feels like he never got enough love. He's totally paranoid that his outfit doesn't fit right because Jeremy, at work, got a new power suit that makes Whiney the Poo feel like Poo-Poo. Boo Hoo. Poor Poo.

Whiney insists on paying for dinner after he's finished off his third Tanqueray and Tonic and polished off the last of my bourbon after ordering the 2nd round I didn't want. He's all about being the big guy! However, as soon as Whiney the Poo steps out of the overly decorated, tasteless restaurant somewhere in midtown that we paid way too much to eat in, he'll whip out his fancy phone and, after staring at it for a couple minutes too long, declare that he can't believe the idiots running his office when he's not there.

So, so sorry! He'll say when he realizes that I really meant it when I said I needed to head home. Couldn't he just walk me to the subway that also happens to be in front of his apartment building? It's only 18 block away? And when I insist that, oh, I really super duper have to wake up at 4am after all, he'll lament. Why are the girls in New York so hard to date? Why Why Why? Why can't I get what I want!? I work so hard and all I want is a nice girl I can see! Couldn't you be that nice girl for me? I do everything for everybody all the time and I just want a break! C'mon. Gimme a piece. Gimme a break of that fine, sweet, pus-pers-personality!

To which, I stare, confirming my deep, deep dislike of the work-a-holic, whiney, self conflicted, lost souls who feel they can shove around a couple hours in order to schedule a time to get laid and say: "I have to go. Thanks for dinner. And the stain on your boss' tie sounds like it was butternut squash soup." And I'll turn on my heel and walk away. Fuggetaboutit, Whiney the Poo, you're just full of Shit.

Pent Up

I can't stand being cooped up in the apartment much longer. I feel cut off from the rest of the world, as if there are islands of people I know and love and in order to get to them I'd have to swim (or, in this case, walk) a really long way. New York without public transportation is like being a marathon runner whose fallen flat on his face during a race.

I miss the freedom of being able to go outside and be outside all day and do whatever I like, like see improv shows and visit friends. Being inside has made me restless to the point of wanting to do stupid things just to keep myself entertained with the possible outcomes of said stupidity. Like, all I can think about is wanting to text Kismet. I don't even know what to say! "How about the weather recently, huh? heh heh, I really like you. HA! Joking! But, not if you like me too." Fuck. Even if I were to get a conversation going I don't know how we'd meet up. It'd be such a heroic force of will (going from Manhattan to Queens right now is pretty hard).

I'm getting frustrated even while watching the animated series called Avatar, an anime from 2005 that I've recently discovered as my new obsession. (It's a fantastic show!) In it, among other amazing plot lines, two of the main characters have a lot of feelings for one another and they dance around the subject of confessing their love. I keep watching this tantalizing love dance and almost pull my hair out from the angst it is causing me! Then, on top of that my room mate has his girlfriend staying with us and listening to the two of them giggle in the next room as I try really hard not to listen and feel obnoxious about my existence, is, well, the aftermath the hurricane has provided for me to deal with.

I need to get out of the house! I want my life back! C'mon New York! Let's get back on our feet and move again! And Kismet: Show me a sign! I'm dying for attention over here!

Kismet

I'm still reeling from the last 24 hours. I met a guy. I went on a date with him. And then, I had the most amazing morning waking up next to this person and experiencing the thrill of meeting someone you feel like you've known for a whole lot longer than just a few hours.

I don't want to jump to conclusions. I have in the past... In fact, I've jumped to such extremes with certain people I've met that I begin to plan my wedding day with them in mind after only knowing them for a few weeks. I'm trying to keep a level head. I don't want to label anything, I don't want to get any hopes up (especially mine!) about this guy and then be horribly disappointed.

We met at the opening of one of my best friend's play. I dropped my coat off in the auditorium and turned around to go use the bathroom when I saw what I thought was a familiar looking face in the light booth of the theatre, so I waved hello. He waved back. Then, on second thought, I realized I didn't actually know him and felt a bit embarrassed. The second time I walked past the booth during intermission I smiled so I looked like all was intentional. He smiled back.

I waited for my friend to come out of the stage door so I could congratulate him. He came out all smiles and I wished him well. Then in slo-mo: there was the stranger who smiled at me in the light booth coming across the lobby. I saw this third potential interaction as a huge opportunity! "Hi. I'm Natalie." I said, reaching out my hand. He took my hand and replied. "Hi, I'm Kismet." (Ok, so Kismet is super duper not his name, but I think you all get the idea here with the name changes.)

Kismet has blue eyes (surprised?), he's European (another one!!), speaks 3 languages ("What's the word for boobies in french?") and is pursuing a masters in Theatre Directing (Oh! I just died a little from a nerdy meltdown over the potential ideas we could hypothetically bounce back and forth in late night idea exchanges).

Our first date was a pretty sloppy snog-fest. We each had a couple beers and then wound up making out in the 2nd bar we were in before deciding to take the show on the road and make-out more while walking down and then up Amsterdam avenue while splitting a large can of BudLight and ogling the brownstones that lead to the Museum of Natural History. Winning!

I guess what really got me most about Kismet was the sheer comfort I felt being around him when I woke up in his room the next morning and felt no embarrassment or awkwardness. It was a truly wonderful change. We spent the entire morning, and a small chunk of the afternoon, making breakfast together, listening to music and locked in an epic cuddle-fest. Cutie was not the most comfortable experience, it was a fun time, but I never felt particularly warm about him. Kismet, however, walked me to the subway this morning and full on kissed me outside the entrance before shyly asking if I wanted to "...do this again sometime, or something?" I died. Melted right to the floor. Except, in real time I tried to keep a straight face. "Yeah, sure. I'd really like that."

Oh! Kismet! I'm such a romantic! I'm such a sucker for public displays of affection! And plus, any guy who gives me a wink and a thumbs up when I put on Beethoven's 9th Symphony as a breakfast background noise is a major winner in my book. That symphony's, like, super nerdy and over an hour. And then, he put on Beethoven's 5th Symphony as a followup. Hot.

Getting Dumped: 2012 Style

I feel like I just got dumped because I never heard back from Cutie yesterday after my prompt of "You doing anything tonight?" never got a response. After concluding that that was the "I'm breaking this off" text that wasn't actually sent, I hung up my Cutie "hat" and moved on. I am not devastated, nor am I in need of any consolation. I got the message loud and clear. I am left wondering at the way we communicate now in this silent culture of texting, though.

Cutie was a fascinating relationship in that I would categorize the entire interaction as a series of one night stands with the same guy. We saw each other for about 5 weeks, about once a week, and after every time I wondered if I would ever really see the guy again. The relationship was just that "casual." I have a voicemail that Cutie left on my phone by accident. I lost my phone in his room and had him call me, then he forgot to turn off his phone so I have a 45 second voicemail with no content except some background noise. I listened to it the other day and thought it was a perfect metaphor for our interaction: silence, little content, and a forgetfulness thrown in there for good measure.

In fact, Serendipity (the last boyfriend) and I had very little interaction on the phone as well. I'd send a text and get a response back in a couple hours. We talked on the phone, meaningfully, once. Otherwise, our entire relationship was a texting match or a phone call just to iron out a detail that the texting couldn't. In comparison to the first relationship I had where texts actually cost money and we had to call one another to figure out what the hell we were doing that evening, the last few guys I've dated have been all texts. I only spoke to Dominos on the phone once, and that was to break up with him!

So, I feel like now I can trump the "I got dumped with a text" statement and say: "I got dumped with a 5 hour grace period I gave him to respond to my booty call and heard nothing, so I'm assuming we're done through his use of the choice of a Non-Text." No message, but I get it loud and clear. So, I won't respond to your non response and you can take that non-commital answer as a rebuttal to your first non-commital non-response.

And, anyway: I have a pretty exciting date tomorrow night with an MFA student whose going to Columbia. Hah!

I'm Non-Texting the world right now with how much I love being single. Right. Now....

Life in the Shitter

The rim of film covering the inside of the toilet bowl made me stop and stare for a moment. The toilet looked like it hadn't been cleaned in so long the original off-white of the porcelain made the brown of the inner parts of the shitter look like some new apocalyptic disease was brewing in a stew of I-Dare-Not-Think-About-It water.

I gazed down in horror at this scene, unsure of what to do next.

Here's the thing with needing a bathroom: The stakes are always high, and will just get higher the longer one delays. Having to relieve oneself is, I think, fundamentally one of the purest forms of comedy because everyone has a shared experience.

In this particular moment, standing in this small New York City apartment bathroom, I needed to go pretty bad. However, that toilet was so disgusting I considered running back home to my apartment and peeing there.

Another tangent: I used to lick subway poles when I was younger. I played in the public playground's sandboxes (also known as the filthy kitty-litter of New York's infants). As a kid I visited Coney Island's beach as I lightly kicked syringes out of the way before settling down for a day on the surf. I am no stranger to nasty, but I have to draw a line somewhere!

The hypocrisy of my childhood was that I would NEVER sit on a public toilet seat. In fact, I got to the point of being so sceeved out by toilets and other people's bathrooms that when I went to anyone else's house I would squat over their bowl as well. My precious tush was not going anywhere near anyone else's butt-rest. It took me years, and a whole lot of research, to finally get over my phobia of other people's bathrooms.

I suddenly judged the guy whose apartment I was in. I judged him pretty hard core. I cursed his name as I stood there doing the pee-pee dance. Fuck. Fuck. Guys are GROSS. Clean your damn toilet! It's not hard! Just pick up a scrub brush and swirl it around in the bowl a couple times and voila! Sorta' clean!

I got nervous standing there any longer than a couple minutes. What if the guy thinks I'm pooping? I'm taking an awful long time just to take a leak. The thought that he might be sitting in the living room thinking that I needed to go and take a dump in the middle of our make-out session made me overcome my fear of the petrie-dish-toilet and pee.

When I got back to the living room I had to reacquaint myself with this person I thought I knew. You're toilet just said volumes about you I thought. Then, I noticed he was rubbing hand sanitizer on his hands after having just blown his nose. What. The. Fuck.

A Snapshot

Our palms were locked.

"You know? I believe that the palms hold a lot of energy. When you touch something or someone with the palm of your hand you are really transferring a lot of energy to that thing. Holding hands with someone is so personal. It's not something I do everyday." I mused. I looked at the ten fingers interlocking. It almost all looked like it could have come from the same hand. I looked back at him, checking for what his response might be. There was morning sunlight blasting the room full of color, so that his blue eyes looked really clear. I took a mental snap shot. He smiled.

My sister told me she sees change in me every time she sees me. We were sitting on the couch in my living room sharing stories of childhood. The impromptu muffins we threw together with the ingredients lying around in my kitchen were baking in the oven downstairs.

"Really, Cait? I'm so different? It's only been a few weeks..."

"Yeah, remember that time you told me I looked like I lost weight? And I said, I just gained confidence?"

"uh huh"

"Well, I didn't mean to say that I disagreed with you. I could tell you were giving me a compliment. And, I might have lost weight, but what I meant was: I just feel so good about my body. I feel like I've really come to love myself. It's still a struggle sometimes, but I love what I am. And I can see that in you."

I looked at myself at that moment. I felt as if I was suddenly looking into a mirror which was facing another mirror, like in the bathrooms of a Greek Diner in Queens, when you can see yourself and the back of your head stretch off into oblivion. Each time getting smaller, but still reflecting enough to keep the next image going, as if you are forever multiplying another version of yourself. In that moment, I saw another reflection. 

I was back in the snap shot moment in my sunlit room. I looked at the floor: clothes were strewn about. My bra was mocking me as it lay on the floor by my dresser... yeah, last night's activities didn't give me a chance to really put any clothes away.

I didn't care.

"We should get something to eat. I've got eggs. And I can make some coffee." I said. Looking back at him. I felt calm and collected, unlike my room. This is new and exciting. And, even if it were to end tomorrow, I feel different, like I lost a few pounds of anxiety and replaced it all with fluffy carefree clouds. 

The Perfect Morning

I imagine the perfect morning would go as such:

I wake up to the soft and hushed breathing of his warm face wishing me a good morning. There is a whole lot of beautiful sunshine in the room and I know that no one else is in the apartment because it is our apartment and our bedroom and my stuff and his stuff and our city and we are waking up in this really comfy bed we just spent the entire night having a lot of really mind-blowing sex in as a celebration of an amazing show I had just done. 

Anyway, he wakes me up with kisses on my face and I giggle and we snuggle under the comforter that is like a warm cloud engulfing our deliriously, sickeningly delicious love. I ask what we’ll be having for breakfast. We slept in a bit, but it’s not so late in the morning that I feel like I need to really bolt out of bed in preparation for the day, let’s say it’s like, 9:45. He says we ran out of eggs yesterday and the only thing we’ve got is that artesian coffee that he bought a few days ago and we hadn’t yet finished yet. I groan in a mock “Oh, so what do we do now?” when really I am not worried about any of that, not at all. I have to be at the show again later in the day, but otherwise: we have the whole day together. He has the weekends off and other than the improv show later, I can look forward to spending the entire morning and afternoon with him. 

He chuckles at my groan and makes to get up to make the coffee because he knows I love coffee in bed. I stop him with a “where do you think you’re going?” look that also says: “Let’s get some cardio going this morning so we can really make that coffee earned.”

We finally spill out of bed to begin our slow weekend morning. I go in to take a shower, a nice, warm, wake-you-up shower and when I step out of the bathroom of the artfully and practically decorated apartment that we call our own, I smell that warm coffee. I hear him in the kitchen talking to someone on the phone. 

When I’ve changed into something really cute I just bought from Banana Republic on sale a few days ago, and walk over to the kitchen, he has NPR on and is reading the news on his ipad. A steaming cup of coffee is waiting for me on our wooden table that my Mom gave me when we moved into the Brooklyn apartment we share. 

“Who were you talking to?” I ask as I sit down and sip at the deliciously warm caffein. 

He looks up from him iPad and smiles. “I just ordered us some breakfast from that diner you really love.” He says. 

“No! Ohhh! You are so sweet! Did you get the eggs and bacon special that I really like?”

“Of course.” He says, like it’s really not a big deal, but secretly he knows it is a super big deal. I love small thoughtful things like when someone remembers my favorite meal or when someone makes a decision for the two of us and makes an order for food so that we don’t have to venture out into what looks like a relatively chilly morning. 

I look out the window as I drink and ponder the tree that sweeps its branches in the wind and wonder where all the leaves that have fallen off go. The doorbell rings. I get up to answer, he stays reading and NPR’s playing something really fun like some folk music. He loves music, and I love music, so there is always some wonderful piece playing to make the silences of our relationship toe-tapping.

We’re both working professionals at what we do. He makes really good money working for some kind of nerdy, know-it-all job like an internet start-up company, or as a professor, or a researcher or a lecturer or an architect or engineer, something like that. I’m performing constantly on all sorts of improv teams, and working part time for Comedy Central. My agents are working on getting me a good deal with some producers about this great idea I have for a movie. I’m making good money, too. 

The delivery boy hands me our hot, delicious smelling breakfasts and I tip him really well. I can see him admiring our apartment as he looks past my shoulders at the warm reds, browns and greens that decorate everything. We have healthy plants in the window that get watered everyday by my Boyfriend who has watered them ever since he got them a few years ago. We’ve got beautiful picture frames of the two of us madly in love while posing in photos of the places we’ve travelled to together and photos of our families. Our cat is playing with a small toy on our big persian rug that I love to run my toes through so as to not feel too cold on November days like this. 

We eat breakfast in relative silence, except for an occasional comment on something in the news. I check my email on my up to date and well thought out laptop, like a MacBook Pro. He’s still in his boxers and a tee shirt and has bed head and thick plastic hipster glasses that I just melt when I see him in. I like to steal glances at him whenever I come to a break in reading about the recent developments about my life, like what my agent said to the producers and when I may need to be flown out to California. He doesn’t notice the looks at first, but after a couple times catches my eye as well and smiles. He mouths “I love you” and I blush. “I love you, too.” I say out loud and I hold my hand out across the table and he takes it. Life is great, and it’s only 11:30am. 

New York Lameness

"I feel like I'm eating cereal without milk with this guy." I said to my friend on the phone tonight. "Like, the crunchiness is good, and I really like cereal, but it's lacking a really important ingredient." I thought about the words coming out of my mouth. I've said these before, except more like in terms of Pizza. Dominos pizza. Oh my god, I've landed myself in a bowl of milk-less cereal with Cutie.

I sat down in my living room and joined my sister in her youtubing, internet surfing binge and thought about my life choices recently. Today, in the park where I had lunch with a couple of improv class mates, we discussed dating in New York. The brunette in our trio lamented her frustrations with finding reliably not-crazy men in this city and how even the not crazy ones are not in it for the long haul, or even the several week haul for that matter, it seems more like if something is amiss in even the slightest way, you just throw off the cloak of that person and pick out another hottie to start dating, because Lord knows there are a whooooole lot of hotties parading around this city all the time. I fought back a bit, using my logical answer of "As soon as I stopped caring, I found guys to start dating." Which has worked for me the last few months.

But, do I not care? I texted Cutie tonight to see if he was free and got a "Sorry I'm working late" response which I took to the next level of "Let's just call it here." I wished him luck with that late night project and then settled in to believing I'll never hear from him again. Jeesh, this cereal is crunchy and dry. And, I feel a little let down ...I thought I didn't really care!

Is everyone here in New York to be the best at their careers and just screw each other with no real emphasis on anything solid? I couldn't even tell you Cutie's favorite meal or any of the names of his siblings, and I've seen this guy a couple times. I do know he works hard, and that seems to be the real common denominator for everyone here. No one has free time. Hell, I don't have free time and I have a LOT of free time! But, not for hanging out. I have free time to surf the web and get a mani-pedi and do yoga and walk around aimlessly for hours, but for a trip to a hottie hot-spot? Nope. Too tired. Too busy. Even as I write this entry I think about how I could have stayed at the theatre I just watched improv at, and maybe struck up a couple of conversations with some hotties I saw walking in as I walked out.

Especially with this whole epidemic of weddings and babies I feel almost like I somehow got left behind a grade in the school of life. I don't feel old, nor do I feel as if all my good years are "Passing me by" but, I can now start to spill over onto my other hand with the number of people I know getting married and the number of people I know having babies is starting to rise as well.

I look at the "dry cereals" that walk the streets of this city and try not to become brittle and hard and cynical like so many of my girlfriends seem to be becoming as another less-than-great guy lets them down.

I need a vacation. New York is really great for a whole lot of things, but when it comes to dating, it can be pretty lame. Maybe I'll visit Chicago. Although, I hear Portland and Seattle have nothing but girl-starved guys. I have nothing but cereal over here! Let's get some substance into this meal and have a real breakfast!!

The Double Shift

Cutie texted me last night, and like conjuring a genie with the rubbing of a lamp, so did he conjure me with the tap of an LED iPhone screen.

As much as I don't like to think of myself as someone who would change plans for the sake of a boy, travel out to the middle of Brooklyn at 2am, (knowing that I have to wake up early the next morning for a double at work) and have nothing on me but a small clutch with a few essential items, like, my keys to keep me company: I am that girl.

Here is where I like to draw a line of distinction though: this is not me traveling out to Williamsburg and then subsequently Crown Heights for a "Dominos Pizza" chow-down-a-thon. I have definitely found a new person whose traits are nothing like the other people I have dated, and I like that. I chalked Cutie up for a one-night only event and therefore felt the stakes of what could or couldn't happen between us drop. So, I was pretty thrown off by the fact that he wanted to see me again, but I felt I had the upper hand in that I didn't really give a rats ass as to what this could or could not mean in the "ohmigawd grand course of my life ohmigawd."

And my day leading up to the "I'm at the bar we met at right now" text from him was a very fulfilling and exciting day, Guy Free! I'd worked out for the first time in a week (no more cold, yay!), I did laundry (feeling fresh :) ) and then I had my first improv class show for UCB's Level 401. I followed the class by getting drunk and bonding with the cast, and then I thought I would round out the evening by keeping the buzz going with my best friend as we walked all over mid-town talking about guys and girls and stupid people. It was a great day! And then: Cutie decided to make it even better.

I'll be honest: as I am writing this blog, I feel exhausted right to my bones. I got about 3 hours of sleep, worked 12 hours straight and am now finally home to realize I still haven't folded my clean clothes that are now winking at me from the other end of my bed. OK, fair enough, I deserve this, seeing as I made the conscious decision to partake in some delicious desert to my full course meal of a day, rather than do any of the dishes that are very visibly piling up. But, meh, worth it!

I don't really know where Cutie and I are going, if there needs to be any direction to this, if I want any direction to this, but I do know that as much as I bitched and moaned about my feet hurting and feeling really wiped at work, I smile with the not-so-sectret knowledge that it was all for the sake of throwing late night evening plans to the wind and taking an opportunity I am not sorry I took. Plus, the work outfit I had to buy at American Apparel this morning looks really good on me (I only had the same clothes from the night before to wear to my shift!)

I like to think this whole experience is more of a symbolic step of upgrading to a way of feeling more confident about myself and the people I allow into my life. I like this better than scared, lonely and worried 24 year old I was when I met Dominos and Serendipity, that was putting too much stake in those two! Screw that! (no pun intended)