As the mind and body wander there is a residual need to find a comfortable place- whether panic stricken or by lunar cycles, I have become an uncommitted participant in the jarring experience called New York dating.
I like to think that I discriminate, though after a review some particularly unpleasant encounters, I am starting to wonder if this is not the case. To be clear, about my intentions (in dating)…this is the story of my life:
I like to try new things.
A friend of mine told me he likes to visit apartments to become intimate with a person he would otherwise never know (forged through belongings, photos and bedroom scenes). I sort of feel the same way about dating (you walk in, look around, check the closet space, flick the lights, and invariably find a glaring flaw). This is not to say that the experience alone is not worth the visit.
If I have never met a fire-eating contortionist before, I may be more inclined to date one than say, a lawyer. This is a preference because (inevitably, right?) the date will fail, I will become disinterested, and neither of us will really care, but at least I can then say, “Oh yes, I HAVE dated a… U.S. Marshall (physicist, archaeologist, professional tree climber, woman, deaf man, brain cancer survivor…)”
ME in NY: Looking? Not looking? There has been a frivolous dissemination of digits, nonetheless. A summary:
I. He Sews His Own Pants (and cuts the tips of his gloves for style)
Carrying my guitar towards the Lower East side to meet with a friend, I encountered Doug at the Starbucks on Delancey. Doug is white. Doug went to college. Doug drinks double espressos. Doug carries a book of Keats in his pocket and sews his own pants. He wears a red feather in his cowboy hat and cuts the tips off of his gloves for style.
He sits down at the table next to me…keeping his distance (and his cool) he asks,
“So what’s in the case?”
“A guitar”
“What kind?”
“Acoustic.”
“(scoff) UH, I know it’s acoustic. Can I see it?”
“Sure.”
He lays the case in his lap, opens the lid and begins to strum the open strings.
“Nice sound.”
“Uh huh.”
After exchanging some literary references and anecdotes, we agreed to meet again. I was intrigued by Doug’s aspirations: he was an actor, model, chef, writer. A week later we met at a sushi restaurant not far from our initial meeting place. I soon realized that he was not so distinct from any other Ivy League grad living off his parents, hailing from Boston, trying to make it as a vagabond original in New York.
After lunch and a short walk around his ‘hood, Doug asked if I wanted to watch him do yoga on the pier.
“This… may actually be funny,” I thought. I stood there as he locked himself into a fierce Warrior position under the Brooklyn Bridge. The sun set against his determined and arched frame and he closed eyes and deeply inhaled maneuvering into Down Dog (Down Doug). As amusement faded into sickening embarrassment, I suggested we head to the train…where I swiftly dodged a kiss and future plans.
II. The Creative and “Profitable” New York Life (captured by Voicemail)
Christian and I were set up on a blind date by a woman I met through a friend of a friend of an aunt… yes, far too removed, I learned soon enough. We were both so “creative and passionate” she thought we would get along perfect. It became evident after a rash of his self-aggrandizing texts and messages that he was desperate to make me understand that he was not only creative, but lucrative (sigh- apparently a rare, but sexy combination). After several exchanges, I decided never to meet this person…which is why I am about to exploit him*
This is not my fault:
How could I ever keep up with someone whose life is so crazy and interesting?! I could only BE so lucky to “jam sometime” or have that “yummy drink.”
“I’m just BUSY in the CITY.”
Repeating the words “guitar” and “crazy”
while convincing me at the same time that he actually does make money is an exhausting narrative. I would like to reiterate…we have never met.
And it’s true…I do love texting. After he sent me a disturbingly long and revealing message, ending with: “I have had a VERY profitable day,” I had to write one final text:
“PROFITABLE?”
Really?
*Before posting this blog, I was informed by friend (whose judgment I am inclined to trust) that using this voicemail was exploitative. However, this sound bite demonstrates more accurately the extent of self-promotion and smug satisfaction that has lead me to post this blog at all…and there will be no apologies.
III. Playing the Game
From Urban Dictionary:
Negging
Definition: It’s a way to pick up girls. How it works is you use remarks to tap into female insecurity; Shake their confidence. A “neg”is a negative remark wrapped in a back-handed compliment. So your neg will confuse and intrigue them and maybe even shake their confidence a little bit, but only enough for them to fall from the clouds and be interested in talking to you. Its way to get threw their defenses at bars and such.
An example of Negging a girl would be:”Ahhh, that’s so funny … you nose moves when you speak…… (pointing and being cute) look there it goes again … its so… quaint … haha look” She’ll say, “ahhh, stoppp!”*blush*. Now she is self-conscious and having her in this state is where you want her. You have neghit her.
I was introduced to a law professor who is also a published political and technological pundit. He bought me the infamous “The Art of Fiction Writing” by John Gardner and took me out for drinks a couple times, “No one knows about this place,” he will always say, “It’s my secret.”
Everyone wants to be the one holding the key to this city.
This is the character who always knows someone (*you must meet*) and spends the majority of the time talking about his book deal, his clerkship with the Supreme Court (NO- THE SUPREME COURT), his friends at NPR, his blog, “his”magazine, his aviator sunglasses, etc. I also learned very quickly that he is an expert in perpetual negging:
Breaking the conversation, he inserts:
“You have a very Roman nose.”
(Pause. About to be grateful.)
“I have actually heard that before.”
“Well…don’t worry…no one is perfect.”
And in the same conversation:
“You should really do something with your looks…like be a waitress, or something.”
Like most things in New York (theatre, restaurants, New Years) it mirrors what happens in every other city, but is more explosive, bigger, sometimes better… always inflated. Like listening to New Yorkers argue about what is the best subway route or where to get the best Thai, there will always be competition, resulting in a performance and demonstration. Everything must be…the best.
Men on dates are no exception.
Though I can appreciate the superficiality of the lights in Times Square (when I am drunk) or the thriving feeling in New York of being at the literary and cultural center of the world, I am dismayed by the artificial and deterrent nature of such impersonal exchanges (is anyone smitten by yoga on the pier, a musician’s capacity for profit, or a negging law professor?)
Is this the natural outcome of trying to impress (as one does when dating) in a place where there is always someone smarter, hotter, funnier, and more interesting to impress or be impressed by? Something bigger… something better.
Sometimes I do feel like a simple and drifting Midwesterner (mouth agape)—me unplugged in the vastness of the city, and unable to touch down, I continue making naive moves, like Blanche Dubois, (“I have always depended on the kindness of strangers”)… perhaps I should find a quiet corner in this city…and (strumming love ballads) begin to jam or drink a yummy drink…alone.
