I think I’m going through a bit of a self-absorbed moment. Or maybe I’m lonely? I dunno. I read a great blog post recently about an amazing woman that my friend had encountered. It was a long story of like, love, and loss-- how they met, what he felt, what wasn’t in return. I know the woman who inspired the post and yes, she’s as wondrous as he said in 2000 words. She’s a pretty woman, but who isn’t in this city? Her “selling point” is she’s got an inner glow like she’s beaming gold happiness (my theory on what was in the briefcase in Pulp Fiction) every time she opens her mouth. That’s a rare find past the age of 10, especially in NYC.
His post is just another in a long list of male declarations and acts of feeling that I’ve witnessed lately. And I wonder what these women are doing to bring out the inner-romantic and gentlemen in my male friends? And like how the f*ck do I inspire it? Can I? Is this like one of those rare traits like dimples that are only given to a privileged few?
Having all this insight into the male mind is a gift and curse. Like I know what men do when they’re interested, so I can’t entertain anyone who comes through half-assed. My tolerance for anyone less than fully smitten is nil.
I’ve cancelled two dates in the past week because… well, frankly I just didn’t feel like going. I’m tired of meeting new people. Like we’ll sit at some restaurant I’ve likely been to before and we’ll talk about all the same things I’ve talked to a hundred other people about. At best, maybe they’ll get “me” and I’ll get “him” and we’ll have a second date that’s just like a hundred second dates that I’ve been on before.
I had this idea for a short film once. It started with a suitor sitting on the left side of my couch. (They all sit on the left.) It’s his first visit to my home so I’m unfailingly polite. I ask if he wants something to drink; he asks “what do you have?” I run off a list of juices (I don’t drink soda). He picks one. I go to the kitchen, select his choice from the fridge (Everyone always asks for orange juice!) I return with his drink, hand it to him in a bar glass. Cut to the next scene. A new suitor, the exact same scenario and the guy looks exactly the same as the last one. I’m wearing the same outfit. After I ask what he wants to drink and answer his query with a list of options and he picks orange juice, the film fades to black. The End.
I will marry the first man who sits on the right and asks for apple or cranberry or grapefruit.
My favorite episode of Sex and the City is Splat! It’s the one where the chick says “I’m so bored I could die” and then accidently falls out of the window. The whole episode is about explaining the appeal of The Russian for Carrie. He’s not The One (what the hell is The One? A penis-possessing Messiah sent to relieve single women of their boredom?) but he’s an option in a world where choices seem to have ceased existence. Carrie could stay on her single path and risk becoming The Vogue Editrix—50 and desperate. Or maybe she could be the pathetic, partied too-hard, too long chick that falls out the window. With options like that, who wouldn’t choose a possibility with Mr. Just Okay?
Are these the choices women are left with if they don’t settle down early or worse, just settle?
I’m not one who make believes I know that leaves are green They only turn to brown when autumn comes around I know just what I say Today’s not yesterday And all things have an ending But what I’d like to know Is could a place like this exist so beautiful Or do we have to find our wings and fly away To the vision in our mind?
-Stevie Wonder “Visions”
I think I’m becoming a pessimist.