Tonight I went with Jaclyn to her parents’ home in Long Island and basically had all my dreams come true because we drove for hours with the windows down and hung out with THREE WHITE FLUFFY DOGS and put our toes in the sand and breathed in the ocean air and saw a beautiful sunset from the Robert Moses Causeway and ate a homecooked meal and drove by some DEER just hanging out by the side of the road and spent forever at TARGET (where we obviously tried on onesies) and that should hold me over on “suburban adventures” for a solid three months at least.
…I need to be patient, I need to accept that I do not get to shape the world as I want. That sort of thing only happens in fiction and this is not fiction. This is a huge, messy, exhilarating life.
On Taking Risks: A 48-hour First Date
Your interest in Tinder, and its buffet line of prospects, has waned over the last six weeks or so, and not because you’re generally just tired of the lack of interesting subjects, but because you’ve been distracted by one of the very few who have managed to capture your attention…and then some. It’s puzzling and almost inconceivable and perhaps foolish to develop a connection so quickly via text, especially with a person who managed to slip into your deck of possible suitors only during a business trip to New York. But it is something that happened swiftly and unexpectedly, and despite the 1,175-mile distance, it was a welcomed distraction from other dating disappointments. The texting became frequent and inevitable and you felt a little silly and uneasy investing time in a guy you couldn’t just plop down next to on a barstool and immediately decide your fate after a round or two. But there is something to be said for knowing there’s a connection, for simply feeling understood, in any capacity, especially by a man you find charming and attractive. And as much as you wanted to ignore it, as much as you wanted to uphold your 3-mile rule and stick to what you know, you simply could not. And so for weeks and weeks, you sent each other updates about your chaos-fueled days at the office and learned about each other in delightful, digestible pieces and shared adorable (tasteful!) selfies and bonded over your distaste for certain things and playfully discussed the possibility of meeting, after texts no longer sufficed, and wondered why the universe (or Tinder, whatever) would connect two people with such similar interests and personalities who lived so damn far away from each other. And then one day, after all that talk, he booked a ticket to New York. (And he did so on the airline you work for, saying, “I wanted to judge the copy on the confirmation email to vet you further” which made you grin at your phone like an idiot in the middle of a work dinner, and it served as proof that this had to be a good idea.) But you were nervous and excited and full of feelings, and he was, too, and your mind was then carried away day after day thinking of all the possibilities, playing out every feasible scenario of the visit, the good and the bad. And your friends advised you to keep those rom-com fantasies in check, and to be nice to this one, and a million other wise words, and you vowed to keep a clear head and an open mind. And of course they looked at you with uncertain eyes, but you promised this was different, always struggling to keep out the voices that said over and over that this encounter was absolutely crazy. It was after all, just an elaborate first date. But you made a point to say to him, and he to you: If this doesn’t play out the way we (optimistically) imagine, then at least we tried. And that was good enough to keep moving forward, to keep counting down the days, and finally, the eighth came and he arrived in Manhattan at midnight and you powdered your nose one last time and chugged a glass of champagne and prepared to meet him at his hotel’s bar, to sit next to him on a barstool and perhaps decide your fate after a round or two.
And so you met. And you talked, you drank, you laughed, you both looked at each other like you had made a pretty solid life choice to come together, to really do this thing. It appeared the connection that once hung only in iMessage bubbles translated to real life, and to dark corners of dark bars and even beyond. And you woke up Saturday morning certain of this, and also with a fuzzy head, but certain you spent the evening with your guard down, drenched in pure optimism. But — it feels like there’s almost always a but — it turns out you didn’t, and after a strange Saturday apart, he admitted he thought you didn’t like him, that you came across as uninterested, despite having a pretty good time Friday night during the first few hours of your date. And you were upset he felt this way, but not surprised – saddened, really, at how much potential this had, and how much that still prevented you from opening up and showing him, telling him you liked him, telling him you were so, so happy he flew to New York to see if this was something. And you lost way too many hours together because of this frustrating miscommunication, details that could be overanalyzed for years and years, and while you weren’t entirely to blame, you were prepared to make up for it by being truly open and honest, to really lay it all out there, something that shouldn’t feel so foreign when you are in like, and you got the same from him in return, and by Sunday morning, the universe had realigned and you’d hopped back on the same page…the day before feeling like a mere blip in a good, long story. And so Sunday was spent strolling around the upper eastside and eating omelets and wandering the halls of the Met and holding hands at the movies and kissing until the very second he left – all the things you thought this trip, this encounter, this build-up should’ve been. And that Sunday made the thousands of texts and the hundreds of what ifs and that never-ending feeling in the pit of your stomach worth it. And you have no idea what’s to come from this leap of faith, but you’re happy you trusted yourselves and each other to give this a shot. You know you are capable of letting your guard down, even inch by inch, because you’ve seen it happen before in broad daylight. And you are content with how this adventure might continue to unfold, and even if it stops unfolding, the lesson here is clear: always listen to the universe when it speaks to you. And if it says, take a goddamn risk in the name of potentially finding love or something like it, then by all means, take a goddamn risk. Worst case scenario? You’ve got 1,000 words to write and 1,000 ways to do it differently the next time around.
BABY’S FIRST ROMPER.
I’ve avoided the romper trend for quite some time based on the fact that I like to pee at a moment’s notice and also that I’m a 30-year-old woman, but I bought one on a whim the other day (because I’m into trying new things lately in an effort to confirm some things just aren’t for me), and I will say this: It totally takes 14 minutes to remove, making going to bathroom in a hurry impossible (I essentially have to plan to pee), and it swiftly rides up my ass with every other step — despite the shorts being a decent length, I could feel my cheeks casually wave hello to those behind me (I mostly prevented this by keeping my hands in the pockets), and I do, indeed, feel like a giant baby in a fresh onesie — I put the thing on and immediately wanted a bottle and a nap.
But ugh, I kind of like it.
Today was for…
- A casual 50-block stroll down the middle of Park Avenue for Summer Streets
- A visit to the Union Square farmer’s market
- $25 hour-long foot massages at a FANTASTIC (albeit tiny/sketchy/possibly-happy-ending-offering) salon on West 8th
- Two trips to Starbucks
- Bookstore browsing
- Mouth-watering BLTs & home fries @ Ellary’s Greens
- Lusting after brownstones in the West Village
- Lots of ridiculous laughs with a fabulous friend
- Justifying any bad decisions I make in the next 24 hours with the fact we walked 8 millions miles today
- Just generally having a really excellent Saturday
Standard post-cocktail itinerary.
- Have cocktails & nice happy hour with friends
- Reluctantly end the fun after husbands & boyfriends & dogs insist those friends come home
- Get creative with whatever’s in your pantry
- Taste test half-full jars in your refrigerator while your brown rice pasta boils
- Check Tinder
- Roll eyes completely out of head
- Send video of you making pasta & singing “Things are heating up around hereeeee” to your friends who have gone home
- Friends ask if they should call 911
- Text back: “pls send all the firefighters asap”
- Tweet & Facebook THE most clever musings
- Delete 6 minutes later when no one likes them
- Eat pasta like a wild animal
- Text things you think are cute & funny to boys
- Try to delete texts 6 minutes later
- Listen to John Mayer’s “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room” as loud as possible (emo phase of the evening)
- Comment on Facebook pictures of friends you haven’t talked to in 14 years
- Wonder if you’ve left the stove on and if there’s a possibility dancing in a burning room is actually in your future
- Just throw phone away to prevent any additional shame
- Write blog post
- Probably delete blog post in the morning
And the crazy part of it was, even if you were clever, even if you spent your adolescence reading John Donne and Shaw, even if you studied history or zoology or physics and hoped to spend your life pursuing some difficult and challenging career, you still had a mind full of all the soupy longings that every high-school girl was awash in…underneath it, all you longed to be was annihilated by love, to be swept off your feet…
I am effortlessly charming.
- Me: We were also surrounded by 200 screaming kids, which was basically my worst nightmare.
- Rick: Ugh, kids are the worst. They poop and cry.
- Me: To be fair, I do that too.