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Posts Tagged ‘biking’

• Flailing on Sidewalks and with Men

Posted in Single and Fabulous, tagged , , , , on September 27, 2011 | 3 Comments »

I step out of the door of my apartment. Shoulders back, my mother would be shocked by my perfect posture. The moisture in the air is at just the right percentage to make my hair flow in perfect Taylor Swift-esque waves. Most people complain about this level of humidity, especially in late September, but I relish it.

When I first moved to New York, ever day I left my apartment with the giddy feeling of I live in the center of the universe. Anything could happen today. Now into my fourth year here, I’ve  left my apartment thousands of times. That feeling has subsided, sometimes replaced by the likes of I live in the center of the universe. It’s exhausting. Why is it so hard to make things happen? Not tonight. Tonight the city is my oyster. Anything could happen. It feels great.

My oyster!

I step out the door of my building. I’m six feet tall. Both metaphorically and literally thanks to an attitude adjustment and surprisingly comfortable strappy sandals. I am so confident in their comfort that I am walking the 18 blocks to the evening’s destination. There is nothing I love more than a New York City walk. Lately though, in true city fashion, I’ve become obsessed with time. You know the cliché that New Yorkers walk faster than anyone else in the entire world? It’s true. Even so, my single gear bicycle is five times faster than a New York native who is late to work. In the interest of fractioning all commute time, I’ve taken to biking every where.

Biking the streets of Manhattan, sometimes I feel I’m in a racing video game. Dodge a jaywalker, get a life. Throw dirty looks at a speeding cab, 100 points. Avoid a series of potholes, move up a level. The stakes are high: no do-overs. The level of concentration required is a hell of a lot higher than for any video game, though I haven’t touched a gaming system in two years I say that with full confidence. “CONSTANT VIGILANCE” (stolen from Mad Eye in Harry Potter) is my biking motto. I miss truly taking in my surroundings, people watching, viewing the world and imagining its description in a novel. I really miss that part of a walk and I’m excited for these 18 blocks.

The first person I pass on my walk remarks, “Beautiful outfit.” I smile, Thanks! A black button-up shirt and a red and white polka-dotted skirt pulled together with a red belt, I put thought into this outfit for several reasons. Among them are: I am going to a big invite-only musical theater party. Which means lots of gays, and gays judge clothes. Musical theater isn’t quite my thing and when I’m a bit out of my element, I like to look awesome. I’m not feeling so awesome, so looking the part is even more important.

I spent the day watching episodes of Ally McBeal on Netflix. That wasn’t my plan for the day. My plan for the day involved a date. A date that was planned in person and not confirmed 5 million times via text message. In this day and age, that’s a date that’s not happening. But I’m an old-fashioned girl. I keep hoping to find an old-fashioned boy who doesn’t consider his iPhone second only to his penis. What am I thinking, right? This is NYC, the only men like that are homeless.

Dating is really starting to frustrate me in this city. I’m beginning to hope the problem is me. Then at least I’d have some control here. On some level, it’s probably true. I pick the wrong men. Scratch that- I pick the wrong boys. I so tired of dating boys. But they are not intimidating, even the wickedly handsome ones, and I exude confidence around them. With men, I’m more unsure. Then of course, there’s also the issue of going out to parties celebrating musical theater openings… There might be one single straight male at such an event and chances are I’ll be looking down on him thanks to my shoes.

I’m pondering all of this on my walk when suddenly I eat it. I swallow a scream, amazed at the speed in which my feet fly out from under me. A great thing about working in theater- you learn how to fall so it doesn’t hurt. I fell several times a day this summer while playing a silly pirate and Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. My hands catch me. They smart a bit but the cement does not draw blood. My knee grazes the pavement and is not so lucky. A small trickle of blood runs down, like I nicked myself with a razor. For the first time in months my legs are not covered in bug bites, the scab from a recent spill on my bike fell off today; for a few hours hours I had flawless legs. So much for that.

Ally McBeal and Carrie Bradshaw are always falling down in the world of TV. I always thought it was an element of slapstick. Now I see it’s just the way of life in high-heeled shoes. “Are you alright, miss?” I’m fine. I blame coursing adrenaline for making me snappish. I glare back at the offending side-walk. There is a huge gap of at least an inch between two cracks. That’s what did it and it makes me happy: I didn’t trip over my own feet, phew.

I continue my walk. I see a baseball game in the park across the street. I wait at the light so I can walk by it. I need the ego boost. The men in their blue uniforms seem happy to provide it, many turning their heads as I walk by. Thanks guys. My knee stops bleeding before I reach the woman with the clip board. Things are looking up. I give her my name and walk up the stairs. I spend the rest of the evening schmoozing, drinking free wine, and trying to be the first to appetizer trays.

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• When I Wasn’t A Wallflower

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , on May 27, 2011 | 13 Comments »

“Where are you going?” my roommate asked me at 9:40 on a Thursday night. More than occupied with my twice-daily struggle to get my bike out of my closet-sized room, it took me a moment to respond. When both wheels emerged out the door and I stood triumphant, Brooklyn I replied, Brian has a band thing. “Ah, that’s why you look so cute,” she said. Whenever I go to Brooklyn, I feel like I have to dress for Brooklyn. That’s partially the reason I am bringing my bike: it’s my hippest accessory. That and I’m running late! I said wheeling my bike out of the apartment in a single, swift movement, See you later!

Something about Manhattan has always felt like home to me. Something about Brooklyn never has. Whenever I step on the L Train (which connects Manhattan to Williamsburg, Brooklyn) I feel ever so slightly like an outsider. Maybe it’s that too many people own cars in Brooklyn or that the buildings don’t block out the sun. Maybe it’s because my bike isn’t a fixie. I don’t look out of place in Brooklyn, and really, my cliché as a struggling actress is lacking because I don’t live there. But it just doesn’t feel like home.

Home on one side of the river, Brooklyn on the other.

Maybe it’s because I don’t spend enough time there. Going to Brooklyn is a trip for a Manhattanite. Going to Manhattan for a Brooklynite is routine. Tonight I am making the trip to see my buddy’s band, Snake’s Say Hiss. This was something I’d been putting off for months. If it wasn’t one thing it was another: I was working, none of our mutual friends were going, “It’s such a late show and it’s in Brooklyn.” Like I recently posted, I’m tired of excuses. So I was going to this show, in spite of the fact none of our mutual friends were going, his band wasn’t going to be on until about 11pm, and it was in Brooklyn.

The venue was about a mile away from the subway stop (another reason I usually would have opted out of going) and that’s why I brought my bike. (Yes, I’m that girl who brings her bike on the subway. Don’t give me dirty looks, it’s perfectly legal and it takes up less space and makes way less noise than a stroller.) I’d never biked in Brooklyn before, except in Prospect Park, and riding on the streets gave me a new perspective. It’s a biker’s paradise, the majority of streets have bike lanes. Sailing along the deserted roads, the cool May air flapped through my jean jacket. “La lune!” I over heard a group of obviously french people, which prompted me to take my eyes off the road. A cresent moon was rising above the Manhattan skyline. Glorious. Maybe Brooklyn deserved a second chance.

I arrived at the venue and pulled out my wallet to pay the entrance fee when my buddy came bounding up,”You’re on the list!” My teenage-self would have been so jealous. Even more so of the drink I promptly ordered at the bar. A 16 oz. can of Rolling Rock for $4? Brooklyn definitely deserved a second chance.

I wasn’t at this show alone. You could argue I was far from that status- I was a friend of the band! But my buddy had other friends to attend to, band mates, and a looming set. I was a Single Entity and I didn’t want to be the kind who needs babysitting.

Every time I host an event, I always invite a couple “Single Entities”- people I am friends with, but we have no mutual friends. Or “Single Entity by Circumstance”- we have mutual friends, but none of them show up. The Single Entity Situation can go one of two ways: they mingle beautifully, you don’t even realize they came alone, and you can’t wait to invite them to your next party OR they don’t talk to anyone, force you to keep checking in so they aren’t awkwardly alone in a corner (I call this “babysitting”), and get written of your party guest list forever. Tonight I was a Single Entity by Circumstance and I vowed, with my whole being, to avoid a need for babysitting.

Besides, I owed it to my teenaged-self not to be a wallflower. Show such as this have a male to female ratio that is rare in my life , 60:40 to my advantage. Yet, it was just like high school, none of them approached me. I knew my proximety to my band buddy wasn’t helping. He’s a tall, good-looking guy (I can now say that because he finally shaved his gross, full-on mountain man beard to reveal a handsome face) who I’ve never so much as kissed. I distanced myself from him during the opening band’s set. Also during the openers set, the awkward head bobbing of the eligible bachlers gave me further insight into why they weren’t approaching me. I sighed.

Along with the head bobbing, something else had caught my eye during the opening song. The lead singer/guitarist on stage was wearing a San Francisco Giants shirt. He was also cute, an attribute which a guitar in hand usually enhances. Not to mention the obvious passion for music. I wondered if he was from San Francisco. I wondered if I could strike up a conversation with a lead singer from a band. This would have seemed entirely unthinkable in high school- no way. But now? Let’s see…

I got my opportunity as the second band of the night finished their set and Snakes Say Hiss was setting up. I touched his shoulder, I liked your set, I said. Easiest pick-up line ever. He turned around, looked as me, and a smile lit up his face. I’m always a sucker for smiles. “What did you say?” he replied, loudly. Even between band sets, the DJ kept the space full of loud music. I said I liked your set! I yelled. “Thanks!” he grinned. My first impression was he was genuine, completely free of cockiness. Are you a Giants fan? I questioned. “What? No. Why?” He answered, bemused. Your shirt. I gestured, Guess you’re not from San Francisco then. “Oh,” he said, still smiling, “Nope, I’m from Florida. I got this shirt cause the guy has the same name as me.” Acceptable answer. We yelled at each other some more until the headlining band started to play.

Well I did it, I thought to myself, I approach a guy, made his entire face light up with a smile, and carried on a mildly flirtatious conversation. My teenage-self would be so proud, and likely agog. During the set he yelled several things in my ear. I don’t remember what he said, but I do remember how his shoulder-length hair (which was clean and suited to him) smelled, how close his mouth was to my ear, and at one point he put his hand on the small of my back. The set ended and he bolted, “I’m up next to DJ!” he said, and disappeared behind the set-up in the corner.

And I was left on the floor all alone. My buddy was packing up his equipment, my prospect plugging in his laptop, plus I was sobering up. I stood vaguely missing my girlfriends. And then just decided to dance. So what I’m alone. I am a Single Entity and I rock it. My prospect was playing great music, the kind my friends would have on a playlist: Michael Jackson, Journey, Mariah, Beyonce. Classics along with recent hits. Nothing you would steriotypically expect out of a Brooklyn band guy. So I danced and people danced with me. Brooklyn Band Guy emerged on the dance floor told me, “This song’s long enough for me to dance to for a minute!” and showed me his dance moves. Which were adorable and so not-trying-to-be-cool that they were cool. He made me smile and loose track of time.

I couldn’t find my buddy anywhere. He had said he was packing up equipment ages ago. Finally I called him on my dying cell phone. He picked up, Where are you? I demanded. “What? I’m home!” he replied. WHAT? I exploded, You’re home? You left with out telling me!?  ”I thought you had left!” I would NEVER leave without saying goodbye! “Sorry!” He apologized, profusely, and I proceeded to yell at him for five more minutes. This is the difference between men and women, right here. A girl friend would never EVER in a MILLION years leave a place you had been together without telling you. NEVER. It goes against any Girl Code ever written. But a guy? Yes, I guess he would. I was livid. I am independent, I knew I’d be fine on my own, but it was the principle of the thing. Needless to say, my buddy will never do anything like that again.

I went back inside to have a drink of water. And figure out how to leave. I liked the though of seeing this Brooklyn Band Guy again. As I approached I saw him talking to another girl and my heart sank. Looks like he’s just polite to every one. It’s not like he’s been coming on to me strong, maybe he’s just friendly. I almost left then and there. That’s what I would have done 5 years ago. But then I though Hell, why not say good-bye. It’s polite. So I said good-bye and he looked sad to see me go. Then he said “We should hang out sometime” and we exchanged numbers. There was a moment where we almost kissed but didn’t.

I left Brooklyn at a very late hour that night with butterflies in my stomach.

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• How My Bike Got Its Name or My Huge Crush on a Safa

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 11, 2011 | 1 Comment »

[This is Part One of The Safa Boy Series: click for Introduction] 

Are you growing a beard? I ask him playfully.

I ask this question far too often. In my mind growing a beard means one of two things: you’re a college student or an actor. Therefore when I ask the question I expect an interesting answer: “Yeah, I’m so consumed with work on my thesis on [pretentious topic although it could make the world a better place], shaving seems trivial. Plus I think a beard will make me look intellectual.” or “Yes, I just got cast as Henry V.” In my mind Are you growing a beard is a conversation starter.  In reality it’s far more often a conversation dead-end: “No, I’m not  growing a beard, just lazy.” Ah, lazy, that’s attractive. (Like I should talk. I’m currently in major Fuck Shaving Legs Til Spring mode. But that’s not “written all over my face” so to speak.)

No trouble with attractiveness here, scruff or no scruff. Nor is there trouble with my potential conversation killer; he turns it into the conversation starter I always hope it to be. “I wish I could grow a beard! It’s too sparse, won’t grow properly. Look, I have a patch under my chin that just won’t grow. It’s completely smooth. Feel.”

Yes, I am at a bar with a guy who can’t grow a beard. Yes, that means he’s under 21. No, it’s not my first date with the under 21 set. (Remember Trader Joe’s Guy?) Yes, that means I did not learn my lesson. Yes, I touch his face and yes, moments later we’re kissing. I haven’t had a real crush since Sideburns Guy, and that was totally unrequited. I almost forgot how awesome it is to kiss your crush.

_______________________________________________________________

It had been a long weekend. Of working and flirting. Being in the theatre world means working weekends. Fortunately 8 hours of promoting goes by fast when you have a big ol’ crush on a guy promoting not 10 feet away from you. In between sales pitches we play the Get To Know You Game. He’s a “working traveler”, hailing from South Africa, on a trip around the world. So far he’s been all over Europe, now he’s in New York for 6 weeks, next stop Barbados. So you’re a drifter. I say.

During visits to the MOMA in the past 3 years, there is one photograph that struck me more than any other. I don’t remember the photographer, or the title, or even what it looked like exactly. I remember the description: “unknown drifter”. I fell in love with that description and the hazy memory of the image.  Ever since the word and concept of a “drifter” became heavily romanticized in my mind. “Moon River” featured in both “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” and “Sex and the City” only adds to that.

Get To Know You Game continues for about a week. He’s a drifter, world traveler, just my physical type, intelligent, makes me laugh, and has a lovely South African accent.  I’m even more of a goner than I was before. At this point nothing can squash my level of crush and the prospect of a whirlwind fling. Not even when the game reveals he’s NINETEEN. That’s okay, I think to myself. He may be too young to drink, but that’s only in America. He’s not from America so it doesn’t count! Besides, I won’t get too attached, it’ll make the 6 week expiration date easy. This is I HAVE A HUGE CRUSH rational.

On Sunday night, the end of my week, he still hasn’t asked for my phone number. I hand him my phone and tell him I want his. Then I head off to a rehearsal. On the bike ride there my mind is buzzing: I’m not going to see my Safa (that’s slang for South African) until Thursday due to how our work schedules match up.  I have his phone number, I could take a risk here. It would likely be fun, what’s the worst that could happen? Finally a quick debate of passive vs. proactive. All that in the 7 minute ride to rehearsal.

Of course I texted him: Hope your day got better [it was a slow day for sales], if not I want to buy you a drink. Say yes. Apparently having a huge crush leads me to encourage underage drinking… He says yes. I speed bike home and scream at my roommate I’m meeting a hot South African for a drink in 15 minutes, I need something cute to wear but I don’t want it to look like I came home to change! He’s only ever seen me bundled up in a coat! Having a huge crush puts me Silly School Girl Mode, but you already knew that.

You know where this is going: two Stellas and some conversation later, I’m touching his face and we’re making out. Crush still intact. As two drinks in my limit these days (not to make Patti Stanger proud but because I have the lowest tolerance ever and I’m through puking on subway platforms), I’m about  ready to leave.

The bill comes and we bicker about it. I have no cash, he only has a $20.  I said I was buying you a drink. I’m a woman of my word, I say putting my debit card on the table. He hands me the $20, tries to slip it in my pocket, I refuse to take it. No means no! “Fine.” He plunks the $20 on the bar and says to the bartender, “Mate, you better thank her. You just got a huge tip thanks to her being a stubborn arse.” If an American called me a stubborn ass I’d probably get upset. When a South African calls me that, it’s adorable. Also adorable: how this bill got paid (in my mind anyway).

Our adorableness is confirmed by a woman standing outside the bar. A couple kisses standing next to my bike and instead of the standard “Get a room.” she says “I’m sorry, you guys are totally adorable.” She was probably drunk but that doesn’t change the fact.

I unlock my bike and he tells me how awesome it is. Yes, it is! He asks if it has a name. No, it doesn’t. Which is surprising coming from a girl who named her butt cheeks (Hank and Melvin; I was 15). No name has seemed right thus far. “You should call it Jabulani“, he says, “That means ‘Happiness’ in Zulu.” Did I mention the boy is fluent in English, Italian, and Afrikaans? Against all odds the name stuck. I still call my bike Jabulani.

Jabulani pretty much describes my feelings. Happy, tipsy, wheeling my bike with one-handed so I can hold my crush’s in the other. There’s a moment of “So what do we do now?” and it’s pretty obvious what he wants to do. It’s a first date, every other time I send the guy home with a good night kiss if he’s lucky. Tonight I do something I’ve never done before. I invite him back to my place. Got his phone number, made a date, got drinks, brought him back to my apartment- all in less than 6 hours. Apparently when I have a huge crush on a someone who is leaving the country in 6 weeks, this is how I roll.

[To continue The Safa Boy Series, click for Part Two]

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• Like My Bike

Posted in Winter/Spring/Summer/Fall, tagged , , , , , , , on April 23, 2010 | 3 Comments »

Currently I am wearing a bright orange flouncy skirt that twirls perfectly if/when I spin around in circles (an action that lifts my spirits- I highly recommend it should you find yourself fired.) Outside the sun is shining, the trees are green, tulips color street corners, and the average New Yorker’s disposition is down right cheerful. We’ve won. We beat winter and it’s not coming back. We can finally pack away the winter jackets without fear of jinxing everything. Trade uglyUggs for sexysandals. Put our pasty skin on display. It’s especially hard to be stuck behind a desk with one sad little window overlooking a sad black tar roof when it’s gorgeous outside. Only 7 more chances for that (yeah, I’m counting the days, this Fired-But-Still-At-The-Job thing is even worse than I thought it would be).

I have yet to go on a picnic (that needs to change no later than this weekend), but I have been spending a good amount of time outside in various green areas of the city.

After months of battling the winter blues (and talking about it a lot) I felt the need to celebrate the victory of spring in some tangible, extraordinary way along with spending as much time as possible outside. So I decided to buy a bicycle- kill 2 birds (having owned parakeets as a child, that may be my least favorite cliché). After many craigslist searches, careful consideration of how a bike would fit in my life- specifically my 10′x7′ room, and a test ride, I became the proud owner of this little beauty:


Looks a little weird right? Maybe you can’t figure out why? That’s because it’s not your average bike! It’s a folding bike! It folds in half and then some to become a perfect portable package, so inconspicuous I have to point it out to people who come to the apartment (Notice anything different?? Uh..No? Look at my awesome new bike!!!!) On weekdays it’s the perfect commuter- less than 10 minutes to work, and on weekends it’s the perfect activity- circumnavigating Central Park or up and down Riverside Park.

I have become a New York City Biker- arguably the most uniformly hated micro culture in the area. Pedestrians hate bikers. Cars hate bikers. Other bikers hate bikers. All three yell something inappropriate at me on a (more or less) daily basis. It can be tough for a sensitive person like me to take but I do understand the hatred. Bikers don’t get ticketed for running red lights, something we notoriously do. We zip through congested traffic. We’re hard to see, a law suit waiting to happen. We have no gas guzzling guilt. Every day is Earth Day for us. You can bet there are oodles of clichés about bikers in this  town(many true) but that’s another entry.

It’s a dangerous form of transportation and some bikers forget/deny this, making them a danger to themselves and others. During the worst snow storm this winter I saw a delivery guy riding his bike, snow whipping through his hair as he was not wearing a helmet (STUPID). What takes the cake is HE WAS ON HIS CELL PHONE. This sight made me stop dead in the street- dumbstruck by his idiocy- so stunned that when the light changed I almost got hit by a car. See! A danger to themselves and innocent bystanders!

Don’t worry. I’m a very careful biker. My brakes work and I wear a helmet. In my wildest dreams I would never imagine talking on my cellphone. When I am on my bike I am hyper-aware of my surroundings. It’s a surreal, exhilarating feeling. I love biking and hopefully I can bring my baby upstate with me and continue this spring trend through the summer, though I’m not sure she’s suited for the woods!

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