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Posts Tagged ‘dead-end dates’

• The Man I Met at Goodwill

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , , on August 16, 2012 | 6 Comments »

I go to thrift stores in search of designer dresses priced by people who think Betsey Johnson makes packaged desserts. I go to find garments that are almost too hip for me to pull of- like a blue suede tunic with fringe around the plunging neck line. I do not go thrifting to meet men. But if anyone in New York City is going to get picked up in a Goodwill, of course it’s going to be me.

I earn my living by being friendly and approachable. Sometimes I forget to turn this off. Therefore I am often asked for directions, drawn into random conversations, and asked for my opinions in dressing rooms. The last one is the weirdest. Does the overweight woman really think I’m going to tell her the truth (that she should go up a size) when she asks me what I think of the dress she’s tried on? Maybe she asks me because she knows I will lie: “Perfect for a wedding.” Does the middle-aged woman really think I have a valid opinion on the beige sweater she is trying on? “Looks cozy,” I say aloud, leaving my true thought, “and shapeless” to myself.

One Sunday morning I’m browsing the racks of the Goodwill on the Upper West Side when I hear a man’s voice, “What do you think of this jacket?”
I turn to see a guy around my age wearing a bright blue jacket with the name STEVE embroidered on the breast pocket. “Is your name ‘Steve’?” I ask.
“No. It’s Peter,” he replies.
“Well, it would be cool if your name was actually STEVE.” Were he a woman my reply would have most likely been, “Looks great!” but since he’s a man…in Goodwill…asking a pretty girl for fashion advice…I feel invited to be something of a sassy-pants. Besides, my true thought is it’s a dorky looking jacket.
steve-name-patch-with-merrow-border-red-white

While I’m not a fan of dorky jackets, the same is not so true of dorky men. Especially when they’re kind of cute, which Peter is. Besides, there’s something bizarre but intriguing about a man who makes a move at Goodwill. Shortly after, “So I told you my name, you should tell me yours”, a conversation about grad school, and a confession that he’s about to move to the neighborhood, Peter leaves Goodwill. He’s purchased the dorky jacket and procured my phone number. He’s been told if he wears the jacket on a date, I’ll immediately walk out. He thinks I’m kidding.

Alas, the moral of this story is “Don’t meet men at Goodwill.” Shocking, I know. Peter asks me out to a movie. My least favorite first date option. On the plus side, he doesn’t wear the jacket. We meet at the theater, with barely enough time for a conversation before we are sitting in silence in front of the big screen. This is not how you get to know someone. In the middle of the movie, Peter puts his hand on my leg. This is not how you get to know someone, and it’s certainly not how you attract someone. I remove his hand and think, At least he paid for the movie.

Perhaps I should have left right after the movie, but then I wouldn’t have a great ending to the story. I give him some benefit of the doubt, he didn’t persist being handsy, and we go get coffee. Over a chai latte it becomes more and more clear we have little in common. He’s dull. My wit may attract him (doubtful, probably just my legs) but it leaves him in the dust. I’m now looking for my exit.

throwing trash basketballHe finishes his drink and aims his cup at the garbage can by the door. “Do you think I can make the shot?” he asks.
“Do you play basketball?” I counter.
“No.”
“Hm, no. I don’t think you’ll make it.”
“Well let’s make this interesting,” he says, “If I make it, you give me a kiss.”
“Ok,” I say, hedging my bets, “And if you don’t make it, I leave.”
“High stakes.”
“Go big or go home.”

He didn’t make the shot. True to my word, I walked out of the café. Perfect exit. I never saw him again.

I’ll still look for love in Goodwill, but only in the shoe selection.

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• The Good Part of a Classy Date or Everything Happens For A Reason

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , , , on March 20, 2012 | 5 Comments »

The theater never starts on time. The tickets may say the show starts at 8pm, but the curtain always takes a bit longer to ascend. When I see a show I pick up my tickets at 8, get in my seat by 8:05, and I’m watching the show by 8:10.  I’ve done this dozens of times, it works for me. However, a curious chain of events lead me to realize the shocking possibilities of picking up tickets early. It started with a rainy evening and an exceptionally late date. It ended with champagne  and decadent desserts in a room full of world-class performers and eclectic, rich, old people.

I had been waiting in the rain for nearly 15 minutes when I finally received a text message from my date, the man whose tardy arrival was making my feet soggy. Instead of the “hey I’m here!” I was expecting, my date informed me that he was at least another 15 minutes away. “So sorry! :) ” Squashing the urge to grab the next man to walk past me, shake him by the shoulders, and scream “WHY DOES YOUR GENDER SUCK!??”, I pondered what to do with the quarter-hour. “I know!” I thought to myself, “I can use this time to pick up the tickets! I’ve never picked them up early before, it will at least be a new experience. When he finally gets here we can grab dinner and won’t have to get back until 8:05!” I patted myself on the back. “Brilliant plan.”

The lobby area of the famous concert hall is warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the cold and wet on the opposite side of the glass doors. I fold my umbrella and felt a blast of the central heating. Ahhh. My body begins to relax from its former huddled-under-umbrella pose. This was an even better idea than I originally realized.

As I am a full hour early, no one else is picking up tickets. I waltz up to the box office window. ”Hello!” I smile at the teller, my mood improving as steadily as the warmth in my hands, “I’m picking up tickets under ‘New York Cliché’, please.” The man behind the glass takes the ‘C’ envelopes and shuffles through them. “Can you repeat the name please?” “Cliché?” I reply, my up-word inflection betraying a lack of confidence. What if I got the wrong day! What if Lenny forgot to reserve tickets? I start to worry. He shuffles through them again. This time he pulls out an envelope. Phew. “Here you are,” he says, handing them to me, “8 o’clock curtain, the house should be open in about 20 minutes, and you’re invited to a champagne reception after. Enjoy the concert.”

You know my weakness for free booze. Besides, what New York City gal doesn’t love champagne?

Champagne reception? Lenny didn’t say anything about a reception. But sure enough, tucked in the envelope, next to the tickets, is an invitation to a champagne reception, following the concert, with the conductor and performers. Wow! Apparently Lenny is an even better connection than I realized! Tickets in hand, I wait for my date inside the lobby. It’s an incredible improvement to my previous waiting-place. This along with the prospect of dinner AND a concert AND champagne and I’m almost in a good mood when my date finally arrives (total tardy time: exactly 30 minutes late). We have just enough time to grab a quick dinner. He leads me to a funny speak-easy-esque burger joint, hidden away in the lobby of a hotel where you would never find it unless your date knew exactly where to look (and he did).

We return to the venue at exactly 8pm and hustle to find our seats. Our tickets are for the lower mezzanine which turns out to be all box seating. Each box has its own area for coats and an attendant. Oh my, it is fancy. My date laments he feels under dressed. He thought a blazer would be enough, he regrets wearing jeans. I, on the other hand, feel perfectly dressed in a lovely $6-amazing-thrift-store-find dress. “This is the fanciest date I’ve ever been on,” he whispers in my ear. Yes, and I’m not sure you deserve it, I think. Guess I haven’t forgiven him for making me wait in the rain!

There is confusion when we arrive in our box. Apparently people are already seated in our seats…The ushers don’t know what to make of it. They apologize profusely and kindly ask us to wait. A well dressed woman introduces herself to us and says there’s been a “SNAFU”, duplicated tickets or something of the sort. She apologizes and tells us that there are extra seats in the conductor’s box. Would we mind terribly sitting there? My date and I look at each other in disbelief. No, no, we wouldn’t mind at all.

That is how I found myself watching an orchestra performing the works of Beethoven, Mozart, and Hayden, from the conductor’s box. The music was incredible, the sound unbelievable, the experience surreal. Even my date’s repeated dozing off couldn’t put a damper on the evening. I rather enjoyed the opportunity to slap him awake (yep, definitely haven’t forgiven him.)

After the performance, we followed the crowd to the champagne reception. It appears everyone seated in the lower mezz was invited. As we wait in line for champagne, marveling at the performance we’ve just seen, and the bizarre situation with the ticket, I check my phone for the first time in hours. There’s a text from Lenny: “The tickets are under my name” sent at 7:36 PM. That’s when it all starts coming together. The box office gave me tickets for someone else named “Cliché”! A “Cliché” who is important enough to be invited to private champagne receptions! We’re not supposed to be here! This is what happens when you pick up tickets early!

Needless to say, we didn’t leave. The people watching was too good- how do the best instrumentalists in the world take their coffee? How do old rich ladies manage to pull off gold sequined berets with magenta slacks? How can that gentleman really be wearing a full-on pirate-esque eyepatch? We spent the rest of the evening sipping champagne, eating an assortment of desserts (raspberry tarts, puddings in ceramic cups with silver spoons), and being 30 years younger everyone (and at least 30 times poorer).

I don’t know if I will ever be a rich old lady, but I look forward to being a fabulously eccentric old lady.

If my date had been really into me, he never would have been 30 minutes late. If my date hadn’t been 30 minutes late, I never would have picked up the tickets an hour early. If I hadn’t picked up the tickets early, I never would have picked up the other “Cliché’s” tickets by mistake. If I hadn’t picked up the other “Cliché’s” tickets, I never would have had an incredible concert from the conductor’s box nor been granted access to the as-fancy-as-it-was-exclusive champagne reception. Everything happens for a reason!

What else did I learn? Always pick up your tickets early and if he is 30 minutes late, he’s not worth your time.

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• Everything Happens For A Reason or The Bad Part of a Classy Date

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , , on March 2, 2012 | 5 Comments »

I stood, huddled under my umbrella, sheltered by the Columbus Circle subway entrance. My feet were cold, my boots a stylish Italian leather rather than rubber weather-appropriate material. But I was on a date and you don’t wear practical shoes on a date. Well, technically I wasn’t on a date, I was waiting for my date in the cold February rain. Ten minutes late is normal, fashionable, expected if you’re at all familiar with the MTA. At the 10 minute mark my phone buzzed. I scanned the street corners, hoping to spot him without the technological aid (I’m an old soul). Failing to see his smiling face in the sea of umbrellas, I checked my phone. A text: Just got into Penn Station blah PATH train a mess blah Coming as fast as I can blah.

If you’d told me and my soggy toes, my cold hands, my getting-frizzier-by-the-minute hair that by the end of the night I’d be glad for my date’s tardiness, no less thanking him for leaving me standing in the rain, I would not have believed you. I might in fact, have rudely told you to STFU and further ruined my boots by splashing a rain puddle on your pants.

However, sometimes a chain of events makes you think everything happens for a reason.

This story almost makes me want to tattoo this phrase on my body (not really)! Fun Fact: This is the same place Central Park Guy had words “No Shame, No Regret” tattooed!

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: time is precious in New York City. Time is money, here more than anywhere else. Wasting a New Yorker’s time is equivalent to pouring gasoline on her wallet and lighting a match. I had already wasted ten minutes, I’d be damned if I wasted any more, but I was completely unprepared. I had a small evening bag dangling from my wrist containing the bare essentials: smoldering wallet, keys, remedial phone (from which I can check my email but it is far from Smart). No book to read, not even a piece of paper and pen to sketch ideas for a blog post. I was on the brink of walking in to TJ MAXX to escape the rain and mindlessly window shop when I realized I had a crucial errand I could run.

The date I was about to go on had very little to do with the boy I was waiting for. Fortunate, considering all he had to do was show up and that itself was proving difficult. This date was thanks to a different man entirely. A man who can always put a smile on my face, a man who’s mastered being both a friend and boss at the same time, a man who would never leave me standing alone in the rain. More of a man than my date will (likely) ever be. The man I’m referring to is my friend Lenny.

Lenny and I have worked together in various theatrical endeavors in various parts of New York State. Recently he started working at one New York’s most famous cultural institutions, really one of the most renowned performance venues in the world. I can’t say which one because he asked me not too. I have to respect his wishes because well, I’m not a jerk, but especially because Lenny is one of the few (only? shout out boys!) male readers of my blog. (Hi Lenny! Like your pseudonym?)

Occasionally Lenny gets comp tickets to concerts that he shares with his friends. It’s an exciting email contest: “I got tickets to such-and-such show, first to respond wins!” I’ve been lucky enough to win the past two pairs he’s offered (and now I feel like I should stop competing; though considering I have a sad remedial phone, I don’t feel that bad). An evening of Beethoven and Hayden performed with impeccable musicality, extraordinary acoustics, and seated in red velvet seats. I figured it would make a great date and so I invited a guy have had a crush on for over a month.

This crush…he’s a co-worker, an actor, and, if his tardiness is any indication, probably just-not-that-into me. I shouldn’t be into him for all those reasons (but….at least he doesn’t have a girlfriend.) These were the thoughts running through my mind as I waited in the rain. Just as I was beginning to downright dread the date, my mind took a turn: suddenly I had purpose and direction (and distraction). I could pick up the tickets from the box office!

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This concludes “The Bad Part”. Stay tuned for the “The Good Part” on Monday!

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• I Don’t Know How To Date Boys With Cars

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , on April 13, 2010 | 4 Comments »

My parents don’t own a car- they never have during my lifetime. They bike or walk everywhere, maybe take public transportation if it’s raining or a cross-city trip. This would be normal in NYC- more people than not live a car-free in this city. In my sphere of friends and acquaintances, no one owns a car around these parts except my former college professor who lives in NYC but commutes to Massachusetts to teach theatre 3 days per week (talk about a horrible commute!)

I went on a date a couple weeks ago and the guy picked me up, at my door, in a car. He was driving in from New Jersey- it shouldn’t have been that weird, but I was 200% thrown. I’m a city girl with limited experience with cars in general, but absolutely no experience with cars on a date. I didn’t know how to greet my date- the normal hug or handshake I wouldn’t think twice about on the street seemed impossible as I climbed into the vehicle. Perhaps this would have been helped had he gotten out and opened the door for me, though such a gesture would have been ludicrous double-parked on a narrow one way street (and made me feel like I’d stepped out of my apartment and into the 1950s).

The date never fully recovered from this awkward start. Dinner and a movie (well films, technically- the 2009 Academy Award nominated short films) in the village. Classification: OK First Date. An OK First Date usually merits a second in my book- I’ll give the benefit of the nerves/bad hair day/whatever. But as he neared my street in his SUV (circa 2000, so not totally reprehensible but still..) I realized I couldn’t do this again when the thought of a good night kiss crossed my mind. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to kiss him but the thing was: even if I did want to, I’d have to overcome even more obstacles than usual. Not just nerves and fear of bad breath and rejection but how do I lean over and not impale myself on the gear shift? How does this already awkward prone gesture have a prayer on front-facing seats? It doesn’t.

Too many added complications. I didn’t kiss him. Didn’t hug him. Just said good-bye and never saw him again. If I were him, I’d probably have spent hours obsessing wonder as to why I didn’t want a second date. He’d never guess his car was the deal breaker.

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• Bad Date and Everyone (But Him) Knows It

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , on January 28, 2010 | 2 Comments »

One would think when you’re on a bad date, you’re aware of it.  Right? While I can see misinterpreting an Okay Date as a Good Date- I’ll admit that has happened to me on both ends- it’s a much harder stretch from Bad Date to Okay Date. I’m lucky to claim I’ve been on a small number of Bad Dates. None of them horror stories. I’m well aware when I’m on them and I make it pretty obvious (though never in a mean or rude way, I’d like to think) that there will be no future there. Like the time I fell asleep on a first date (yes, during a movie, but still- FELL ASLEEP). It could be argued that was rude, but it was completely out of my control and a very good indication of how I felt about the whole situation (zzzz).

You know you’re on a Bad Date when you’re not having fun- conversation is strained, you are just not connecting with the person you’re with. At best. At worst you’re repulsed, offended, nauseous, questioning your sexual orientation etc. You know. Another way to know you’re on a bad date? You’re sitting at the bar and the woman seated near you is getting up to leave. As she puts on her coat she taps your shoulder and says Is this yours? indicating the floor area between your chair and hers. You turn towards her, looking at the floor, thinking your scarf or other cold-weather-accessory has fallen from your chair. Before you fully realize nothing has fallen, she hisses in your ear Honey, it’s not going anywhere. Leave now. This guy is just going to bore you all night. You stare at her with bewilderment and amazement, she gives you a knowing look, her eyes speaking the wisdom of the decade of experience she has on you.

She leaves and you continue the charade she started, still hunting for a phantom scarf thinking “Aaaw fuck, did the guy hear that? Agh this is Awkward with a capital A.” Though you’re 90% sure he heard the whole thing, (he says “What was that about? Was I boring her?”)  you pretend it didn’t happen. You’re probably not convincing, but damn it if you didn’t try. Instead of using this perfect exit “Yeah, actually she’s right, I’m gonna go”, turns out you’re an actress who hates conflict more than she loves dramatic exits (something you didn’t realize until this very second). You end up staying 1/2 hr more so no one goes home with their self esteem in shreds.  You’ve always been bad at ending things. You’ve always been too nice? Due to lack of wisdom and experience? Maybe, but you’re okay with it. Better Too Nice than Too Jaded. At 23 anyway.

Apparently some New Yorkers see it as their Civic Duty to inform you when you’re on a Bad Date.

My response in retrospect? 80% a guenine New York: “Who the fuck asked you?” 20%: “Thank You Phantom Scarf Lady”.

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• Resolutions and the Unresolved

Posted in Holidays & Celebrations, Single and Fabulous, tagged , , , , , , , on January 11, 2010 | 5 Comments »

I am pretty good at keeping New Year’s Resolutions. Which might come as a surprise. I can’t make deadlines (senior year 80% of my papers were turned in late, the most impressive tardiness: 3 months after the original due date), I’ll probably be 10 minutes late to my own wedding (should it ever occur), I always say “I should keep my room cleaner” and never do. But some how I can make one resolve at the beginning of the year and generally stick to it. Perhaps it’s because my resolutions are usually vague, like “Take More Risks” (totally rocked that one). Or they involve goals that only have no other option but moving forward- “Floss more” (considering 22 years previous of…pretty much never flossing this was hard not to achieve). This year I intend to improve my posture and stop touching my face so much (2 high incentives: looking better and not getting sick. One week into 2010 and so far so good.

Dating resolutions on the other hand…. Remember that time I said “no more actors” shortly followed by the resolve to “cease the virtual and focus solely on reality” (both direct quotes!)? Yeah…about those.

It was the night of our Company Holiday Party (CHP). Just that sentence makes you think “Uh oh….what did you do…?” Every December issue of any women’s magazine I have ever picked up has at least one article, more likely several- What to Wear, Do’s and Don’t, Embarrassing Stories sent in by readers- about this annual, fraught with danger, “fun”, event. While I had read these articles for years (I must explain myself: Trashy mags were in a free flowing supply at the gym in college. I went to the gym a lot in an effort to shed the cliché Freshman 15. Ergo, I did more trashy than academic reading  as an undergrad.) this was my first experience actually attending a CHP. Grumbling slightly because going to a party “like it’s my job” is weird, I borrowed the advised “flattering, fun, but not too sexy dress” from my roommate, put on the only pair of boots I own that make me understand why so many women have love affairs with shoes, and with the resolve to not get too drunk I headed downtown.

I arrive on the early side, (ie no one is there ) still 10 minutes later than the time I was told to arrive. I’ve been at this job about 3 weeks, I’m still in the ‘they say jump, I jump” phase. I take off my coat and find myself face to face with the bar. The open bar. The I-can-order-ANYTHING-regardless-of-cost bar. This is beyond exciting. And dangerous. My frugality generally keeps me sober which in turn generally keeps my tolerance low. It all works out very nicely. Until I’m faced with an open bar or benefactor(s). Then it becomes much harder to count drinks,  then I stop caring about counting, and before long I stop caring about anything.

For a while I’m fine. Great in fact. I’m mingling like a champ, introducing myself and being charming with small talk. I’m even doing some networking as I meet a fellow employee who is also an actor. I think I’ve made a friend in him, he’s easy to come back to when I find myself in a awkward stand still conversation lull with some one else. He mentions he has a plus-one showing up. Ugh couples. Lame. He then mentions his plus one is his roommate- figured he’d share the open bar/free food bounty. Not so lame.

When his roommate actually shows up my “not so lame” turns into “totally awesome!” See, new work buddy failed to mention that him roommate is ridiculously cute. He’s got quite a few inches on me in spite of my heals,  gorgeous blue eyes that show sweetness and intelligence, and side burns that make you want to touch his face not rip them off of it. And it’s not just that he’s cute. Let’s be honest. It’s not his eyes that tell me he’s sweet and intelligent, it’s more that after he showed up I ceased my mingling. I spend the rest of the night pretty much just talking to him. Oops. That’s breaking Company Party Rule #4 but I don’t care. He and his roommate tell me about how they met- a summer theatre production of Anne of Green Gables. He’s an actor. Of course he is. My cousin was right when she said half the men I meet here will be actors. I give up. There’s no way I staying clear of actors. It’s silly to even try.

By the end of the night he’s touched my arm several times, the kind of touches that mean nothing coming from most people, but when there’s chemistry their memory lingers in your arm hair that’s standing on end. We’re pillaging the dessert tray, bantering about cannolis, and unless some how my inebriated memory has betrays me, I feed him one. After another round of champagne and engaging conversation that’s it. I want him to be my Gilbert Blithe. Stat. Everything about the night has the distinct feeling of “really hitting it off with someone”.

Then suddenly, without warning, he’s leaving. What? No! “It was great to meet you, I hope I see you again sometime. Friend me on facebook or something?” No! I’ve sworn off the virtual! I don’t want to do such a passive form of contact, screw that- Actually, I kind of want you number. Ha, “kind of” my cannoli, but I’m not used to asking adorable boys for their phone numbers. Cut me some slack. “Okay” he says, and enters it into my phone. I’m sure a huge smile plastered itself across my face. Not sure I even made an attempt to hide it, and if I has any success.

So there I am, giddy with champagne bubbles and prospect. He didn’t ask for my number, but so what? I send him a cute witty “was nice to meet you” text so that he has it. His response is prompt and encouraging.

And then? Then I went home for the holidays. I’m sitting in JFK, awaiting my flight back to San Francisco, fighting boredom with JetBlue free wireless my thoughts drift to my crush. And then, because it was right in front of me? Because I wanted to be proactive? Because I wanted to see pictures of sideburns? Because I couldn’t not? Because I’m lame? I think you can guess what I did. I friended him on Facebook.

Idiot. This should be my New Years Resolution 2010. Do not friend people you are interested on Facebook! It causes more harm than good! And this isn’t just me. As the New York Times article I just read thoroughly discusses, Facebook creates ridiculous romantic complications. My predicament? Facebook says he’s In A Relationship. FACEBOOK SAYS. He never said! He never implied! Nothing! But because Facebook fucking says it, I give pause, give doubt to everything. My original ballsy plan to call him when I get back from San Francisco? Out the window. All because Facebook says.

I’m torn on this. On the one hand, he probably does have a girlfriend. On the other hand, just because Facebook says so, does not mean it’s true. Cute Theatre Boy is a good example- Facebook labeled him as “Single” the whole time we were dating and continues to do so  2 girlfriends after me. I asked him about it the other day (we are still friends if you’ve missed my previous mention of it) and his answer was “I don’t want people to see when I change it, ask questions, blah blah blah.” I decided to leave the ball in my crush’s court. He could contact me. Lame, passive, but I really don’t care to chase the unavailable.

Fortunately it was Christmas, New Years. Both very happy and spent with people I love. Perfect devises to forget about a crush. And I did too. Of course the minute I forget him, he writes on my facebook wall. Teasing me about my profile picture. Great, now I’m back where I started.

What stupid, virtual (ie NOT REAL) predicaments the decade presents.

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• Oh Boy(s), Oh Online Dating

Posted in Single and Fabulous, tagged , , , , on October 19, 2009 | 3 Comments »

I know what it’s been like. For weeks you were on the edge of your seat, dying to find out what was going on between me and Cute Theatre Boy. After my last words on the subject, really, how could you not have been? After months of no updates, you gave up, accepted you would never find what happened between me and this new-york-cliche-defying non-asshole.  Perhaps you thought, it certainly fits a cliche, that I was so head over heals that I became one of those girls who abandons everything (including her blog?) for her beau.

No, let me assure you that is not the case. Our relationship happened to be one of those that peaks in an emergency room. The entire debacle- head injury, ER, fainting, and recovery- occurred when we’d been involved for just a little over a month. It brought the two of us together insanely fast, and then stood still. We never got closer to each other after it, and not for lack of trying.  I had a lot of fun with him but in his words (and I agree) it was “good not great.” “We weren’t a good fit” as a couple. He broke up with me when I was least expecting it, I cried, then got over it. Now he’s easily the best friend I have made since moving here. We’ve gotten close as friends, we’re a much better “fit” as friends, everything’s just worked out for the best (ha, cliche!)! My only disappointment in the whole thing is, alas, it’s not much of story!

Following Cute Theatre Boy I decided no more actors. Sure, it’s nice when he understands the stress of Hell Week, obscure references, and why the direction in a play we saw together sucked. However on the whole, the actor-on-actor thing adds an element of judgement and competition which I am point blank not fond of. Ok then…uh…where does one meet non-actors? In Central Park? Fail. On the Subway? No. On the street? Never. In bars? Hahaha yeah right. So what’s a girl living in NYC to do?

In the interest of pursuing the cliche, and sheer curiosity, I set up a profile on a (free) online dating website.

I know, I can’t really believe I did it either. With my biting wit and professional headshots that make me look, as one auditioner awesomely put it, “stunning” (as they’d better- I paid my awesome photographer a pretty penny so that would be the reaction), I had no shortage of responses. A few of them seemed possibly worth meeting. And why not? I don’t have many friends here, kidnapping someone in a public place seems extremely difficult; maybe I’d get a free meal, and a good story. Well, I didn’t really get any stories worth mentioning. Nothing Blog-worthy. Instead I did meet interesting people, even made a friend or two (and yeah, got a couple free meals- hey when  money’s tight, free food is not to be undervalued).

I learned most of these guys are pretty normal. Some a little shy, some hate the phone, some might be on the boring side, but they aren’t the creepy perverts stereotype suggests. (I don’t know why this comes as a surprise- I’m pretty normal at worst, super cool at best, and not desperate or socially retarded by any stretch.) They mostly look like their pictures (except the bald one, and your heart must go out to baldies under 30) and almost everyone I met was quite sweet, a few even had a lot going for them.

Despite all this, I’ve found I have a stigma against online dating that I just can’t shake. Something that just doesn’t feel right, that “this is not how it’s done” or at least not how I want to do it. The perfect guy for me (ha, what a statement) could easily be floating in some cyberspace profile somewhere, waiting for me to click the right link. I won’t deny that’s completely possible. But I know, at the very least, I would never get over our answer to the question inevitably asked of all couples, “So where did you guys meet?” “Online” is the absolute most unappealing answer I can think of. I don’t like it.

So I’ve decided to cease the virtual and focus solely on reality (she says, typing in her online, virtual medium…). And for starters, I have a crush! He works at Trader Joe’s. I haven’t had a real crush since Cute Theatre Boy, so it is a smidge exciting. I’ve decided the next time I need groceries I’m going to ask him out, face to face. How’s that for reality? Asking a boy out is something I have extremely limited (read: I’ve done it once!) experience in so this will be no small feat. I’ve mastered the first date, it’s time to become proactive in making them happen for myself.

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