First NYC Date

Yesterday was the first hot, humid, ah-this-is-ny-summer day. The air hovering between buildings and when you gulp in air you can taste the water droplets in it. Sans sun screen equals skin cancer doom. Where even if you put on SPF 45 you might get burned anyway (check for yours truly) and NYC becomes Dehydration City. The poor actors in the play, doing outdoor theatre on a 90 degree night costumed in wool suits, blowing on their hands during lines about the “bitter cold” while streams (some rivers) of sweat cascade down their faces.

Yesterday was also my first real world date. First date that didn’t involve any kind of “let’s hang out/ ‘hang out'”, “just come over to my place”, “I guess we could watch a movie/ ‘watch a movie'”, “I dunno, what do you want to do?”. A “I want to take you to” date. A “I’m going to pay for freakin everything even if it’s expensive and that makes you feel slightly awkward” (But not too awkward. I’m too poor to feel too awkward) date. First date with Central Park Guy.

He took me, yes direct quote “I want to take you” (and I’m not sure how I feel about that phrase), to the MOMA. Which must have been a lucky or intuitive guess on his part because I love museums, art, and modern art especially. Although “lucky” is a relative word, poor guy had no way of knowing I am a museum fiend. Get me in a museum and I won’t be satisfied unless I see everything. At least walk by everything. Now this is a tall, tall order in the MOMA which has six expansive floors that I haven’t seen in four years, since the summer after freshman year with Maggie. On that last visit we spent six (really, that’s not poetically inflated) hours in the museum, to the point where if we didn’t buy overpriced food at the museum cafe we were going to collapse.

Well this trip I was able to squash the fiend part of me (was that hiding part of my core self? oooh for shame!) with the consolation that umm..I fucking live here now (!!!) and theoretically can visit this museum everyday. We still managed to cover a lot of ground. Three floors; prints, photography, special exhibits, some painting; talk of art(duh), how minds work, travels, ethnicity (he’s Greecian, Middle Eastern, Russian Jew…uh I’m a WASP, for lack of an easier description) home towns, vegetarian escapades, feminism, Nick Drake, pain, challenging convention and changing the world (no I’m not kidding and he brought it up). No awkward silences, he’s interesting, intelligent, even has a sense of humor, annnd is fun to talk to.

I was enjoying myself and ended up spending the entire day with him. After 3 hours of MOMA he started to get bored and really I should have just ended everything right there, I mean I can’t see things going anywhere with a museum wuss and we were both hungry so we ventured out into the heat to search for lunch which lead to sushi at a restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen (check! learned where Hell’s Kitchen is!). By the time we’re done eating I’m still not sick of him, and he’s clearly not sick of me because we end up walking in Central Park.

We end up lying on the grass of the Great Lawn, watching the clouds go by and talking about the value of alone time. Now if you know me, you know I need alone time on par with the need for water, air, food. Almost on par. And I love finding people who understand that. Talk to me about this or tell me I was good in a play and I am sold. Prone-to-making-bad-decisions sold. Better-than-tulips sold. So here we are: gorgeous day, hot weather but now augmented by a lovely breeze, beautiful lawn, conversations that make me melt, guy lying next to me who I think I might kinda sorta like, when uh oh, his hands touched mine, fuck he’s going for my hand! fuck we’re going to have to have The Talk.

Holding hands. What may easily be considered the most simple and innocent intimate gesture is the most emotionally fraught for me, carries the most bagage and embarassment. And feels so retro in a poodle skirt kind of way.

Hey I have to tell you something. This is kinda weird, and usually only happens when I’m hot..um… I’m prone to having really sweaty hands. I say, holding up my hand as evidence. Yep.  We’re not at the sweats-actually-dripping-off point thankfully but as usual, you can physically see the moisture on my palm. This is met not with the usual gasp, “ew”, or some other exclamation but a simple What are you gonna do. As in whatever. As in “I don’t care”.  And then a story about the parels of deodorant. Some marathon runner who covered his whole body in deodorant and ended up dying because of it. Sweat or death? My clammy existence is looking better already. No one has ever successfully made me feel better about my affliction. No one. Might kinda sorta like? Change that to definitely kinda sorta like. And the next thing I know I’m one of those people macking it on the grass in Central Park (cliche enough for you?), not thinking about the girls softball game yards away nor that PDA may make people like myself cringe. Not thinking about that. Just the prospect of a definite kinda sorta like.

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Picked Up on a Park Bench

I’m sitting on a park bench reading Shopgirl. The story differs from your typical chick lit novella in that it is written by a man, Steve Martin to be exact. It is written in a refreshing 2nd person style. I’m enjoying it. Engrossed in my reading, semi-sickly relating to the protagonist and wondering what the comments on my own life would be were they reported in this way, suddenly I’m approached.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

Having just been questioned by a father and daughter as to where one can find boats, (my answer: nooo idea, but I felt sillily cool that I must look like someone who would know) I look up expecting a tourist- “Where’s the MET?” A bum- “Gimmie a quarter.” Or a creeper- “Buy a Roladex from the side of my trench coat.”

None of the above.

He’s a guy in his 20s, cute, slim but not scrawny, scruffy brown hair, with a small pimple near his nose which for some reason I am able to find strangely endearing.

“If you’re trying to sell me something, I’m not going to buy it.” I say.

Retorted with an appropriate chuckle, “No I’m not going to sell you anything, I’m not even going to try to force a Bible on you. Can I just talk to you for a couple minutes?”

Well, he promised no selling, no Bibles…I can run away to work if/when necessary. “You can try.”
He sits down next to me on the bench, introduces himself, then, “You know those guys who get a dog out of the hope the animal will help them pick up girls?”
“Sure…”
“What do you think about that?”
This turns into a 10 minute conversation that stays pretty close to the subject, bouncing around from I’m a proven non-dog person to You can’t assume the theoretical guy got the theoretical dog for this reason to What is honesty.

So what? So where is this going? “So are you on a deadline for an article or something?” Are you writing a blog? Cause that’s where I know this story’s going for me.
“No,” he replies, “I’m just sick of “the game” and people trying to get together by fooling each other. I just want to talk to people and be real and I was hoping I could get your phone number.“

This motive had crossed my mind, but just barely as I am notoriously oblivious in such matters.  Well, I know what at least 2 of you are thinking: yes I felt like this was straight out of Sex and the City (in theaters in less than 24 hours!) too.
My inner Miranda burbled up, “So how many times have you tried this tactic” -it carried on way too long to be a line- “before?”
When his reply was an innocent, “What?” I decided not to repeat myself. Let’s not be mean for once. He’s cute, seemingly smart, perhaps a little awkward, and with signs that hint to me he may prove obnoxious. But I really don’t know. Let’s try benefit of the doubt. Why not? People who have just left the large majority of their friends in other states may want to cast pickiness to the winds. Momentarily? At least give it a try?

I gave him my number. Yep. I got picked up on a Central Park bench my first full day in Manhattan. I’m off to a great start.

Four Days

I have yet to move, nothing else in my life is set up, I’m sure as hell not ready to enter the real world.  Inspite of that, everything is perfectly in order for me to begin grown-up life as a New York cliche.

I just graduated from a north east liberal arts college with a BA in a perfectly useless field. I am broke as a joke. I have no where to live. I have a job that would be considered decidedly shitty to most other people and barely pays minimum wage.  I find myself singing Avenue Q simply because it sickly mirrors my life.

I have 4 days left before I take residence on a friend’s parents’ couch in Westchester county and start artsy job. Ushering at a big huge theater in the city. Which I am psyched for. Even though the training I endured for it was mildly painful (perhaps because I sat for 8 hours on the Chinatown bus for 3 hours of paid training which almost covered the monetary cost of my ticket…but if time is money- ouch). The training itself was straight out of a movie. Complete with the perfectly cast orientation leader who was gay gay gay and queeny and had a tone like you wouldn’t believe. He loved being up infront of us acting in the one man show “Don’t Touch the Patrons and Tuck in Your Staff Shirt”! Limited one night Off-Broadway showcase! Theatre people are weird. I am one of them. Guilty. But I was sitting there watching us with outside perspective. We are ridiculous, annoying, clicky as hell, dramatic, loud, exclusive. And we love it. No wonder actors get a bad rap.

Four days. Four days to realize I have too too much shit. Waaaay too much shit for the shoebox living that is New York. Four days to decide what I can live with out, what I can hope to not miss. Four days left of living in this depressing post industrial town. And my luxurious gigantic apartment. Yes, I can appreciate it as both those things after a few page clicks on craigslist. Four days of shitty restaurants, depressing people watching, horrible public transportation, no creative stimulation. Four days of safety in this bubble that I can’t even call my own any more.  Four days and then who knows how long of not being in a play, not having a strong unit of friends right there for me to root for me during auditions or come hold my hand if I relapse into Tonsilar Phlemona.

Exciting. Scary. duh.

I’m still trying to figure out why I cried for 3 hours after graduating. Crying through all hugs, all good byes, at absolutely every worst possible moment-to-be-crying. Whether it was sadness about all the things I know and will miss or fear of all the things I don’t know.  Yes, likely a mixure of both but I can deal with the known. How ever sad it may be. And hard to let go. The unknown…that’s harder.