(created November 27, 2009)
It is officially on: Date-a-palooza 2009. The time when a shy California girl recently venturing forth into the Big Apple puts herself on the line in an attempt to find love. Or like? Mutual friendship? If nothing else, a free meal and glass of wine will suffice. Yes, that’s right, I am officially on the market, single and minglin’ in the city. I’m not exactly sure what I expect will come of the myriad of males I have set to parade before mine eyes. All I am certain of is I’m curious to ascertain what masculine species lie outside of my general realm of men: namely, performers. Time to give show boys a rest, for their song and dance schtick gets real old REAL fast. What with the whole unemployed situation, I truly have nothing but time to explore what this island of a city has to offer. Who knows? I might even branch out as far as a Brooklyn Boy. So bring it on, investment bankers! Firemen, I know you are out there (I have seen the calendars). And musicians? Well, we’ll take those on a trial basis.
And so it begins....
Date #1- “Nervous” does not even begin to encompass the sensation I experience as I timidly crawl down 8th Avenue towards my first rendezvous. Petrified? Exhilarated? Ridiculous for even undergoing such an encounter? One thing is certain: I must not arrive on time. Must be fashionably late. Must seem unfazed, disinterested, aloof, acting as though this completely pre-meditated meeting is purely an act of fate. Arrive at the corner of Bank Street, with full knowledge that once I round the bend, our meet-up location will be within view. 9:56.... four minutes... step into Duane Reade. Fake complete fascination with a line of lip glosses as I count down seconds. 10:01... :02...:05. Receive text from Luke*, saying he is at the bar in a tan sweater. Tan Sweater? What kind of sweater? Cable Knit Casual? Mr. Rogers cardigan type? I look down at my beige one shouldered dress, shake the elegant earrings dangling from my lobes, and am all too certain that I have over-dressed. So much for playing it cool. Emerge from Duane Reade with a sense of impending doom, my walk to the guillotine swiftly becoming a quick sprint.
At last, tan sweater in sight, his gaze glances upon me, we slowly sidle up to each other, both in a bit of shock that this semi-blind date is actually occurring. Now what?
“Luke?” I venture. Identity confirmed, it is now time for the awkward “Do we shake hands/hug?” moment, so of course we create a completely unnatural combination of the two. The bar seems a bit busy, and he suggests we relocate a couple of blocks uptown to a more relaxed pub he frequents. I nod, in shock that pictures do not do this fellow justice. Jaw line to die for, striking eyes, and a smile which melts my already racing heart. If nothing else, the next few hours shall be pure eye candy for my as-of-late starving peepers.
Seated in the back corner, the next potentially date threatening encounter occurs- ordering. Considering myself a bit of a wine guru after my Mediterranean romps, I think this shall be a breeze. Swiftly, I decide upon a glass of the Chianti. He chooses Malbec... which immediately sounds much more delicious than my beverage of choice. Not wanting to appear uncertain however, I stick with my guns, spending the evening eyeing the luscious red vino of which he oh-so-handsomely imbibes.
Game time: let the conversation begin. I inherently babble like a maniac, as is my tendency whenever the nerves kick in. Hand gestures, anecdotes from my childhood, jokes which are naturally much more comical in my head. Why is he so beautiful? Why am I such a dork? Why has he chosen a pub with paper tablecloths and crayons with which to draw whilst we chat? This is lethal for Melody, who proceeds to draw a fuzzy creature learnt during her one month “I shall be an artist” phase. The creature’s name: Wooly Woo. Success in execution of drawing: minimal. Result: Luke surely thinks I am a nut-house escapee with a penchant for sparkly earrings and poorly sketched cartoon characters.
Despite my spastic demeanor, the evening flies by with good conversation, a mutual interest in travel and a shared love for the television show “Mad Men”. He might join the FBI. I might die, I love him so much. Alas, around 1 AM, it is decided the night must come to a close. Unlike me, he actually has a day job, and the whole “rest” thing is required. We stroll up 8th Avenue, continuing to chat and not really certain how to wrap up the evening. A block away from my apartment, the separation is made. He is going home for the holiday weekend, but states that he would love to get together again once he returns. Hugs issued, cheek kisses shyly put into place. We part, and I float up the flights of stairs to apartment 5R, not entirely sure what just occurred. What is certain: my appetite for man candy has been wetted, and Mr. Tan Sweater can be sincerely thanked for that.
On to the next contestant....
Date #2: So exhausted. Have already had to reschedule once as my silly odd jobs keep me working at ridiculous hours. The good news? He is completely flexible with the changes, and so it is late on pre-Thanksgiving day eve we meet. I shall call him Be-Bop, for he is a jazz lover with a penchant for the classics, Charlie Parker and Miles Davis among them. The date location is perfection: an underground speak-easy, no signage, no flashing lights, only given away by the small crowd gathered near the unmarked door awaiting entry. (I will not lie, in my attempt to find this meeting point, I walked straight past it three times.) Be-Bop is immediately recognizable from his photo, so no introduction necessary. This time, I go straight in for the hug, avoiding the foibles of Date #1. He seems taken aback, so now I know it’s simply a no win situation. After what seemed like an hour of small talk outside, we are finally admitted in the inner sanctum. (Thank you, puking stiletto girl for vacating the lounge and creating room for our persons. We both make a vow that under NO circumstances shall we try whatever beverage in which she had been indulging.)
After descending the staircase to a dimly lit underworld, we wait once more for a table, situating ourselves at an uncomfortably crowded bar in order to order delicious prohibition cocktails from stellar bartenders. Allowing the mixologists to decided upon the beverages, we try our two differing drinks, each taking a sip of the other’s. Fortunately, he prefers the cucumber concoction, which to me tastes like a face mask.
Let the small talk begin! He is in advertising, but is also an avid musician on the side, guitar being his specialty. I mention how I have always wanted to learn, and am planning on getting serious once my parents bring a guitar out to NY. He mentions he might know a good teacher. Of course, I am a bit slow on the uptake and do not realize this is a reference to himself. He is flirting, and I am missing every not-so-subtle line he throws my way. It turns out I am more interested in the jazz combo whose music swirls around my eager ears than the stories he is sharing. Methinks I am bad at this dating situation.
“Focus, Melody, focus!” is my mantra. We chat about everything round the sun, from traveling the wine country to puppetry. Which is something I randomly know quite a lot about, and therefore proceed to spew several rambling stories about Christian Children’s puppet shows. He loves the Muppets. I, however, prefer Disney Princesses. I don’t know if this can possibly work.
After finally being seated, we take drink round number two, this time being served some ginger concoction which makes both of us want to gag. Ever the gentleman, he insists upon offering me the sweeter drink while he suffers through ginger-overload. In a joint effort, both drinks are somehow tossed back, and I realize that we have managed to chat for three hours. Not too shabby, though I can’t really say if I foresee any sparks a-flyin’.
Check paid, these two jazz babies emerge from the underbelly of the bar into a crisp night sky. Hugs only are exchanged, with a promise of more Manhattan endeavors. I’m thinking Be-Bop may not be my dreamweaver, but it nothing else, I have certainly found a fellow music aficionado.
Time for a Thanksgiving Holiday break. Next up: Sunday Tapas in Chelsea.
Game on, Manhattan men, game on...
* Name has been changed
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You're writing style is amazing and entertaining! Can't wait to read more!
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