I've lived in New York for 2 and a half years, and have been on first dates with exactly 18 different guys. Some of them (three, if you're really wondering) turned into actual boyfriends, some lasted for a while until one of us got bored and things fizzled out, and some were so horrible that we never even made it past the first drink.
The first guy I dated when I moved here told me the morning after our third date he was actually "seeing someone else" and we "probably shouldn't do this anymore." (Searching for my clothes in his room after hearing that was.... tough). Then, There was the guy who took me to a Kanye West concert, went to the bathroom and left me alone for an hour and a half, only to be found again as I was walking out of Madison Square Garden. There was the guy who showed up to our first date so blacked out he started yelling at me when I wouldn't come up to his apartment, and tried to make out with me on top of a pile of garbage until the 13th Step bouncer had to intervene. There was the one who went on and on about the "redonkulous soufflés" he makes for his roommates and how "soul cycling with his work wife" was his life, the one who came back from the bathroom in the middle of dinner with white powder on his nose, and the one who cried when I told him, after two dates, that I didn't think things were going to work out.
And of course, there was the one with the dickpic.
New York, arguably more than anywhere else in the world, has "plenty of fish in the sea." Everywhere you turn (or in my case, swipe.) there's another eligible guy. I, apparently, just happen to catch all the crazy ones, and last weekend I had the unique pleasure of running into ALL of them.
On Friday night, I was coming home from dinner and got a text from my upstairs neighbor ("Upstairs Andrew" as he's eloquently named in my cell phone) inviting me to a party at his apartment. As soon as I walked in, I was taken aback by the sheer volume of hotties sitting in his living room. I was introducing myself around the circle, happy that I hadn't changed into my pajamas like my roommate had, when I stopped at someone who looked suuuuuper familiar but I couldn't quite figure out why. After a full minute of staring at each other, we both burst out laughing. It was dickpic guy!!
My roommate was laughing so hard, she had to excuse herself from the party.
I stuck around, though, and it actually turns out he's not as bad of a guy as I had originally thought. We hung out the whole night, and zero photographs of genetalia were exchanged, which was nice.
Then, on Saturday, my roommate and I drove 2 and a half hours north of the city to Storm King Art Center (and, ok, to go to the outlets). As soon as I got out of the car, (again, we were TWO AND A HALF HOURS AWAY FROM THE CITY) who was the first person I saw? My ex-boyfriend. Who I dated for a year. And broke up with with one text message that he never responded to (maybe he never got it?). And haven't seen since.
Needless to say, despite crossing paths upwards of 10 times throughout the day, we didn't say hello.
Finally, on Sunday night at Hillary Clinton's birthday party (don't even ask.) I ran into the concert guy with his gorgeous new model girlfriend. That one actually wasn't terrible, minus the fact that I had to listen to my brother tell me HOW much hotter she was than me all night long. Thanks, Rich. Bet he never left her alone while she was crying to "Hey Mama."
So, the bottom line is, all of my ex-boyfriends/first dates/casual hookups/perverts are contained to this one tiny island (minus high school boyfriend, who thankfully now lives in San Francisco) and there will always be the risk of running into them when I least expect it. Hopefully next time, though, it won't all be over the course of 48 hours.
The first guy I dated when I moved here told me the morning after our third date he was actually "seeing someone else" and we "probably shouldn't do this anymore." (Searching for my clothes in his room after hearing that was.... tough). Then, There was the guy who took me to a Kanye West concert, went to the bathroom and left me alone for an hour and a half, only to be found again as I was walking out of Madison Square Garden. There was the guy who showed up to our first date so blacked out he started yelling at me when I wouldn't come up to his apartment, and tried to make out with me on top of a pile of garbage until the 13th Step bouncer had to intervene. There was the one who went on and on about the "redonkulous soufflés" he makes for his roommates and how "soul cycling with his work wife" was his life, the one who came back from the bathroom in the middle of dinner with white powder on his nose, and the one who cried when I told him, after two dates, that I didn't think things were going to work out.And of course, there was the one with the dickpic.
New York, arguably more than anywhere else in the world, has "plenty of fish in the sea." Everywhere you turn (or in my case, swipe.) there's another eligible guy. I, apparently, just happen to catch all the crazy ones, and last weekend I had the unique pleasure of running into ALL of them.
On Friday night, I was coming home from dinner and got a text from my upstairs neighbor ("Upstairs Andrew" as he's eloquently named in my cell phone) inviting me to a party at his apartment. As soon as I walked in, I was taken aback by the sheer volume of hotties sitting in his living room. I was introducing myself around the circle, happy that I hadn't changed into my pajamas like my roommate had, when I stopped at someone who looked suuuuuper familiar but I couldn't quite figure out why. After a full minute of staring at each other, we both burst out laughing. It was dickpic guy!!
My roommate was laughing so hard, she had to excuse herself from the party.
I stuck around, though, and it actually turns out he's not as bad of a guy as I had originally thought. We hung out the whole night, and zero photographs of genetalia were exchanged, which was nice.
Then, on Saturday, my roommate and I drove 2 and a half hours north of the city to Storm King Art Center (and, ok, to go to the outlets). As soon as I got out of the car, (again, we were TWO AND A HALF HOURS AWAY FROM THE CITY) who was the first person I saw? My ex-boyfriend. Who I dated for a year. And broke up with with one text message that he never responded to (maybe he never got it?). And haven't seen since.
Needless to say, despite crossing paths upwards of 10 times throughout the day, we didn't say hello.
Finally, on Sunday night at Hillary Clinton's birthday party (don't even ask.) I ran into the concert guy with his gorgeous new model girlfriend. That one actually wasn't terrible, minus the fact that I had to listen to my brother tell me HOW much hotter she was than me all night long. Thanks, Rich. Bet he never left her alone while she was crying to "Hey Mama."
So, the bottom line is, all of my ex-boyfriends/first dates/casual hookups/perverts are contained to this one tiny island (minus high school boyfriend, who thankfully now lives in San Francisco) and there will always be the risk of running into them when I least expect it. Hopefully next time, though, it won't all be over the course of 48 hours.
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