If We Date, We’re Not Friends
New York City has all sorts of stories. Chapters on love, the Wall Street-guy who can’t commit and of course the Carrie Bradshaw who longs for more than just great sex. A real relationship. While I don’t ordinarily discuss a topic such as my love life, I figured I’d spruce things up. Grab a glass of pinot, and make ourselves comfortable. I’ll warn you beforehand about my five-blog rule, which means we’re keeping the conversation strictly in the living room. Having said that, you’ll probably continue the chase until I give you what you desired in the first place…a piece of my mind. If you were thinking something other than an interesting blog post, you’re a dirty reader. Good thing I don’t judge.
I should preface why we’re delving into the past, into summer ’09 in New York City when I fell for a loser while I studied at NYU for a few months. Forgive the harshness, but it’s irritating that someone I haven’t talked to in years recently requested my virtual friendship. As if Pandora’s box needed opening. Whatever happened to “Let’s talk things over in person? I’m sorry we lost touch. I have some explaining to do.” Plus, how can you rekindle a friendship that never existed to begin with? You can’t.
I remember it vividly, the night I met Dillon in front of the Gansevoort Hotel in Chelsea. He was dressed in a grey suit with a salmon tie folded underneath his collar. He was asking his friends to call a cab. It was getting late and he had work the next day. I managed to hear all of that while my friends and I waited on the same side of the street. I should have known then that he was just a charmer. A brief exchange followed and then an e-mail the next day. A subtle reply. Conversation over coffee three days later.
A week and a half passed before the official first date that pretty much mimicked a romantic scene out of a romcom, or so I prefer to explain as life should always be like the movies in my opinion. If you gag now, I won’t be offended. You’ll want to at some point, I’m sure. Especially when you read the details about how I borrowed my roommate’s cutest little sleeveless summer dress that flowed from my hips and cinched my waist, allowed butterflies to overtake my body as I teased my bob, dressed my earlobes with diamond hoops and slipped my feet into cranberry-colored pumps.
I walked out of Weinstein Hall with my silver clutch in tow, headed to the corner of University Place and 8th Street. I waved down a bright yellow van. “To the Seaport, please,” I said. I arrived and wasn’t far along on the cobblestone path before I caught glimpse of the teeny-weeny stain on my dress. Shit! I made a detour into the nearest Bath & Body Works. Kshhhhh, kshhh. Seeing that I epitomized a damsel-in-distress, the generous employee sprayed while I wiped. In minutes, I was back on the cobblestone.
My phone lit up with his name. We had dinner at Red, strolled hand-in hand down the wharf to where the Brooklyn, Manhattan and Williamsburgh Bridges stood tall above the water, and then we kissed. Great dates followed until it fizzled, our personalities grew apart instead of closer and the distance was too complicated until it became cumbersome. There was hope at first, but even that faded and I didn’t see much of a need to keep in touch.
I returned to L.A. having had a great experience, but accepting it for what it was: An Affair Not In Need of Remembrance. After all, Dillon and I hadn’t made a pact to meet at the Empire State Building in six months time, so when his profile picture recently landed in my inbox, I had no other choice but to set the so-called friendship straight.
*This post was previously published on August 9, 2011.