by Grace Anders
|Williamsburg, Brooklyn–my home for the past month–photo courtesy of Rasmus Knutsson via Flickr|
As of writing this, I’ve been an official New
Yorker for exactly one month. I’ve more or less figured out
the subway, found a few nearby coffee shops I like, and ‘oohed and aahed’ over
the puppies in the store on my block, despite their $900 price tags.
|When you spend a month’s worth of rent on a puppy, a Petco dog carrier will not suffice–credit|
still trying to conquer is the dating game. Although my last date was a great guy, he wasn’t a
good match for me. I discussed this with several friends in the city, and they told me more often than not, “The older you get, the harder dating gets. You
realize what’s important to you, and that it can be difficult to find someone who matches
exactly what you want.” AKA, if you’re not going to settle, you’re going to be
single. Most of those
conversations ended with an exaggerated eye roll over my second or third stiff
|The older I get, the harder dating will be, and the stiffer my drinks will become.–via Pinterest|
in considering the mostly foreign concept of, ‘someone else may be right for
once,’ I decided to revisit my dating history. If it were going to be too
difficult to find someone who met most of what I was looking for, surely it
would be easier to reconnect with a former inamorato, no? Fortunately for me, two of the men on
the short list of former flames live in Connecticut, less than an hour from the
with Andy, who called out of the blue and said he wanted to stop by one Sunday
afternoon. This I found encouraging, and reinforced my idea that redating was
the most efficient path to happily ever after with the least amount of work.
a few moments into the visit, I realized why we were short-lived as a couple. I
wondered, as he and my roommate discussed the merits of using Granny Smith vs.
Red Delicious apples to make a bong, if I would’ve been as attracted to him without
the Abercrombie & Fitch shopping-bag-worthy body. It was a short jaunt down memory lane, concluded by him
telling me that he planned to make money off the costumed characters in Times
Square. Meanwhile, I silently
deciding that fighting the Sunday afternoon crowds at the grocery store would
be a better use of my time.
Andy vs. an Abercrombie bag – both lovely to look at, but mostly void of content.–credit
ex-lover Rick, who has actually been trying to reconnect with me for the
better part of two years. Smart,
tall, attractive and successful, we broke up only because he had the very, very
minor habit of getting black-out drunk whilst talking to our pet cat— much to
the dismay of said cat, who apparently enjoyed the frequent early morning sob
sessions about as much as I did. At age 21, this seemed like a deal
breaker. But now that we’re both
older, and in theory, wiser, it seemed worth revisiting.
sharing the details of our encounter, let me just say this, “If your idea of a
good time is taking apart engines, dining at Applebees, or wearing sneakers
that coordinate with your sweatshirt, than I’ve got the perfect man for you!”
this story to an English friend now based in the states — a guy whose 7/10
rating gets bumped to a 9/10, thanks to his Twilight vampire-style coiffeur and
British accent — whose outrage at redating actually justified the entire
experience for me.
|A few more friends like this and I won’t have to worry about trying to date-image via Google.com|
smart guys took you out to dinner in a week, and you didn’t have to sleep with
either one?” he asked with obvious disbelief last Friday evening, running his
hands through his accidentally-on-purpose bedhead hair. “Those guys must have
considered you possible marriage material.”
for some time, silently considering how much that simple statement meant to me,
and then proceeded to help him work his British accent on distinctly
non-marriage material girls for the rest of the evening.