Here’s an oldie but goodie. Originally posted in September 2012, it illustrates how tough dating world in NYC is (at least for me).
You are feeling yourself. The compliments start from the moment you step into the elevator. They continue to come the entire six block walk to the subway and you collect them the way the boys in your fourth grade class collected Michael Jordan, Shaquille O’Neal and Grant Hill basketball cards.
The Slice soda colored dress with pleats and white polka dots looks good on you. Orange is your power color and you know you look hot even though you’re still in your flats. Your heels are in your tote bag. You’ll change into them later.
Another woman stops to tell you how much she likes your outfit and you think, “If this dress has the same effect on men that it has on women, I’ll snag a date tonight.” Since you aren’t going into your office, the probability of meeting someone new is higher than normal. You’ve had the same routine for over two years. You doubt you’ll ever meet anyone on the train ride to work and you certainly won’t meet them at work. Maybe your boss’ insistence that you take this certification test will lead you to your next date.
There aren’t any cute guys at the testing center. You finish the exam and decide to walk over to South Street Seaport. You have a few hours to kill before your next appointment and you know that Fleet Week is starting soon. There is not a sailor in sight. It turns out you are a day early so you sit on the bench and watch tourists board the speed boat that will whiz them past Lady Liberty.
You feel someone watching and turn to see an older man making his way to you. You pull out your phone and busy yourself with your Twitter timeline. You aren’t interested in grandpa. He sits on the other end of the bench. Says hello. You murmur hello back, barely glancing in his direction but he is undeterred. He asks your name. You tell him and he responds with his even though you didn’t ask for it. It is then you realize that he has food stuck in his teeth. It is too early for him to be so unkempt you think and you text a few friends. Beg them to call you ASAP.
Grandpa is determined to get your attention. “Can I get your number. Maybe I can take you out sometime,” he says. The universe is cruel. Yes, you did think about snagging a date in the dress but the old fella is not the type of man you want to attract.
You tell him you can’t give out your number and he wants to know why. You make up a boyfriend. Boast about your fictitious committed relationship as you send out another SOS text. Where are your friends when you need them? You follow your texts up with a tweet. You bury your head in your phone and pray he will leave you alone.
Eventually he gets the hint. Understands you are not interested. “Well before I go, can you spare a dollar so I can get something to eat?” It is then that you finally get a good look at him. His blue jeans are a weird shade of green and the sweater he is wearing is too heavy for the season.
It is then you realize. You just got hit on by a bum! You are torn between feeling bad for him (no you don’t have a dollar to spare. You don’t have cash on you) and being upset that he would have the nerve to ask you out. Of all the men in New York City, only a bum found you attractive enough to try to talk to you.
You aren’t feeling yourself anymore. In fact, the only thing you feel like doing is crying.