h2>Dating : I Want To Meet Someone
There are 1.6 million people living on the island I call home. To think that there isn’t some poor schmuck wandering around Hell’s Kitchen, or FiDi, or Sutton Place looking for me too, is preposterous. He has to be. Right? And yet, he is nowhere to be found. I’ve been living on this island for nearly a decade, and he is very late.
Being single in New York is like wearing a cozy pair of slippers, with a small pebble in the toe. Although comfy, you feel that something is amiss with the situation. However, it would be far more inconvenient to expose yourself, than to deal with this one irritating factor. We get so comfortable as single, slipper-clad Manhattanites, because there is always a distraction. Always somewhere to be, or something to be doing. There’s certainly always something to be eating. It’s simply easier to remain single, than to search for that person.
Sure, we date. Goddamn, do we date. And it’s fucking exhausting. The most tiresome thing about dating on Manhattan, is that there is always some hidden caveat with each prospective partner. To be fair, New York is a city of off-beat people, to begin with.
There are two kinds of off-beat: Type One is the woman in the middle seat that gives you an angry look because you haven’t figured out the answer to 42-Down, yet, and she figured it out two stops back. Type Two is the prophet on the corner of 57th and 8th, that’s shouting about the wizard in their dream that said we are all going to get chlamydia. Whether you’re Type One or Two, it’s… just another day. But, regarding men, it doesn’t matter what type they are. There’s almost certainly a catch.
For example, I recently chatted on a dating app with a doctor. He was handsome and intelligent. But, about five messages in, he revealed he has a foot fetish. No judgment on anyone that fetishizes feet, but unfortunately, mine are currently unavailable. These slippers are just too damn cozy.
There was the Frenchman I met on the subway in 2014, who, by all accounts was perfect. Truly, the most romantic few weeks of my life were spent at dinner or on the couch, across from that man. I was ready to lock it down, when he told me that it would be better if I didn’t trust him. “What is it? Are you seeing someone else?” I asked.
“Oui. I am seeing someone else.”
“Who is she? Who is this other woman?” I pushed.
“Alors… you are.”
Once, there was an outing to a bar in Midtown East, where my group of girlfriends meshed organically with some fratty 20-somethings. I think it was the Bud Lights we were all drinking that really sealed our fates. I hit it off with a boyish-faced man that smelled good and laughed funny. We discovered, surprisingly, that I was friends with his cousin. (Neither of us were from Long Island, but that is a very Long Island thing to happen.) We made a plan for a date. When the date night came around, I traveled down to Kips Bay to meet him for dinner, and he stood me up. He stood me up knowing full well that I am friends with his cousin. This does not faze the Manhattan man. He is also obsessed with his slippers.
What about the man who wanted to see me only at his place, introduce me to none of his friends, and lecture me about picking the wrong restaurant the one time we dated in public? Yes, that was a personal low for me, but he literally wouldn’t shit away from home, so who was the real dummy?
Yes, I’ve dated them all: The one that was coked out. The one that wanted a “meaningful connection” and then told me I was too serious for him. The one that slid into my DMs to collaborate on music, but really just wanted to hook up in the DJ booth.
For all these trials and tribulations, I’m still on my own. Sometimes, it feels better this way. I only account for myself. I make decisions without considering others. I plan all my time to my liking. I always get to decide what we watch on Netflix because we like The Office, Seasons 2 through 5.
And yet…
I want to meet someone. I want to meet someone kind. I want to meet someone smart. I want to meet someone that I can come home to. I want to meet a dog and cat person. I want to meet someone that takes their coffee in a really unusual way. I want to meet someone that heard about the dangers of smoking and actually listened. I want to meet a person that eats the edge pieces of the brownies because they know I only like the middle. I want to meet someone who listens to some weird alternative niche genre I’ve never heard of.
I just want to meet someone.
So, if you’re out there, whoever you are: Hey. I’ve been looking for you. I hope you’ve been looking for me, too.
Unless you live in Brooklyn. I have not been looking for you.
