I have found that it is time to move on - challenge myself with another adventure. It was so much for me to pick up my life and move back to New York. And I couldn't be more pleased with the outcome. I've never had more fun and met better people than I have within the past two years. But I am feeling the need for a change, albeit temporary.
Just as I packed up a house and placed my life into a walk-up studio on the Upper East Side, I am packing once again, and placing my life into a backpack. I'm heading to Africa to see what else is out there. I'll be the novice nomad, ready to take on whatever life brings me, on a whole other level.
I have found the ability to manage the wilds of concrete jungle, and am feeling confident that I can master the African bush as well. Stay tuned!
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Where are all the thirty-year old men?
As I have been heading out to the bars with friends, I find myself asking, where are all the thirty-year old men? Yes, I do go the occasional spot that may tend to resemble a fraternity house, but even at better venues, it seems that all the men I encounter are twenty-five and under.
As I was out enjoying the warm weather at one of my favorite outdoor spots, my friends and I were approached by these two boys (and I emphasize boys). One looked exactly like my sister's 13 year old neighbor - no joke! We started chatting, and they talked about starting a new job and being excited to live in the city. However, they do not live in the city, they live in New Jersey, with their parents. And, it's their first job, right out of college, as they JUST graduated in May!
I am starting to feel older and older, especially when the guys that are surrounding me were still in high school when I graduated college. There is something to be said about the energy of the young. I'm all for that, but would love it to be in a package that carries a little more age!
As I was out enjoying the warm weather at one of my favorite outdoor spots, my friends and I were approached by these two boys (and I emphasize boys). One looked exactly like my sister's 13 year old neighbor - no joke! We started chatting, and they talked about starting a new job and being excited to live in the city. However, they do not live in the city, they live in New Jersey, with their parents. And, it's their first job, right out of college, as they JUST graduated in May!
I am starting to feel older and older, especially when the guys that are surrounding me were still in high school when I graduated college. There is something to be said about the energy of the young. I'm all for that, but would love it to be in a package that carries a little more age!
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The Door Man
It's a coveted thing to have a door man when scoping out real estate in New York City. They do so much more then just open the door, they hail cabs, and accept packages, dry cleaning, and guests. I believe that they are the holder of all New York secrets, as I know they hold some of mine.
When hanging out with a guy who lives in a door man building, I believe that it brings a level of insecurity for me. First comes the need for acceptance, the question the door man asks as you enter the building, "excuse me, who are you seeing?" Then comes the waiting in the foyer for the guy to approve your arrival. Lastly, the late night/early morning exit. Never a good look. There is the walk of shame, which has its own level of humiliation, but its a whole other thing when it starts with the door man watching you skulk out.
It may be coveted, but for me, my walk up studio, with nothing more than a buzzer, makes me far happier! Who needs that extra level of shame masked as "security" anyway?
When hanging out with a guy who lives in a door man building, I believe that it brings a level of insecurity for me. First comes the need for acceptance, the question the door man asks as you enter the building, "excuse me, who are you seeing?" Then comes the waiting in the foyer for the guy to approve your arrival. Lastly, the late night/early morning exit. Never a good look. There is the walk of shame, which has its own level of humiliation, but its a whole other thing when it starts with the door man watching you skulk out.
It may be coveted, but for me, my walk up studio, with nothing more than a buzzer, makes me far happier! Who needs that extra level of shame masked as "security" anyway?
Friday, August 13, 2010
The Boy Who Followed Me Home
It's a fantasy of mine, to have the perfect story, about the perfect guy, and how you met. I feel that these stories are one and million, and for those who say they have met in such a "perfect" way, I believe they are lying. However, for a brief moment, I believed that I was in the middle of what could be, a tremendous and totally romantic story.
I was on the 4 train, heading back to the Upper East Side. Well dressed with aviator sunglasses on, plugged into his ipod, there he was, sitting across from me on the subway. It was a Friday night and I was heading home from work to a big night of nothing. I see him sitting there, smile, glancing over at him every so often, while grooving along to my own play list. I get off at my stop and he follows. I shake it a little extra, feeling confident as I stride home. Looking behind me, I notice he is still there. Getting a little high off the attention and excitement, we continue to walk, this time side by side, with 87th street between us. We keep glancing over to each other, with no moves made, resigning to let him make the first move.
As we cross over second avenue, the construction blocks him and I believe he is gone, but am thankful to have a bit of excitement for the evening. As I head up the stairs and into my building, I turn around and there he is - waving me back to the stoop. Amazed, I step outside and start a conversation with this man, thanking him for walking me home.
He's from Venezuela and asked me to his apartment for "good music and great wine". I appreciate his boldness, recognizing that American men are missing this bravado. After politely declining (I'm not stupid!), I offer my number and the option for drinks later in the week.
Instead of a fairy tale, I end up with a nightmare - which I have turned into nothing more than another story. We met later that week for drinks. I do believe he was high on cocaine and definitely not able to sit still, stop talking, or stop touching me. After two beers I leave, with him trailing behind, telling me that he can't wait to see me again. This turns into numerous text messages and phone calls, at all hours, without leaving a message. After three weeks without responding, he has finally stopped.
So here ends the story of the boy who followed me home. Like so many other stories, it started with such potential. Just goes to show that fairy tales aren't reality in this city, but it still won't stop me from believing.
I was on the 4 train, heading back to the Upper East Side. Well dressed with aviator sunglasses on, plugged into his ipod, there he was, sitting across from me on the subway. It was a Friday night and I was heading home from work to a big night of nothing. I see him sitting there, smile, glancing over at him every so often, while grooving along to my own play list. I get off at my stop and he follows. I shake it a little extra, feeling confident as I stride home. Looking behind me, I notice he is still there. Getting a little high off the attention and excitement, we continue to walk, this time side by side, with 87th street between us. We keep glancing over to each other, with no moves made, resigning to let him make the first move.
As we cross over second avenue, the construction blocks him and I believe he is gone, but am thankful to have a bit of excitement for the evening. As I head up the stairs and into my building, I turn around and there he is - waving me back to the stoop. Amazed, I step outside and start a conversation with this man, thanking him for walking me home.
He's from Venezuela and asked me to his apartment for "good music and great wine". I appreciate his boldness, recognizing that American men are missing this bravado. After politely declining (I'm not stupid!), I offer my number and the option for drinks later in the week.
Instead of a fairy tale, I end up with a nightmare - which I have turned into nothing more than another story. We met later that week for drinks. I do believe he was high on cocaine and definitely not able to sit still, stop talking, or stop touching me. After two beers I leave, with him trailing behind, telling me that he can't wait to see me again. This turns into numerous text messages and phone calls, at all hours, without leaving a message. After three weeks without responding, he has finally stopped.
So here ends the story of the boy who followed me home. Like so many other stories, it started with such potential. Just goes to show that fairy tales aren't reality in this city, but it still won't stop me from believing.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Insanity?
Another Monday night, getting home late from work and eating tacos while watching old Sex in the City episodes (so glamorous right?) Carrie asks herself, while brunching with the girls, whether or no they continue to date the same guy over and over again, expecting different results...
With taco in hand, I scream to Carrie - YES!!! A revelation between bites, I realize that I am dating the same man, over and over again, expecting different results. Embarrassed that I am talking to my television, I think about this. Why do I keep spending time with the same loser guys, knowing that things aren't going anywhere, but believing that maybe, it might just be different.
I see my pattern. Nice guy, good looking - but not too good looking, good job, and well educated. Sounds pretty reasonable right? What I end up getting (or settling for) is a guy with limited personality, immaturity, mediocre skills, mommy/family issues, unbalanced work ethic, and a path leading to no where.
Looks like I'm in need of short circuiting this hard wired behavior. After all, the definition of insanity is trying the same thing over and over again, expecting different results...
With taco in hand, I scream to Carrie - YES!!! A revelation between bites, I realize that I am dating the same man, over and over again, expecting different results. Embarrassed that I am talking to my television, I think about this. Why do I keep spending time with the same loser guys, knowing that things aren't going anywhere, but believing that maybe, it might just be different.
I see my pattern. Nice guy, good looking - but not too good looking, good job, and well educated. Sounds pretty reasonable right? What I end up getting (or settling for) is a guy with limited personality, immaturity, mediocre skills, mommy/family issues, unbalanced work ethic, and a path leading to no where.
Looks like I'm in need of short circuiting this hard wired behavior. After all, the definition of insanity is trying the same thing over and over again, expecting different results...
Monday, August 2, 2010
The Banana that Mocked Me...
As I stop by my local fruit stand, buying what may be the most delicious berries, I got quite the surprise. The nice man bags my berries and informs that he put a "nice banana" in there for me.
He let me know that he thought I would like this nice banana, that it looked like "I needed it."
First of all, I HATE bananas! I was trying to not feel as though I was being mocked by both the banana and the fruit man. So I politely declined, taking the banana out of the bag, letting him know I had all the bananas I needed!
He let me know that he thought I would like this nice banana, that it looked like "I needed it."
First of all, I HATE bananas! I was trying to not feel as though I was being mocked by both the banana and the fruit man. So I politely declined, taking the banana out of the bag, letting him know I had all the bananas I needed!
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