Gents:Meeting someone on New Year's Eve can give way to feelings of both fear and hope. Fear that the alcohol and revelry combined to skew your judgment and hope that you are wrong and this is finally the year that you will hit the dating jackpot. Fast forward a week, one 11th hour date cancellation later, NYE guy and I made a date. I suppose the text I received from him, at 9:15, for our 9 o'clock date, that read, "I'm ready, meet me at (address of restaurant)" should have clued me in but I pressed on. Maybe the text at 9:30 informing me that he was waiting at the restaurant and the kitchen was closing soon, should have tipped me off but I persevered. Perhaps the 9:35 text where it suddenly dawned on him that I might not live next door to the restaurant (because he finally inquired), should have shown me the light. Yet, in the face of all this, I bopped (and I rarely bop) in to meet NYE guy, believing in my heart that '09 could be starting off on the right foot. I even brushed aside the "not drinking tonight because you need to test your discipline when you are in the restaurant biz" speech and happily drank alone. It was only when I realized that 40 minutes into the date, NYE guy had made eye contact with me twice, that I knew it was time to shut the book on this one. I did, however, interrupt his diatribe about the restaurant's unappealing décor to remind him that tonight, he was fortunate enough to have something better to look at, at his very own table. We left shortly afterwards, took a lovely stroll in the balmy 30* degree January air and fortuitously ended up at his scooter, where he was kind enough to hail me a cab.
Ultimately, through some cunning self-manipulation, I was able to convince myself that this was actually a 2008 date because I met him before the stroke of twelve on December, 31. Hope springs eternal.
Dear Citizens:220…335…400 – their icy glare bores into me like an ex's new girlfriend and I am frozen in my tracks. "Hello ma'am, HELLO, can I get you something?" Two minutes prior, Mike could have gotten me a peppermint chocolate skim (obviously) mocha latte and sent me off into blissful anonymity. But alas, that was before an overzealous NY City Board of Health decided to hijack my treat by forcing restaurants to go public with the calorie count.
I was initially confronted with this disturbing development a couple of months ago, at a nameless baseball stadium whose inhabitants collapse a lot. My sister, my dad and I were all pumped up to get involved in our curly fries, big pretzels and other assorted culinary delights when to our dismay, each item was now accompanied by a strange number. We didn't know what to make of it, considered it might be the actual value of the item (baseball stadium joke) and that's when it dawned on us – it's the damn CALORIE COUNT. Blood drained from our faces as we realized the game we had been enjoying for so many years, that gave us the opportunity to indulge in a guilt-free annual outing, would never be quite the same again.
So now I am here, representing the millions of healthy New Yorkers and tourists (French and Italians couldn't care less though-they eat whatever they want) who no longer have a voice. The hard working, disciplined folks that go to the gym, walk when they can and watch what they eat for the most part, who no longer have a respite from their conscience. We are the careful ones; the ones that check how many calories are in our food and annoyingly discuss the fat content of items at Whole Foods. However, we are also the ones that know every now and then, a good juicy cheeseburger, a dollop of whipped cream or a pile of nachos will not kill us, they will only make us stronger. We are the nameless, faceless sufferers, who must now bear the burden of an untrusting government. A government that believes the citizenry of this great nation needs a teeny tiny government official in their pocket who says, "Stacey, do you really want to eat that? Isn't that an extra 20 minutes on the stepper?" We are now riddled with guilt at the counter and forced to take the high road. You know who we are, you see us leaving, dejected, plain tea or black coffee in our hands.
Please give us back our moments of pleasure. Our little escapes from this otherwise troubled world. Most of us know what we are doing and take responsibility for our actions. We may gain a little weight or have some stomach-aches along the way but we happily accept that. Please NY, give us back our treats, pretty please with whipped cream, caramel and sprinkles on top.
It always seemed to me, that people might consider a fiancée a determining factor in their dating status. Some of my dates have not always agreed. Enter, Marty. I'm not sure what element of the Marty scenario was most disconcerting to me; the fact that he had the chutzpah to pick me up while I was waiting for another date and his fiancee was upstairs or that he planned an entire date for us that included introducing me to some of his co-workers. We frolicked through the art show opening, talking culture and politics as "ooh, so renaissancey" thoughts danced through my head. That was followed by drinks, at which point Marty dropped the engaged bomberoo. I looked around, certain I must be on one of those shows where they see how much one human being can take before having a total freak-out. Then my inner Jung took over and I asked a few probing questions: (1) Are you kidding me?; (2) Does your fiancee mind that you are dating?; and my sister's personal favorite (3) Now that I have one of you in front of me, what is it exactly, about me, that makes you types think I would be cool with this? I then realized that I was done with our session because my sangria was gone. I told him to get the check and Marty, ever the gentleman, insisted on walking me home thinking that chivalry somehow cancels out cheating. I politely declined. Apparently Marty thought he would gain some points for telling me he was engaged, which "he didn't have to do". Point spread for team Marty - insurmountable.
UPDATE…
Marty subsequently sent me an e-mail telling me he thinks of me often and signed off with a Led Zeppelin love quote (please refer to title). Enough said.
