Title$>
Dating
Living in Manhattan, it’s often difficult to understand how wedding dressmakers survive. We can’t even date properly, so how in the hell are we ever going to get married? Paradoxically, though, bridal magazines fly from the newsstands, purchased by the pitifully hopeful, the madly in love, and all the other female lunatics in the City. I’m not saying you’re crazy for wanting to get married, but if you think you’re going to meet Prince Charming in this urban kingdom, then you truly are living in a fairytale—no fairy godmother to save you from the homeless man lurking under the bridge; the mice in the subway have yet to change into white horses; you can never get your designer slippers back from the wicked drag queen; and there is certainly no happily ever after.
Now everyone knows that the best way to meet the man of your dreams is while everyone is highly intoxicated in a noisy crowded bar. That way you can really get to know the other person through meaningful conversation like, “what do you do,” “do you live in the City,” and “where are you from originally” (if you really want to dig deeply into their psyche). As Manhattan has about a million bars and restaurants, one would assume this island to be the ideal location to search for, and naturally find, your mate. What these poor magazine-reading girls fail to understand is that these bars don’t hold the secret to their happiness, but the source of their angst.
Case in point: The Dating Ritual of Corporate Guy and Corporate Girl. After a long week at the office, barely attractive Corporate Guy and his hardly passable Corporate Buddies decide to tie one on because they are A) trying to escape the pressures of their fast-paced, entry-level jobs and B) trying to fulfill all their convoluted fantasies about moving to New York and becoming the fabulous alcoholic hedge-fund playboys they read about in Maxim. So, here are the guys, dutifully pounding beers in an effort to become completely hammered before 11 o’clock.
Meanwhile, unfortunate-looking Corporate Girl dons her best “going out” clothes, which she can’t really afford and really shouldn’t be wearing, and meets her (strategically) less attractive three friends, carefully chosen for the evening to resemble the lesser co-stars of her favorite HBO series (she, of course, is Carrie). So the hopefuls stumble in their stilettos down to whatever corporate hot-spot the office was buzzing about that week, order four cosmopolitans and begin scouring the bar for the most suitable-looking group of Corporate Guys, meaning either the best looking/best dressed, or the better find—the group with no females nearby.
Having carefully positioned themselves, our wannabe girlfriends begin the age-old “desperately-wanting-to-get-your-attention-while-trying-to-pretend-I-don’t-notice-you” dance, hailed from the beginning of time as the only appropriate behavior for the single female. I mean, God forbid we should be the first to speak. After a few more drinks, the groups eventually merge because these suave, confident guys have finally consumed enough alcohol to actually become so, and the girls have begun artfully pairing themselves off with the most attractive, or if he’s already taken, the most gregarious (code for inebriated) guy. Now the real battle begins. Corporate Girl is trying to determine if he will be a good father to their two soon-to-be-conceived children, while Corporate Guy is trying to determine if his chances of scoring outweigh his need to use the restroom. As the conversation gets deeper (now on to reality television and rent prices), Girl feels a connection and Guy feels his bladder. Eventually, he has to excuse himself, figuring she’ll be gone when he returns; meanwhile, Girl uses his absence for a quick huddle with her friends to make sure that everyone has the game plan for getting home, and, more importantly, that no one expects her to join them.
Finding her still waiting when he emerges from the restroom, Guy is pretty confident this one is in the sack, so he staggers over and begins the typical version of bar foreplay—slobbering all over her face until she suggests privacy before her shirt flies off in public. At this point, he’s too drunk to remember her name (fortunately “Baby” works on every girl), but miraculously he can recall the condoms in his jacket and the shortest route to the restroom. By this time, Girl is totally wasted off only two cosmos because she skipped dinner to feel thin in her outfit (though from a look at her pants’ seams, she probably should have skipped lunch too). So she’s ever-so-gracefully sloshing her cocktail, much to the amusement of the martini inventor—1 part precarious glassware, 1 part straight alcohol, dash of high heels, mix well and watch fall over. Long story short, she’s willing to do pretty much anything to keep his interest up and he’s willing to do pretty much anyone to keep his interest up (so to speak). Inevitably her evening of Sex and the City becomes Screwed in the Bathroom, and then she sits by the phone for two weeks waiting for him to dial the number she shoved in his pocket as he leapt out of the cab. Apparently these Corporate girls aren’t as smart as they think they are because they play this same game every Friday and Saturday night as if their lives depend on it, and all I can say is that when your wash-rinse-repeat dating cycle hasn’t gotten you any closer to an alter, then it might be time to get a new shampoo.
While getting a guy to ask you out is not always easy, it is not the most difficult task you will undergo; actually dating him, now that may be the hardest thing you ever do. Truly, God has the most acute sense of humor. First he makes us social creatures, then he makes our parts complimentary, and then he creates DNA. It’s not that women are from Venus and men are from Mars (no matter how much we’d like to return them there sometimes), the truth is that we are simply programmed differently. The difference in the X and Y-chromosomes is just that tiny little leg of the X missing from male DNA—unfortunately that one small piece contains all the communication functions and any sort of social graces. Fortunately for those one-legged wonders, they also aren’t burdened with basic relationship comprehension skills that might require them to communicate effectively in social situations that don’t involve beer and scoreboards. This genetically handicapped DNA makes it impossible for a man to remember to call in a timely fashion, prioritize his relationship with his girlfriend above his relationship with his golf clubs, or comprehend how “quality time” might not always include Sports Center. And truly, all they need to do is Act Right—it is really not that hard. And don’t look at me like you have no idea what that means, ‘cause everybody knows your momma taught you how to Act Right: call when you’re supposed to call (though not after 10 p.m. on a school night), say what you’re supposed to say (“I’m sorry” works in basically any situation), and don’t talk with your mouth full (perhaps not as important for this situation, but still good advice).
Now I am not saying that all men in New York are assholes (my gay friends are quite considerate), nor am I claiming that only men in New York behave this way. To be sure the Y-chromosome is just as moronic the world over. However, the population distribution being such as it is, New Yorkers do encounter more of the chromosomally challenged on a daily basis, as it’s just a matter of numbers. Many assume the numbers would work for women in New York, but they are clearly just Sex and the City fans in Iowa who have never seen a man dressed for work in a suit or tasted a cosmopolitan, ‘cause neither are all they’re cracked up to be. Let me break it down for you: there are about 8 million people in New York City. For simplicity’s sake, say 50% percent are women, so we’re at 4 million men. At least half of those are gay, depending on what time of night it is and how much they’ve had to drink, and just go ahead and forget about anyone living in the boroughs ‘cause I can feel the hives start halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge, and we’re at about 1 million. Now of these one million, two-thirds are married and of the third that are left, a quarter won’t do because they are illegal immigrants, alcoholic –workaholics, actors (code: waiters), or other various undesirables. The remaining 150,000 or so are mostly Corporate guys, whom we have already eliminated, leaving us about 200 decent and eligible men and over 3 million single women. Thus, attractive, intelligent, independent females find themselves temporarily insane waiting for phone calls, emails, and passing glances from overgrown frat boys who’d rather guzzle beer with their buddies than pick up a phone, even for the possibility of sex, which is given away freely for the chance to sleep in his one-room piece o’ crap apartment instead of in the converted living room she shares with two other girls. It’s no wonder sex-toy stores are so prevalent, but what boggles the mind is why, after all this time, the Y hasn’t figured it out. No, better, why hasn’t the X? One could argue the free drinks and occasional dinners, especially in a city as expensive as New York, but after all the effort of finding the guy, getting the guy, putting up with the guy, and then losing the guy, and the crying and the complaining over the loss of what—some jack-ass with little more to offer than a ride on his Metrocard? No thanks honey, if all I’ve got to look forward to are 12 ounces of beer and 12 months of therapy…I’ll buy my own drinks from now on.
Now everyone knows that the best way to meet the man of your dreams is while everyone is highly intoxicated in a noisy crowded bar. That way you can really get to know the other person through meaningful conversation like, “what do you do,” “do you live in the City,” and “where are you from originally” (if you really want to dig deeply into their psyche). As Manhattan has about a million bars and restaurants, one would assume this island to be the ideal location to search for, and naturally find, your mate. What these poor magazine-reading girls fail to understand is that these bars don’t hold the secret to their happiness, but the source of their angst.
Case in point: The Dating Ritual of Corporate Guy and Corporate Girl. After a long week at the office, barely attractive Corporate Guy and his hardly passable Corporate Buddies decide to tie one on because they are A) trying to escape the pressures of their fast-paced, entry-level jobs and B) trying to fulfill all their convoluted fantasies about moving to New York and becoming the fabulous alcoholic hedge-fund playboys they read about in Maxim. So, here are the guys, dutifully pounding beers in an effort to become completely hammered before 11 o’clock.
Meanwhile, unfortunate-looking Corporate Girl dons her best “going out” clothes, which she can’t really afford and really shouldn’t be wearing, and meets her (strategically) less attractive three friends, carefully chosen for the evening to resemble the lesser co-stars of her favorite HBO series (she, of course, is Carrie). So the hopefuls stumble in their stilettos down to whatever corporate hot-spot the office was buzzing about that week, order four cosmopolitans and begin scouring the bar for the most suitable-looking group of Corporate Guys, meaning either the best looking/best dressed, or the better find—the group with no females nearby.
Having carefully positioned themselves, our wannabe girlfriends begin the age-old “desperately-wanting-to-get-your-attention-while-trying-to-pretend-I-don’t-notice-you” dance, hailed from the beginning of time as the only appropriate behavior for the single female. I mean, God forbid we should be the first to speak. After a few more drinks, the groups eventually merge because these suave, confident guys have finally consumed enough alcohol to actually become so, and the girls have begun artfully pairing themselves off with the most attractive, or if he’s already taken, the most gregarious (code for inebriated) guy. Now the real battle begins. Corporate Girl is trying to determine if he will be a good father to their two soon-to-be-conceived children, while Corporate Guy is trying to determine if his chances of scoring outweigh his need to use the restroom. As the conversation gets deeper (now on to reality television and rent prices), Girl feels a connection and Guy feels his bladder. Eventually, he has to excuse himself, figuring she’ll be gone when he returns; meanwhile, Girl uses his absence for a quick huddle with her friends to make sure that everyone has the game plan for getting home, and, more importantly, that no one expects her to join them.
Finding her still waiting when he emerges from the restroom, Guy is pretty confident this one is in the sack, so he staggers over and begins the typical version of bar foreplay—slobbering all over her face until she suggests privacy before her shirt flies off in public. At this point, he’s too drunk to remember her name (fortunately “Baby” works on every girl), but miraculously he can recall the condoms in his jacket and the shortest route to the restroom. By this time, Girl is totally wasted off only two cosmos because she skipped dinner to feel thin in her outfit (though from a look at her pants’ seams, she probably should have skipped lunch too). So she’s ever-so-gracefully sloshing her cocktail, much to the amusement of the martini inventor—1 part precarious glassware, 1 part straight alcohol, dash of high heels, mix well and watch fall over. Long story short, she’s willing to do pretty much anything to keep his interest up and he’s willing to do pretty much anyone to keep his interest up (so to speak). Inevitably her evening of Sex and the City becomes Screwed in the Bathroom, and then she sits by the phone for two weeks waiting for him to dial the number she shoved in his pocket as he leapt out of the cab. Apparently these Corporate girls aren’t as smart as they think they are because they play this same game every Friday and Saturday night as if their lives depend on it, and all I can say is that when your wash-rinse-repeat dating cycle hasn’t gotten you any closer to an alter, then it might be time to get a new shampoo.
While getting a guy to ask you out is not always easy, it is not the most difficult task you will undergo; actually dating him, now that may be the hardest thing you ever do. Truly, God has the most acute sense of humor. First he makes us social creatures, then he makes our parts complimentary, and then he creates DNA. It’s not that women are from Venus and men are from Mars (no matter how much we’d like to return them there sometimes), the truth is that we are simply programmed differently. The difference in the X and Y-chromosomes is just that tiny little leg of the X missing from male DNA—unfortunately that one small piece contains all the communication functions and any sort of social graces. Fortunately for those one-legged wonders, they also aren’t burdened with basic relationship comprehension skills that might require them to communicate effectively in social situations that don’t involve beer and scoreboards. This genetically handicapped DNA makes it impossible for a man to remember to call in a timely fashion, prioritize his relationship with his girlfriend above his relationship with his golf clubs, or comprehend how “quality time” might not always include Sports Center. And truly, all they need to do is Act Right—it is really not that hard. And don’t look at me like you have no idea what that means, ‘cause everybody knows your momma taught you how to Act Right: call when you’re supposed to call (though not after 10 p.m. on a school night), say what you’re supposed to say (“I’m sorry” works in basically any situation), and don’t talk with your mouth full (perhaps not as important for this situation, but still good advice).
Now I am not saying that all men in New York are assholes (my gay friends are quite considerate), nor am I claiming that only men in New York behave this way. To be sure the Y-chromosome is just as moronic the world over. However, the population distribution being such as it is, New Yorkers do encounter more of the chromosomally challenged on a daily basis, as it’s just a matter of numbers. Many assume the numbers would work for women in New York, but they are clearly just Sex and the City fans in Iowa who have never seen a man dressed for work in a suit or tasted a cosmopolitan, ‘cause neither are all they’re cracked up to be. Let me break it down for you: there are about 8 million people in New York City. For simplicity’s sake, say 50% percent are women, so we’re at 4 million men. At least half of those are gay, depending on what time of night it is and how much they’ve had to drink, and just go ahead and forget about anyone living in the boroughs ‘cause I can feel the hives start halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge, and we’re at about 1 million. Now of these one million, two-thirds are married and of the third that are left, a quarter won’t do because they are illegal immigrants, alcoholic –workaholics, actors (code: waiters), or other various undesirables. The remaining 150,000 or so are mostly Corporate guys, whom we have already eliminated, leaving us about 200 decent and eligible men and over 3 million single women. Thus, attractive, intelligent, independent females find themselves temporarily insane waiting for phone calls, emails, and passing glances from overgrown frat boys who’d rather guzzle beer with their buddies than pick up a phone, even for the possibility of sex, which is given away freely for the chance to sleep in his one-room piece o’ crap apartment instead of in the converted living room she shares with two other girls. It’s no wonder sex-toy stores are so prevalent, but what boggles the mind is why, after all this time, the Y hasn’t figured it out. No, better, why hasn’t the X? One could argue the free drinks and occasional dinners, especially in a city as expensive as New York, but after all the effort of finding the guy, getting the guy, putting up with the guy, and then losing the guy, and the crying and the complaining over the loss of what—some jack-ass with little more to offer than a ride on his Metrocard? No thanks honey, if all I’ve got to look forward to are 12 ounces of beer and 12 months of therapy…I’ll buy my own drinks from now on.
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