Last night I decided to be a grown up and attend an exhibition
opening at MoMA. I was trying, I really was - I even did all the
necessary grown up prep-work. I washed my face in the bathroom sink at
work –blotting it dry with paper towels like any normal self-respecting
employee, put on my LBD in a stall, applied my red lipstick painstakingly in a
Starbucks sugar dispenser, and arrived fashionably late after a rather graphic
transition from flats to heels on the subway. Did I mention I had a date
meeting me? I told the lady at the door my name and she checked me off on
her iPad guest list like I was somebody. I mean...she didn't have to know
my dress was from American Eagle clearance rack and I paid for my hair pins in
change 15 minutes earlier at the drugstore...I was now among an elite modern
art crowd and I was determined to soak it all in.
After teetering
into the center of the cavernous lobby on my 5 inch heels, I hit the open bar
to wait for my date. I snacked on bacon strips ravenously....like a lady.
A ravenous lady. I was hit on by an older Frenchman in real estate
while I briefly imagined our life together in a Soho loft with a walk-in closet
of bought love. I quickly realized as I
did the math on our age difference that as much as I’d love to be a
gold-digger, I don’t have the stomach to take care of my bedpan-clad husband
when I’m rounding my 34th birthday – even if I’m doing it
Louboutins. I cursed morals. I almost spilled my wine. I gnawed on another 3 strips of bacon.
The exhibition itself included various portrayals of hamburgers,
one in bean bag chair form, and I left the gallery starved for beef and with a
deep-seeded desire to fall asleep on a LoveSac. Burgers. That reminded me! I missed Bob’s Burgers this
past Sunday. I checked Hulu on my phone
to see if there was a new episode. I think I sent a snap chat. I verbally expressed each free floating
thought (I blame the smell of modern art in the air) -- and yet my date stuck it
out. I even changed out of my sexy pumps
into my grandma flats in the middle of the street…And he still agreed to follow
me to a random gastropub in the middle of the worst part of Midtown where I proceeded
to order my craved sliders and talk incessantly about nothing at all.
Living in a city may nudge you closer to cultural experiences, but
it’s other pastime is to ensure emotional isolation. You’ve never felt more alone than when you
are smushed against 8.2 million strangers on your way to life. In the meantime
you get very up close and personal with yourself. I’ve embraced this with a vigor, apparently,
and I’m slowly morphing into a blatant carnivore as well as the little old lady
who hits people with her cane in grocery stores (except I’m not nearly as
endearing; I think the identifier for it at my age is “menace to society” or “psycho
bitch”). To top it all off I left one
black Calvin Klein pump at the bar a la a very brunette, tipsier Cinderella - for the record it fell out my bag,
but in New York it’s not at all uncommon to find yourself en route home on the
G train at 3 AM wondering why your barefoot is wet before realizing you lost your
sandal 5 blocks and one transfer ago.
Dating is exhausting. Living in the city is absolutely
depleting. Put them together and it’s
amazing I can stand. I’ve come to the
conclusion that in all instances, being inexcusably yourself is the only way to
avoid going absolutely insane or collapsing from sensory overload. So I’m going to eat an inappropriate amount of
bacon in an art gallery because I’m hungry.
And I really love bacon. And I’ll
sure as hell wear whichever shoes don’t make my toes want to fall off on a date
despite the fact they make my legs look like stumps. And these are things that the 8.2 million
people around me are just going to have to deal with.
