I duck out of the dark subway tunnel and walk along the sunny side of 81st Street towards Riverside Park, hoping Tapan will be “the one” --- or “the one, close enough”.
I am so ready to be done desi dating, especially since I have intermittent worry that I may end up alone, a crazy cat lady with no cats. Then again, I have been single so long that I wonder if I can function in a relationship. Maybe I have more in common with Town and Country than I thought. Maybe we both have attraction towards one another but lack the ability to compromise and make a relationship work. And this is why we act like brain-dead buffoons around each other.
Luckily, most days I am an optimist who longs for days of companionship, a life of we rather than me. I would prefer to have dinner, on a dining table, with a husband, rather than eat take-out sushi on the floor of my bedroom in front of the television, by myself. Then again, desi dating is a two-way street and I find it unfair when the aunties try and pass of their lack luster sons as catches. When I meet someone who is described as athletic and he turns out to be a 250 pound, 5’-7” man, I wonder if his mother is blind, delusional or drunk. Or perhaps auntie was hoping I was blind, delusional and drunk so I wouldn’t notice that her son outweighs me two-fold.
And by no means am I shallow. Yes, I’d like a man to be fit rather than half way to diabetes before he turns 40. But who cares about hair and height, if a man is confident and brilliant. I want someone to get me, to challenge me, to know me. I’d love to meet someone who let me run down the street, but knew when to pull me back before I slip on the ice. Someone to make me laugh and a voice to comfort my worries. And with what I'm enduring with desi dating, I'm wondering if “the one” might not be desi. Why else is this so hard for me when 1 billion desis have mastered the groom hunt? Maybe I'm doing what Einstein warned against, that the very definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.
Sometimes I do think being desi is part of my problem. When I run into aunties at the grocery store or the Roseville Target they tell me all sorts of things like. “My Pinky is a genius.” “My Ruby is a doctor.” “My Bubbli is a millionaire.” The problem is Pinky has book smarts and no life skills and gets lost looking for the loo without hubby’s help or GPS. Yes, Ruby is a doctor, but she’s a Ph.D. And Bubbli MARRIED a millionaire. I find this desi mentality frustrating at times because I allow myself to negate my own accomplishments. I am an educated, well-functioning member of society. So what if I don’t tote Louis Vuitton bags and wear Manolos, and maybe I never will, but the boots and bags I wear, I can afford.
As I wait for the light at Broadway to change, a girl with purple hair walks by and it reminds me to be who I want to be, who I need to be. This is the joy of NYC, she accepts everyone as they are. You want to have purple hair? Great, welcome! Desi Girl, you are single? Fine, be bold and fabulous. Be you and don't concern yourself with what others think.