The morning of my Dr.-Froggy-in-Philly-date finds me in a wild panic. I leave for India in eight days and my to-do list seems to grow daily. Clean my apartment (in case my plane crashes I don’t want anyone to think I was a slob). Buy my toiletries (American shampoo, conditioner, lotion, deodorant and toothpaste). Buy a bottle of perfume for my massi (maternal aunt, she’s like a second mother to me and I have not found anything fitting for her) and I also have to get a couple of lipsticks for my other massi. Then I have to hold my mail, clean out the fridge and freezer, finish some volunteer projects, and pack. Dad has opened an office in New Delhi working on a parking ramp design contract and asked me to bring him a laptop. Oh and Kehar Singh (Post 4) wants me to buy tequila and vodka and leave it with his sister. Thank goodness the liquor stores and wine shops are open seven days a week in New York.
There is a small part of me that thinks I should spend my day packing, not gallivanting via Amtrak to Philly, but it is too late to cancel and I pull my black, sleeveless, will-not-wrinkle, Ann Taylor Loft dress over my head. The nice thing about this dress is that for $50 I look SENSATIONAL. I truly think anyone can look amazing all the time, as long as they dress the body they have, not the body they think they have.
Because I have started to have chronic pain, a dull throb in my left foot (which may or may not be due to my shoes, I should ask Dr. Scholl) I grab black slides to wear from my apartment to Philly. I will slip into my strappy sandals before dinner. I lock the apartment and venture out to Penn Station, board my train and three hours later I’m in Philly.
With ease I find Dr. Froggy and we hug. He’s in his blazer again and has done date planning. “So I thought we could go to Independence Hall and then see the bell before dinner,” Dr. Froggy says. “Sounds great,” I reply and belt myself into the passenger seat of his BMW. I am VERY thankful he left Kitten, the Porsche, at home. “What time are dinner reservations?” I ask. “I didn’t make any,” he says. Whaaaaat? I googled Buddakan in Philly. It is T-H-E place to go, hot and happening. And on a Saturday night how does he think we’ll get a table? Oh well, maybe Philly dining is not a combat sport like Manhattan, and I stop caring. Mostly because I cannot control what I did not plan.
We see the sights and as it gets dark, I change my shoes and we head off for dinner. Buddakan in Philly is as nice as Manhattan, though the hostess is a little snottier than I would have thought. I presume customer service exists everywhere but New York City. As I suspected, with no reservation on a Saturday night we have a two hour wait and make our way to the bar. Dr. Froggy and I sit and chat over red wine. “Should I order an appetizer?” he asks. How sweet. “None for me thank you. I won’t be able to eat dinner if we snack.” He nods and we continue talking about his house and I give him ideas to how to expedite the construction of it. A part of me wonders how someone so smart could have made such a colossal misstep in negotiating with the contractor.
After dinner he drives me back to the train station and while I find him nice, I don’t feel butterflies and bells. But I caution myself against fireworks. Mad lust with Town and Country sent me on an emotional roller coaster ride. “So, we should meet up again,” he suggests as we walk into the train station. “Sure, when are you free?” I ask. “I’m not on call next weekend,” he shares. “I’ll be India,” I remind. Mental note to self, nice but does not listen. “But let’s catch up by phone before I leave?” I suggest. “Sounds good,” he says and with another hug I board a Manhattan bound train.