The next night I am sitting around, doing nothing, the telly is on, I am debating if I want to read a book or go for a walk. Breathe in some fresh New York air, watch the traffic crawl across the GWB.
The phone rings and I look at the number, a 718 area code. Hhhmm. I decide to forgo the walk and see who is calling.
“Hello?” I ask. “Hey, Desi Girl, it’s Flyboy, is this an okay time to talk?” he asks. “Sure,” I reply. “So how are you?” he asks. “I am good, thanks,” I reply. “So what do you do for fun?” he asks. Ugh. Sometimes I dislike this question as much as I dislike my chubby thighs. Do you really share all your hopes and dreams with a perfect stranger who cyber grilled you last night on your area code’s validity? Sometimes I wonder if I over share and scare men away. Or maybe the men just don’t have the moxie to keep up with me? Or perhaps in a past life I was a dreadfully awful mother and wife that in this life I am destined to be neither.
“I volunteer,” I reply. “Really?” he sneers. “What is that tone?” I ask. “I don’t meet a lot of desi girls who care about anything other than their clothes and shoes,” he says. “I care about those things, and my nails – but I also care about my fellow man, woman and child,” I snap back. He roars with laughter. “That is great! I like a girl who pushes back,” he says. Oh, really? Because Flyboy has not seen anything yet! “And for the record, I have several do-good desi girlfriends. Maybe you have fallen into bad company,” I suggest.
“I think you might be right. So what else do you do?” he asks. “I work out, eat with friends…” I reply. “What else?” he asks. “I don’t know – arts and museums,” I reply, rather surprised that I cannot remember my own hobbies. “So how long have you been on this site?” Flyboy asks. Scratch that, I detest this question more than “what do you do for fun?”
“Long enough to date some interesting fellows,” I reply. “Tell me the highlights,” he says. “You mean lowlights?” I ask. He laughs. “Let’s see there was Reindeer, I think he was gay. Then there was the Banker, who is now my friend – who tells me he is not gay and dresses better than I do…” I share. “The Banker is gay,” Flyboy says. “Then there was Mr. Moustachio who had a moustache that was part Hitler and part Magnum PI…” Flyboy is laughing again. “Then there was the hefty cardiologist…who else…”
“Any bald guys?” Flyboy asks. “Yep, a few of those, but I don’t care about that. Looks only need to be attractive enough to the beholder.” “Hhhmm, you’re different than most desi girls,” Flyboy says. “What does that mean?” I ask. “They are all chasing the dream…” “Upper Middle Class in the Suburbs?” I ask. “That’s right,” he says. “I like the City,” I reply. “Me too,” he says. “Where do you live?” I ask. “Long Island,” he replies. “And that’s not the suburbs?” I ask. “I am really close to Queens,” he says and then seems annoyed."It sounds like you are selling the same dream," I reply. "I am not and I am close to Queens - one town over," he argues.
“Well I’m a City girl,” I reply. “We’ll see,” he replies in a tone that reminds me to keep my guard up with him for the next few conversations.