I’m chatting the typical “get to know you” stuff with Choco-man, who works for a candy company. Oh you’re an ABCD? Me too! Where did you grow up? Where is your family from in India? And while I am not learning anything exciting about him, I refuse to give up. Love is not like Time Warner’s “on demand” service, it takes time to cultivate.
From our conversations Choco-man grew up in the Northeast, went to school in the Midwest or is it the reverse? He also has a sister who is either a lawyer or doctor. Oof, I think the men and their details are blending together into one brown desi date. Either that or I contracted dementia from someone. Can you catch dementia like the common cold?
At any rate Choco-man and I meet on Friday, which happens to be Diwali (the Indian festival of lights), at an exhibit. Unfortunately an annoying, drizzle falls from the sky, which is better than a downpour. But either way I have to be careful and avoid sliding into the museum on my a**, bloomers a-showing, with a cocktail dress over my head, and my purse around my neck. Of course, since I arrive before Choco-man, I never needed to worry about my entrance.
Choco-man rushes in ten minutes later (black hair, brown eyes, medium build) apologizing for his tardiness even though he lives 2 train stops away. After touring the exhibit we’re starving and I suggest Thai so we can have vegetarian delights for our Diwali dinner as Hindus don’t eat meat on auspicious holidays. To which he is quite agreeable. Unfortunately our conversation lack electricity and we eat our pad thai and green curry in silence.
For a change I am completely okay knowing I’ll never see him again because he was SO nice and it was SO nice NOT to spend a rainy, Friday Diwali alone in a City that can literally tear you apart.
We say good-bye and I decide I am not in the mood to navigate public transport. With the flip of my hand I miraculously hail a cab in the rain and decide that is my Diwali present this year, a $25 cab ride and a stress-free commute home.
Upbeat desi woman outsources herself from Minnesota to Manhattan in search of love, and finds something more...
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
112. LOVE IS A LITTLE SHALLOW
Every man and woman is beautiful. God would not create us any other way. This is why I truly believe we all have a soul mate. For some, like me, it just takes time to find him.
However, as I surf the matrimonial site I am wondering what God’s plan is for the men whose dreadful photo-less profiles I find today. It may sound superficial, but I do need to know BEFORE we meet if you have a handlebar mustache like the Air India mascot or if you think Levis corduroys circa 1984 are fashionable. And when you write things like, “I'm excited to meet/see you." Or, "I love women”, you do not entice me. You scare me off in the manner of a dirty old uncle who lecherously stares at my boobs.
What I find even MORE surprising is that these men are INSANELY well-educated with Indian undergraduate degrees and American MBAs that land them PRESTIGIOUS jobs at Goldman Sachs, JP Morgan and Deloitte, yet their profiles do not remotely resemble eloquence. Don’t believe me? Read the following excerpts …
Man One: I'm intelligent, computer graduate working in sales for an MNC. --- that is ALL he wrote, nothing about hobbies, interests, sports or ANYTHING! What would my response be? I, too, am intelligent and have a job, wanna get married?
Man Two: Moderate, well balanced, Consultant, with clean habits. --- for the non-desis clean habits = no meat, booze, smokes --- that is my whole life --- pass!
Man Three:…looking for professional partner to care for family and house. Also my parents live with me during summer. I expect my wife to look after my parents. They come from traditional background, but are open minded. --- how open-minded can these people be if they expect a woman to work, cook, clean, and care for elders? This sounds like a desi oxy-moron or a really bad Bollywood movie.
Man Four: (a mother posted this profile her for her almost 40 year son): The right choice of girl is 27 - 31 with good moral values and respect for parents, a university grad as well as being able to navigate herself in the kitchen. Lighter skin, slim built, over 5ft tall. --- WOW! Even Nur Jahan didn't wait on her Muslim Emperor Jahangir back in Mughal India. This guy and his mother need to join us in this century. Or consider buying a robot.
As I log off the computer it strikes me, I could help these men in a few simple steps. First I’d upload their photos. Next I’d ghost-write their profiles to include full sentences. And finally (do not under-estimate the power of new threads and shiny shoes) I’d offer fashion tutorials where the acid washed jeans and Velcro sneakers are replaced with charcoal dress pants and loafers. This way we’d all be a little closer to finding THE ONE. Because, let’s be honest, love is about attraction, which makes it a little shallow.
What I find even MORE surprising is that these men are INSANELY well-educated with Indian undergraduate degrees and American MBAs that land them PRESTIGIOUS jobs at Goldman Sachs, JP Morgan and Deloitte, yet their profiles do not remotely resemble eloquence. Don’t believe me? Read the following excerpts …
Man One: I'm intelligent, computer graduate working in sales for an MNC. --- that is ALL he wrote, nothing about hobbies, interests, sports or ANYTHING! What would my response be? I, too, am intelligent and have a job, wanna get married?
Man Two: Moderate, well balanced, Consultant, with clean habits. --- for the non-desis clean habits = no meat, booze, smokes --- that is my whole life --- pass!
Man Three:…looking for professional partner to care for family and house. Also my parents live with me during summer. I expect my wife to look after my parents. They come from traditional background, but are open minded. --- how open-minded can these people be if they expect a woman to work, cook, clean, and care for elders? This sounds like a desi oxy-moron or a really bad Bollywood movie.
Man Four: (a mother posted this profile her for her almost 40 year son): The right choice of girl is 27 - 31 with good moral values and respect for parents, a university grad as well as being able to navigate herself in the kitchen. Lighter skin, slim built, over 5ft tall. --- WOW! Even Nur Jahan didn't wait on her Muslim Emperor Jahangir back in Mughal India. This guy and his mother need to join us in this century. Or consider buying a robot.
As I log off the computer it strikes me, I could help these men in a few simple steps. First I’d upload their photos. Next I’d ghost-write their profiles to include full sentences. And finally (do not under-estimate the power of new threads and shiny shoes) I’d offer fashion tutorials where the acid washed jeans and Velcro sneakers are replaced with charcoal dress pants and loafers. This way we’d all be a little closer to finding THE ONE. Because, let’s be honest, love is about attraction, which makes it a little shallow.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
111. ADVENTURES IN VOLUNTEERING
No one flinches when they learn I was in a sorority. Evidently I am “that girl” --- the one destined to wear letters, pomp and drink beer with boys. Unsurprisingly I’ve been asked once or twice if I liked “buying my friends” because I was paying money and dues to be a joiner. But I think, no matter what you do --- attend university, buy a house, open a J. Crew credit card, we’re all paying to belong to something (a college, zip code and rewards program).
And sororities are not only about boys and booze. By being a part of something bigger than myself I learned about my leadership skills, my limits, concern for my community and friendships that endure time and distance. I think that is why I continue to gravitate towards and flourish in women only service-orientated non-profits. I enjoy the structured camaraderie of volunteering, developing my skills, and seeing the potential in others. The fact that I made great friends along the way is an added bonus.
This is why I think Sex and the City was so popular. Superficially, sure, it was about men, Manolos and martinis, but the enduring friendships that were developed kept me coming back for more. And really, more than anything (marriage, man, money, mortgage) that is what my life lacks right now, girlfriends. So I am hopeful, just like in all my other incarnations --- college, after college and now New York --- I’ll eventually find some soul sisters through this volunteer organization. I am en route to my third meeting!
After the meeting I wave to catch Ainsley’s attention, she sees me, smiles and I walk over to her. She pulls her long wavy hair into a ponytail which shows off her perfect round face. Her fair skin is a striking contrast to her dark locks and gorgeous eyes. “Do you want to grab a drink?” I ask a little too hopefully because I literally see her teetering, wavering, debating, until finally she agrees.
We find a bar and drop our bags aside. Anywhere other than New York, two women in their 30s schlepping tote bags and over-sized purse might look like potential shop-lifters. In New York its how you tell the locals apart from the tourists.
And just like that our conversation catches a rhythm and we're chatting incessantly and almost finishing one another’s sentences. Why I don’t have first dates this great!?
And sororities are not only about boys and booze. By being a part of something bigger than myself I learned about my leadership skills, my limits, concern for my community and friendships that endure time and distance. I think that is why I continue to gravitate towards and flourish in women only service-orientated non-profits. I enjoy the structured camaraderie of volunteering, developing my skills, and seeing the potential in others. The fact that I made great friends along the way is an added bonus.
This is why I think Sex and the City was so popular. Superficially, sure, it was about men, Manolos and martinis, but the enduring friendships that were developed kept me coming back for more. And really, more than anything (marriage, man, money, mortgage) that is what my life lacks right now, girlfriends. So I am hopeful, just like in all my other incarnations --- college, after college and now New York --- I’ll eventually find some soul sisters through this volunteer organization. I am en route to my third meeting! At the last meeting I had a brief conversation with a really warm and genuine woman from Texas named Ainsley Ayres. Unfortunately she was on the verge of tears most of the night and ran out the door as soon as we adjourned. So tonight I am hoping to see if she is okay. Despite not really knowing her, I can tell something very overwhelming is going on her life. I recognized the look. I had it a year ago when I was living in my former spicy-icy-Indo-Nordic life.
We find a bar and drop our bags aside. Anywhere other than New York, two women in their 30s schlepping tote bags and over-sized purse might look like potential shop-lifters. In New York its how you tell the locals apart from the tourists.
“I have to get up early and am getting a cola,” Ainsley explains. “I’m getting a club soda,” I share. If we become friends I’ll tell her that alcohol was negatively affecting my already messed up matrimonial stars. (Post 65). There is no need to potentially scare her off now.
We order our drinks and she tells me she’s dating a fireman, loves her church in Harlem, works for a retailer, and refers to herself as a Recovering Republican, which makes us laugh and she relaxes. The stress from her forehead and eyes begins to release. When I talk about my lack luster job and life she shows empathy. Then I tell her my "Hindu woman on a desi groom hunt" story and she nods and says she appreciates how hard that must have been in Minnesota.
And just like that our conversation catches a rhythm and we're chatting incessantly and almost finishing one another’s sentences. Why I don’t have first dates this great!?
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
110. DESI GIRL AND THE BUS TERMINAL
I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to meet Dr. Balaji...God help me...at the George Washington Bus Terminal. I think it has something to do with him living in the Bronx and wanting to meet me in my neighborhood. The only problem with my neighborhood is that it lacks date spots. And I don’t want to go to Starbucks because (a) it is always over-flowing with patrons and (b) it is kiddy corner from my apartment. On the off chance Dr. Balaji from the Internet is a serial killer, he’s not the type of person I want knowing where I live.
In my designer jeans, black turtleneck and tall boots I stand in the center of the bus terminal looking for someone South Indian and doctor-like. I am also wondering the following: what kind of date begins in a bus terminal? Who suggests this? Who willingly agrees to this? And what the hell is wrong with me?
Normally I wait around for time challenged friends. But today I decide to enforce my tardy policy (leaving after 15 minutes) because I really don’t want to be here. To pass my time I pace back and forth, attracting the attention of a stranger who speaks to me in Spanish. I roll my eyes and defiantly say, “I don’t speak Spanish.” He then replies, “Come talk to me in English.” No thanks, I think and sit down on the other side of the terminal. To further avoid Spanish Stranger I stare at the clock and it tortures me, slooooooooooowly ticking towards 7:15 pm.
When I can no longer look at the clock I take note of the large, open, and un-exciting space --- faux marble floor, kiosks tucked in the corners, wooden seats and a barely audible PA system. Finally, at quarter past the hour I race out of the bus terminal, texting Jack and praying Dr. Balaji doesn’t show up at the last minute.
Text to Jack: I think he is a no show.
Text from Jack: We’re in Hell’s Kitchen. Get on the A train and text me when you get down here.
So I flee.
* * *
Twenty-five hours AFTER we were supposed to meet, Balaji rings and I let the call go to voicemail. If he had to perform a last minute surgery I’ll consider giving him a second chance. Of course I am wondering, how long, on average, does an operation last? Couldn’t he have called in the morning, or at lunch hour? I dial my voicemail and listen. “Allo, this is Balaji. Hoping you didn’t wait too long.”
Seriously? What kind of jackass doesn’t EVEN apologize for knowingly blowing a girl off? Does his mother know he does this? And for the love of Durga, warrior goddess of strength, empower me so I can do this all over again.
In my designer jeans, black turtleneck and tall boots I stand in the center of the bus terminal looking for someone South Indian and doctor-like. I am also wondering the following: what kind of date begins in a bus terminal? Who suggests this? Who willingly agrees to this? And what the hell is wrong with me?
Normally I wait around for time challenged friends. But today I decide to enforce my tardy policy (leaving after 15 minutes) because I really don’t want to be here. To pass my time I pace back and forth, attracting the attention of a stranger who speaks to me in Spanish. I roll my eyes and defiantly say, “I don’t speak Spanish.” He then replies, “Come talk to me in English.” No thanks, I think and sit down on the other side of the terminal. To further avoid Spanish Stranger I stare at the clock and it tortures me, slooooooooooowly ticking towards 7:15 pm.
When I can no longer look at the clock I take note of the large, open, and un-exciting space --- faux marble floor, kiosks tucked in the corners, wooden seats and a barely audible PA system. Finally, at quarter past the hour I race out of the bus terminal, texting Jack and praying Dr. Balaji doesn’t show up at the last minute.
Text to Jack: I think he is a no show.
Text from Jack: We’re in Hell’s Kitchen. Get on the A train and text me when you get down here.
So I flee.
* * *
Twenty-five hours AFTER we were supposed to meet, Balaji rings and I let the call go to voicemail. If he had to perform a last minute surgery I’ll consider giving him a second chance. Of course I am wondering, how long, on average, does an operation last? Couldn’t he have called in the morning, or at lunch hour? I dial my voicemail and listen. “Allo, this is Balaji. Hoping you didn’t wait too long.”
Seriously? What kind of jackass doesn’t EVEN apologize for knowingly blowing a girl off? Does his mother know he does this? And for the love of Durga, warrior goddess of strength, empower me so I can do this all over again.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
109. DATING DR. BALAJI
Snap out of it! I self-scold. I did not uproot my ENTIRE life to sit around sad and despondent mourning Reindeer who I know for fact is over me. I finally logged back onto the matrimonial site and saw he has been regularly accessing BOTH of his profiles. In Hindi I want to curse at him. And I hope he marries an ugly girl.
The matrimonial site lets me store “favorite” profiles in a folder so I contact a few men and log off. I eye my bed and consider crawling under the covers and disappearing for a few days. Since I work from home no one would really notice my temporary departure from reality. I could also stuff my face with Lay’s sour cream and onion potato chips. Yum. Of course then I will break out and have shiny skin like a seventh grader. Un-sexy. Instead I slide into my tennis shoes and walk to the Hudson River lookout point where I gaze at the GWB.
After getting fresh air I return home and find a missed call from one of the “favorites”. Wow that was fast! And I call him back. “Allo?” he responds between pauses. “This is Dr. Balaji.” Crap. I SOOOOOOO wanted for the next man to be perfect. Instead all my hope and good thoughts are crushed at the sound of his voice. His desi accent is very VERY VERY heavy and he elongates his “s” in the South Indian style. “Is this an okay time?” I ask. “Yes, great time, I’m eating,” he shares. “Should I call back?” I offer because I want to hang-up and never talk to him or anyone again. “No, no, tell me about yourself,” he mumbles.
I hate this question. Blathering on about myself makes me sound arrogant. And didn’t he read my profile? I detailed my interests --- art, architecture, theatre, books, cooking, eating. I almost ask him about himself but I don’t care to learn anything more and hope my self-promotion will drive him away while drowning out the sound of him chewing in my ear.
When I finish my diatribe he asks, “And what are you looking for?” Okay, scratch that, I HATE this question more the other. I never know how to answer it. In general I’d like a man who values education, family and ethics. And I want to be with a man who I find physically, emotionally and intellectually attractive. I know those constructs sound vague, but I know once I find THE ONE I will recognize how these pieces come together.
This is when I realize Reindeer was NEVER going to be THE ONE because he lacked emotional attractiveness. He never once asked about my goals, wishes and dreams. “Allo?” Dr. Balaji asks. Oh shit, Dr. Balaji still needs an answer. There is a teeny tiny part of me that wants to reply with, 'my illegitimate triplets need a daddy,' but I don’t think it wise and say, “I’m looking for a good person whose company I enjoy and whose values I share. “Me too,” Dr. Balaji says. “We should meet up.”
Great. The “triplets” and I are looking forward to it …
The matrimonial site lets me store “favorite” profiles in a folder so I contact a few men and log off. I eye my bed and consider crawling under the covers and disappearing for a few days. Since I work from home no one would really notice my temporary departure from reality. I could also stuff my face with Lay’s sour cream and onion potato chips. Yum. Of course then I will break out and have shiny skin like a seventh grader. Un-sexy. Instead I slide into my tennis shoes and walk to the Hudson River lookout point where I gaze at the GWB.
After getting fresh air I return home and find a missed call from one of the “favorites”. Wow that was fast! And I call him back. “Allo?” he responds between pauses. “This is Dr. Balaji.” Crap. I SOOOOOOO wanted for the next man to be perfect. Instead all my hope and good thoughts are crushed at the sound of his voice. His desi accent is very VERY VERY heavy and he elongates his “s” in the South Indian style. “Is this an okay time?” I ask. “Yes, great time, I’m eating,” he shares. “Should I call back?” I offer because I want to hang-up and never talk to him or anyone again. “No, no, tell me about yourself,” he mumbles.
I hate this question. Blathering on about myself makes me sound arrogant. And didn’t he read my profile? I detailed my interests --- art, architecture, theatre, books, cooking, eating. I almost ask him about himself but I don’t care to learn anything more and hope my self-promotion will drive him away while drowning out the sound of him chewing in my ear.
When I finish my diatribe he asks, “And what are you looking for?” Okay, scratch that, I HATE this question more the other. I never know how to answer it. In general I’d like a man who values education, family and ethics. And I want to be with a man who I find physically, emotionally and intellectually attractive. I know those constructs sound vague, but I know once I find THE ONE I will recognize how these pieces come together.
This is when I realize Reindeer was NEVER going to be THE ONE because he lacked emotional attractiveness. He never once asked about my goals, wishes and dreams. “Allo?” Dr. Balaji asks. Oh shit, Dr. Balaji still needs an answer. There is a teeny tiny part of me that wants to reply with, 'my illegitimate triplets need a daddy,' but I don’t think it wise and say, “I’m looking for a good person whose company I enjoy and whose values I share. “Me too,” Dr. Balaji says. “We should meet up.”
Great. The “triplets” and I are looking forward to it …
Monday, May 24, 2010
108. THE URBAN NOMADS OF MANHATTAN STRIKE AGAIN
Working from home is a curse and blessing for the same reasons. It’s nice to set my hours. But there are days when I sit at the computer from 7:00 am to 11:00 pm. While clad in pajamas, the first thing to touch my lips (after I brush my teeth) is coffee. But as a snacker having my entire kitchen at my disposal is not deal for my waistline. And as a people person spending this much time alone is not good for me.
So when my Urban Nomads, Meera and Rohit, need my help, I can re-arrange my schedule to align with theirs. And if you’re keeping track, in the 11 months I have lived in Manhattan, they are moving into their third apartment.
While I am happy to help them I am secretly hoping I will miraculously meet a new man as we unload the car. One who will see me from across the street and deftly dart between deliverymen and oncoming traffic to ask my name. He won’t notice my attire (yoga pants and Keds) or hair (in a ponytail) and insist I join him for coffee. Unfortunately I will have to politely decline. My very important task of car-sitting to avoid ticketing and towing will keep us part. Of course my loyal dedication to friendship and duty will only deepen his attraction for me. And magically after a scene change and dance routine, we fall in love. Clearly I have watched one too many Bollywood movies, but this vivid imagination is all that gets me through the rock bottom misery days.
And no, I don’t simply mean heartbreak or Reindeer rejection. I am not ready to abandon the tough Manhattan dating battleground, where the women out-number the men. Give me some time, but I’m plucky and will get back into the game. It’s just that this break-up with Reindeer has ignited something deeper, my self-doubt. Right now my confidence is a little rattled and I’m wondering what I’m doing with my life and who am I living it for.
When I think about all the years I spent volunteering, I should have been focusing on myself. If I had moved to New York 10 years ago, I could have avoided the colossal career missteps I made. Who says I have to marry desi? And now that I live in one of the most American states, I am haunted by my lack luster savings. Why did I think 12 was the number of black pants I needed? I only have one ass. I should have invested all that money so I could save it (my ass) now!
So yeah, most days it’s my vivid imagination getting me through the now. It has me envisioning a tomorrow where I have a career that fulfills me, a life that energizes me, friends who nourish me and a love that sustains me. It keeps the insomnia at bay. And if all else fails, I have to believe that this is my life and I can reincarnate it any time I want.
So when my Urban Nomads, Meera and Rohit, need my help, I can re-arrange my schedule to align with theirs. And if you’re keeping track, in the 11 months I have lived in Manhattan, they are moving into their third apartment.
While I am happy to help them I am secretly hoping I will miraculously meet a new man as we unload the car. One who will see me from across the street and deftly dart between deliverymen and oncoming traffic to ask my name. He won’t notice my attire (yoga pants and Keds) or hair (in a ponytail) and insist I join him for coffee. Unfortunately I will have to politely decline. My very important task of car-sitting to avoid ticketing and towing will keep us part. Of course my loyal dedication to friendship and duty will only deepen his attraction for me. And magically after a scene change and dance routine, we fall in love. Clearly I have watched one too many Bollywood movies, but this vivid imagination is all that gets me through the rock bottom misery days.
And no, I don’t simply mean heartbreak or Reindeer rejection. I am not ready to abandon the tough Manhattan dating battleground, where the women out-number the men. Give me some time, but I’m plucky and will get back into the game. It’s just that this break-up with Reindeer has ignited something deeper, my self-doubt. Right now my confidence is a little rattled and I’m wondering what I’m doing with my life and who am I living it for.
When I think about all the years I spent volunteering, I should have been focusing on myself. If I had moved to New York 10 years ago, I could have avoided the colossal career missteps I made. Who says I have to marry desi? And now that I live in one of the most American states, I am haunted by my lack luster savings. Why did I think 12 was the number of black pants I needed? I only have one ass. I should have invested all that money so I could save it (my ass) now!
So yeah, most days it’s my vivid imagination getting me through the now. It has me envisioning a tomorrow where I have a career that fulfills me, a life that energizes me, friends who nourish me and a love that sustains me. It keeps the insomnia at bay. And if all else fails, I have to believe that this is my life and I can reincarnate it any time I want.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
107. DESI GIRL AND DOUBT
Yes, oh yes, even positive, peppy like me have self-doubt. This is why I am wondering if I should stay in Manhattan. I mean, what if I run into Reindeer…on a date? I know the City is big, but I am not emotionally ready to see “her”, the new me, the replacement, ugh what if she is his “THE ONE”?
Then again, I cannot imagine moving back to Minnesota. Not that there is anything wrong with it. It’s just that I left for a reason. And I am not fickle or pathetic enough to abandon the beginnings of my Empire State of life because of one bad brown man.
With my one year Manhattan anniversary coming up, I think I’ve done okay. Outside of the collection of desi wing nuts I’ve dated, I renewed my apartment lease, mastered the City and met some new people through a volunteer organization.
For the most part my white hot hate moments for Manhattan are on the decline and generally my fault. Like the time aliens stole my senses and I went shopping at the Bronx Target on a Saturday right before they closed. Or when I boarded the D train NOT the A train after grocery shopping at Columbus Circle. Because both trains run along the same track for several miles, I didn’t realize my error until the conductor shut the subway doors and said, “Next stop, Yankee Stadium.” Talk about exercises in severe and psychological frustration!!! Aiy!
So I think what bothers me today is I don’t know WHY dumbo-head Reindeer and I broke up. (Obviously I have entered the “mature and refined” name-calling stage of relationship mourning). But I am consumed, wondering why he’d pass on a woman (me) who cooks, converses and doesn’t care that he golfs? On paper he said I was what he wanted. So what went wrong?
And honestly, I’m more mad at myself than anyone else. I started a war with my cousin over him. I built my schedule around him. I blew off friends to spend time with him. So I am ultimately responsible for how he treated the relationship, and subsequently me, like a Bed and Breakfast, checking in out and whenever he needed a date, shower or meal. Logically, intellectually, intuitively I know it’s better that he’s gone. Clearly, I wasn’t myself when I was with him because I wanted him to like me more than I wanted to be an equal.
So I must trust fate, God, and the universe for sending him away. I have to get okay that I don’t know why this happened. I have to accept that Reindeer was not THE ONE. I have to believe THE ONE is not only out there, but that he’s looking for me, like I’m looking for him. And when we find each other we’ll agree our love was worth the wait.
I have to hope and believe the best is yet to come. Otherwise, I won’t be able to face another day or desi date.
Then again, I cannot imagine moving back to Minnesota. Not that there is anything wrong with it. It’s just that I left for a reason. And I am not fickle or pathetic enough to abandon the beginnings of my Empire State of life because of one bad brown man.
With my one year Manhattan anniversary coming up, I think I’ve done okay. Outside of the collection of desi wing nuts I’ve dated, I renewed my apartment lease, mastered the City and met some new people through a volunteer organization.
For the most part my white hot hate moments for Manhattan are on the decline and generally my fault. Like the time aliens stole my senses and I went shopping at the Bronx Target on a Saturday right before they closed. Or when I boarded the D train NOT the A train after grocery shopping at Columbus Circle. Because both trains run along the same track for several miles, I didn’t realize my error until the conductor shut the subway doors and said, “Next stop, Yankee Stadium.” Talk about exercises in severe and psychological frustration!!! Aiy!
So I think what bothers me today is I don’t know WHY dumbo-head Reindeer and I broke up. (Obviously I have entered the “mature and refined” name-calling stage of relationship mourning). But I am consumed, wondering why he’d pass on a woman (me) who cooks, converses and doesn’t care that he golfs? On paper he said I was what he wanted. So what went wrong?
And honestly, I’m more mad at myself than anyone else. I started a war with my cousin over him. I built my schedule around him. I blew off friends to spend time with him. So I am ultimately responsible for how he treated the relationship, and subsequently me, like a Bed and Breakfast, checking in out and whenever he needed a date, shower or meal. Logically, intellectually, intuitively I know it’s better that he’s gone. Clearly, I wasn’t myself when I was with him because I wanted him to like me more than I wanted to be an equal.
So I must trust fate, God, and the universe for sending him away. I have to get okay that I don’t know why this happened. I have to accept that Reindeer was not THE ONE. I have to believe THE ONE is not only out there, but that he’s looking for me, like I’m looking for him. And when we find each other we’ll agree our love was worth the wait.
I have to hope and believe the best is yet to come. Otherwise, I won’t be able to face another day or desi date.
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