Two hours after I posted my blog last Tuesday evening, I was walking next to the Flatiron Building after finishing an intense yoga class while talking to my mom on the phone. She sounded terrible -- she'd been sick and losing her voice for the past few days, part of the job risk included in working at an elementary school full of cute, but germ-y children, I suppose -- but, on top of that, she was highly, highly concerned with the material I'd just posted to the Internet.
For those of you who didn't have a chance to read my latest writing, it was about how I went on the actual worst date of my entire life, simply because at the end of the night, the man wouldn't take no as an acceptable answer. As a woman, it was a horrifying experience. And, during my conversation with my mother, it was clear my words had transferred that exact horror directly to her, all the way back in Massachusetts.
"I just don't think you should go on any more dates," she told me in the high-pitched, broken voice her laryngitis had left her with. "I think you should just wait until you meet someone in a cute way, like running into them in the park and accidentally tripping or something."
Though it's clear my mother knows me and my clumsiness well (I'm honestly shocked I have not met someone in this way yet), I gently reminded her I'd met Jamie through a "Meet Cute," when we shared a table at a tea shop and talked for two hours. That experience had led to me ending up at a death metal concert in Bushwick and, also, him driving me home with a lit candle in the car.
From the other end of the phone, there was silence... though, this time, I would attribute it less to the laryngitis and more to the fact my mom has no idea what to make of the men I've been dating since moving to New York City over nine months ago.
Obviously, I understood where my mother was coming from -- I was blessed with awesome parents who just want to keep me safe, so I'm sure the confusion they feel when reading about dating situations I've found myself in is very real, especially when I forget to give them any prior warning before posting my writing for the entire world to see. But, because I am apparently not super good at listening to all of my mom's life advice (and, also, have little-to-no desire to go running in Central Park), I ended up going on another date last Thursday, less than 48 hours after the phone conversation in Flatiron had taken place.
And, this time, it was a date with not one, not two, but three absolute, complete strangers.
My mother was not amused.
The way I found myself on a date with three men who I'd never met or had any interaction with whatsoever really boils down to just one thing, one common element for how I end up in these ridiculous situations -- and, that would be Zach Groth.
On the same Thursday Pope Francis took a tour of my neighborhood, I received a text from Zach that simply just said "Wine." He'd actually sent me this exact same text on Monday night, but I refused to come over since we'd spent the weekend celebrating both Chelsea's birthday with a margarita tour AND an America-themed party in honor of Alberto, Chelsea's boyfriend, receiving his green card.
On the Monday Zach had sent the original "Wine." text, I informed him I was pretty sure half of my blood was now made of a combination of tequila, vodka and Jell-O and would not be participating in any consumption of alcohol for at least five days.
Zach is not very good at counting and thus, the Thursday night text.
But, it's almost impossible for me to resist good wine -- a fact Zach knows well -- and, so I showed up at his apartment immediately after work. While he was pouring me a glass, I started talking to his roommates, Michelle and Mallory, who were looking at Michelle's phone in interest at an app called Grouper.
Grouper is kind of like Tinder, but kind of not. Basically, whoever has the app will swipe left or right to determine who they are attracted to or interested in. But, unlike Tinder, instead of sending messages to when you match with someone, you pick a date and time both people are free. Then, the guy brings two friends and the girl brings two friends and it's a giant group date with absolute strangers at whatever bar Grouper chooses for you.
I thought it sounded awesome.
Michelle had just matched with someone and was selecting a time both her and the guy were free when I'd arrived at the apartment. Obviously, Mallory was going to go with her, but once they picked the date, they needed one more girl to actually go with them for the following Thursday. This not only sounded like a fun and hilarious way to meet people, but it was also literally a blog post waiting to happen.
Obviously, I said I would join them.
Right after I'd committed to going on the group date, I started receiving text messages from a woman named Challen, who was basically the personal assistant designated for our meet up. I'm not entirely sure if Challen is a real human being or a robot, but either way, I decided we were going to be best friends, mostly because she was texting me more often than my mother does (and Gina texts me every day at 2:22. That's the time I was born and she's really adorable).
I was at work the day before the date getting coffee with Chelsea and simultaneously receiving text messages from Challen about what bar I was supposed to meet the guys at. Challen sent me the link and, when I clicked on it, I was shocked to find it was actually a really nice, semi-fancy place.
This was concerning for me for one reason only -- I now had nothing to wear.
Almost every time I go to a bar, I wear my black high-waisted, ripped skinny jeans I'd bought specifically to meet Jamie at the death metal concert. This is because, despite the fact my friend Drew told me I look homeless when I wear them, I like the way they look. (Also, I spent way too much money on them to only wear them once in Bushwick). But, now that I knew we were going to a place that served truffle nuts soaked with rosemary as an appetizer and had a $17 cocktail referred to as "The Last Word," I was at a loss.
Luckily, Chelsea is the best person ever and, from her sheer memory of my closet, virtually dressed me, a thing she's been doing since my sophomore year of college when I was going on a lot of dates with a hipster in a band and never knew what to wear. Because of this, I showed up to work the next day already dressed for my date in black tights, black heels and one of my many, many rompers.
Though our date was supposed to start at 9 p.m., I didn't get out of the office on Thursday until 9:10. We'd been having incredibly frustrating technical difficulties at work, so by the time I'd hopped in a cab and showed up to meet Michelle and Mallory outside the bar, I'd had absolutely no time to even think about the situation I was about to place myself into. I was just worried about being late. If you don't show up to a Grouper date, you have to pay for the other people's drinks -- a bill that easily could come out to over $100. Between that and the feeling I had somehow broken TIME magazine, I was having a lot of anxiety. But, luckily, when I arrived at the bar Challen had told us to go to, the two girls were patiently waiting outside and the three of us walked inside together, not knowing at all what to expect.
What I've found is going on a Grouper date is a lot like being part of a secret club. We had to approach the hostess and say whatever code word my BFF Challen had sent to us... which, in this case, was "Percival." I felt a little dorky, but also very elite and cool -- it was a confusing combination of feelings. Once we'd told the hostess our secret word, she gestured to three guys sitting at the front of the room, then led all six of us to our own table in a corner of the back of the dimly lit restaurant.
And, so, it began.
We were all getting along well -- though very different from guys I usually date (see: tall, skinny hipsters/30-year-old skateboarders/men with defined cheekbones who are probably gay), they were attractive, nice men with actual jobs and interesting stories. At some point early on in the night, we started going through where we were all originally from, a question I attempt to avoid at times because most people in New York cannot even fathom where Idaho is and the amount of potato jokes I've heard in my lifetime is unreal. But, eventually, it was my turn and, after the initial shock I've learned to become prepared for, the guy sitting across from me told me I was the second person he's ever met from Idaho.
Jokingly, I asked who the first person was, insinuating I would know them since Idaho has next to no people in comparison to Manhattan.
I should have known better.
Because the world wasn't tiny enough when I was unknowingly dating Michelle's childhood best friend or when I was going out with both my yoga instructor AND his friend, it turns out of course the only other person the man I was now on a group date with had ever met from Idaho is my friend, Jonas.
This put me in a strangely pleasant mood (probably because I'd just watched the film Serendipity, honestly) and after we'd had a few rounds of drinks as well as an impulse buy of appetizer fries, one of the guys suggested we go to a club across the street. I was more than down to go for three reasons: I thought all of them were really interesting guys, I'd had a long week at work and, also, I don't work on Friday's, so yeah, I was ready to go dance until whatever hour of the night because I could wake up on my couch at noon on Friday with absolutely no consequences. (I really do have the best job ever).
Everyone else also agreed it would be fun to go, and, as we entered the establishment, I was immediately transported back to Muncie, Indiana, circa 2013.
Oh, yes, everyone -- I was back at Dill Street.
Dill Street, like most of the bars that were around while I was in college, no longer exists. I'm 99% sure this is because they were sued when someone somehow accidentally cut the tip of their finger off while sitting on one of their chairs (???), but it could probably be attributed to a number of reasons, one of which is the fact they allowed actual crabs on their floor for drunk college kids to race. (Somehow, this never struck me as odd in college). It was quite the place and I spent quite some time there -- so much so I feel we should just take a moment of silence for our memories (or, lack thereof) at Dill Street.
I listened to a Spotify college playlist quite loud while I was getting these photos together in a Starbucks on the Upper East Side and the women behind me discussing the sheer amount of jewelry they acclaimed after their divorce were not amused. It's never been more obvious I don't fit in in my neighborhood.
Anyway.
My happiness at being back at a dirty bar with remix jams and tiny drinks served in miniature plastic cups was probably inappropriate for how old I am now, but I was having a fabulous time. It turns out one of the guys used to be a bartender there, so it was easy to get served in the crowded club and, when one of the other guys suggested we all head to the dance floor, I was ecstatic.
Here's the thing -- I'm a good dancer. I was a captain of the varsity dance team in high school and, in college, my best friend Anna and I were such convincing Zumba instructors for Halloween one year, people literally thought we were actual professionals when we taught a "class" in the middle of a party. (Our obsession with drunk Zumba also once made us cause an actual scene at one of my sorority informals. "Turn Me On" by Nicki Minaj came on and a circle of 97 shocked sorority girls and their dates surrounded us while we performed the moves we'd learned in our real Zumba class that week. It's hands-down one of my favorite college memories).
But, somehow, despite my 16 years of classically-trained dance lessons and hard-core, four year dedication to Zumba in college, my dance moves do not transfer over into clubs. Instead, my moves when dancing at bars are more reminiscent of the time I fell off the stage at State my freshman year of high school and tore all the ligaments in my right ankle, combined with a lot of shoulder shrugging and a move I'd probably refer to as "Raising Da Roof."
Luckily, one of the guys we were with dances exactly like me. The two of us were in the middle of the dance floor, making what was likely a spectacle of ourselves when one of the other guys began to gyrate profusely. This made more sense after he'd informed me he used to be a male exotic dancer, at which I immediately went to the restroom, where it took me approximately a thousand years to both take off my romper as well as text Chelsea this piece of information in all caps. (She told me she was unsurprised I'd gone on a group date and basically found myself in Magic Mike).
Eventually, Michelle and Mallory had to go home because they do work on Friday, but I was having such a good time with the guys who'd been strangers a mere few hours ago, so I decided to stay for one more drink. Shortly after this, I looked around and realized all of the boys, save for one (the exotic dancer), were very, very drunk.
Of the four of us left at NYC Dill Street, three of us lived on the UES, so our original plan was to split a cab back. We'd put the sole guy who lived on the LES into a cab alone and, while waiting for the next car to arrive, I was thinking to myself how absolutely bizarre, yet wonderful the night had been.
Then, while one of the two remaining guys began to literally throw up on the sidewalk, the other one kissed me, which was by no means the most romantic kiss I've ever received at all, but very fitting for the end of a blind, six-person date. While I was pleased with the kiss, I was much less pleased with the vomiting and, so, took my own cab back to my apartment, where I promptly fell asleep and woke up on my couch at noon with absolutely no consequences.
Though I don't work on Fridays, I still have a pretty set routine. It's not very exciting. It basically includes doing all of the basic household chores I'm very bad at, like laundry and cleaning my apartment, then going down to Flatiron to take class with my favorite yoga instructor. Then, after class, I go to the tea shop across the street from the studio -- coincidentally, the one I met Jamie at -- and get a tea or cider while I write for at least an hour. I've found it's an incredibly relaxing way to end a hectic week.
When people ask me where my favorite area in Manhattan is, I always respond almost immediately with the Flatiron District, but what I really mean is the two-block radius next to Madison Square Park that encompasses my yoga studio and this tea shop. Not to be one of those people who only talk about yoga, but I've had the strongest practices of my life at the Flatiron studio and all my memories there, even the ones where I feel like crying in the middle of class, are positive. I have the same exact feelings about the tea shop as well.
Oh, and also -- the tea shop is magical.
My "Meet Cute" with Jamie was incredible, but it was made even more amazing because I had immediately come from CrossFit, was disgustingly sweaty and looked like I'd just been run over by a biker on 5th Avenue, mostly because I had just been run over by a biker on 5th Avenue. When he -- an attractive guy wearing all black and a beanie with hints of a possible man-bun underneath -- approached me, then ended up asking me out after our conversation, I was more than pleased, but also in actual shock.
Again, this confusion of what people find attractive happened another time at this tea shop when I came there directly after class without showering. The man in front of me turned around because I had literally dripped sweat onto him... but, instead of being completely disgusted, we started chatting about yoga and how he was a lawyer and how he'd love to come to class with me sometime.
Seriously -- magical.
Strangely enough, last Friday night was no different. I was sitting with my cider (now served to me in an actual glass cup because the employees recognize my Friday evening routine) in a corner, wearing sweatpants, my old sorority sweatshirt and no make up while writing and trying to come up with the correct words to describe my group date from the night before.
Here's why that was hard:
I decided I'm a huge fan of Grouper dates, especially if you want to meet interesting, new people who are clearly down for some sort of adventure or are interested in becoming BFF's with a robot named Challen. But, at the same time, it's confusing. I'm a friendly person and want to interact with everyone as a way to maximize relationships, but while on a six-person group date, I was unsure as to if I was just supposed to focus on one of the guys or talk to everyone.
Though I sincerely hope my awkwardness comes off as quirky, there's no doubt I felt confused in the situation. Also, I'd realized at one point in the night, I had very much gotten up in one of the guys faces while rapping Kanye West on the dance floor, a move I'm still not sure is 100% appropriate for a first date. And, while my date had ended with a kiss, I'd gotten all of the guys phone numbers, so how was I supposed to proceed from here? On top of that, how was I going to explain this on the Internet or, even more perplexing, to my mother?
I'd been there for awhile, silently contemplating this, when a voice to the left of me asked "What book is that on your table?"
I turned around and the Spanish version of Zayn Malik was speaking. (Anyone who has ever read anything on my blog knows how big of a deal this was to me). At this point, I was so overwhelmed by the similarities between this human and Zayn, I actually couldn't even make real words as I attempted to explain what Barbara the Slut, the collection of short stories I'm currently reading, was about.
Then, in what is the most deja vu I have ever experienced, I proceeded to ignore my writing and Barbara the Slut and, instead, talked to this man for two hours -- the exact same way I'd met Jamie in the exact same location.
And, just like with Jamie, Zayn-lookalike and I talked about everything -- we covered such a vast amount of information about each other in such a short period of time and had such a good time conversing, we hardly realized the tea shop was about to close... which, is how I found myself, once again, with my yoga mat at a bar.
Though I'd planned on leaving Flatiron on that Friday around 8 p.m., my impromptu date with Zayn-lookalike left me arriving back on the UES at 2 a.m., satisfied with both the two Lagunitas I'd consumed as well as the promise of a second date later this week.
Because, you know what? Dating in New York City is really, really hard -- especially for someone who is more interested in being in bed at 10:30 almost every night during the week. (I'm 86, it's fine). It was reassuring to me I was able to meet someone in real life and make plans and go on a date without the reservation help of either my BFF, Challen or the stylist help of my (real, non-robot) BFF, Chelsea.
So, maybe, I'll go on another Grouper date and perhaps there will be more kissing and less vomiting and probably an equal amount of Kanye West. And, maybe someday, I'll even go running in Central Park and inevitably fall into another human being. And that will be adorable and predictable and I'll be able to call my mother and say, "Yes, you were right."
But, until then, you can find me in Flatiron -- I'll be sitting with my yoga mat, writing, in my magical, magical tea shop.