"I think I need to get better at dating," I told Zach on Saturday night. We were sitting across the table from each other in my kitchen in the complete dark, save for two lit candles and the bottle of wine we were splitting in front of us. It sounds romantic, but Zach and I do this often in the most platonic, bromance-y way possible since his job has given him access to a fully-stocked Spanish wine closet. Also, to the horror of anyone who has stepped inside my tiny Manhattan studio on a hot July night (which, really, is basically only Zach), I do not own an air conditioner. Or a fan. As Zach and I were drinking the $50+ bottle of wine in my hot apartment, I was in booty shorts and a sports bra, he wasn't wearing a shirt and we were both sweating so profusely we were holding frozen bottles of water to our foreheads as we sipped out of my IKEA glasses with the price tag still on them.
So, yeah -- not romantic at all. This is just what it's like to be 23 and slightly poor in New York City.
Zach, for the record, also thinks I need to get better at dating. This is mostly because he believes every time I say something wrong to one of my dates, I ruin his chances for acquiring another straight male friend. (This is probably based on the story I told him about how after a guy I'd been seeing kissed me for the first time, I pulled away and, for some reason, said, "I'm not going to stab you, BUT…", then proceeded to talk for five minutes about why I think stabbing is probably the worst way to die).
The fact that Zach thinks I'm terrible at dating is somewhat hilarious because he has hijacked more than one of my dates. A few weeks ago, in what was a severe lapse of judgement, I invited a guy I'd met to join me for dinner with Zach and our friend Liz for what would potentially be our second date, even though the last time I'd brought Zach along on a date with me, we'd ended up at a death metal concert in Bushwick.
When my date and I showed up at the restaurant at 9, I could tell Zach had probably been drinking, partly because we've been friends for so long that I can tell these things immediately, but mostly because before I'd even sat down, he announced, "I've been drinking since 5."
Also, he'd taken a selfie of my date and posted it on social media, so that kind of gave it away, too.
Despite this, the dinner between the four of us was going pretty well and we all seemed to be having a good time talking about a wide variety of topics over margaritas and tortilla chips. My date fit into our group with ease -- with so much ease, in fact, that I think Zach forgot he had only known this man for 20 minutes and not his entire life. That became evident when our food arrived.
Our waitress came and placed meals down in front of three of us; Zach, fairly intent on his margarita when we'd ordered, hadn't bothered to get food. Now that the food was on the table, though, it was clear he was regretting his decision. While our waitress went to go grab us utensils, Zach stared across from me at my rice with more longing than I've seen reunited lovers exhibit.
While the three of us were all staring at Zach staring at the rice, Zach apparently thought he was invisible and, in what he thought was not obvious at all, but definitely, definitely was, he proceeded to reach directly across the table to grab my entire plate of rice. Highly pleased with himself, he then went to go eat the rice, but soon realized the only person at the table who currently possessed utensils was my date.
Oh, yes.
Leaving me with mixed feelings of hilariousness and horror, Zach once again reached across the table, then ate all of my rice.
In less than a minute.
With my date's fork.
And, he thinks it's my fault I'm bad at dating.
The next morning, I was leaving for Boston at 8 a.m. A little before my bus left, I was paying for my hangover/bus-riding essentials (water, Power Bar, Jolly Ranchers) at Duane Reade, when I get a tap on my shoulder.
It was Zach and, though we both looked as if we'd split 19 margaritas between four people the night before (because, we had), it was obvious to me I had more memories from the evening and was going to need to refresh him about what happened at dinner. As he walked me to the bus station, I gently recapped the night for him, then bought him a coffee because I honestly thought he was dying, though I couldn't tell if it was from the hangover or embarrassment at the realization he had very graphically mimicked for my date what a bad kisser looks like the night before.
"I liked that guy, though," Zach told me, right before we parted ways for the weekend. "I want to go on the third date, too."
I informed Zach he'd lost out on date privileges for awhile and he has, though I still believe the fact there was a third and even a fourth date after the fork incident is an actual miracle.
Which brings us back to Saturday night -- after purchasing four bagels for a dollar and macaroni salad that was questionable at best, Zach and I clamored into the back of a cab on our way to Chelsea and picked up our conversation.
"I'm not even saying I want a boyfriend," I told him, simultaneously shoving half a bagel down my throat. "All I want is someone to eat ice cream with while holding hands in the park."
And, that's actually very, very true. Since late March, when the snow started to melt and I began to discover I live in a fairly sweet place on the UES, I've thought often about how just absolutely adorable, if not slightly sickening, it would be to do that exact activity. Unfortunately, while I've been casually dating a lot of doctors, none of them had yet suggested this as something we do.
Zach and I finished our bagels and conversation while we paid the cab driver, then headed up to our friend's apartment in anxious anticipation of both a good evening and access to an air-conditioner.
The rest of the night is a blur in the way that some alcohol-fueled summer nights are. We popped a bottle of champagne, celebrating the fact our friend Abby just got an awesome new job. I rapped Kendrick Lamar on a stool with the bartender and got a man's number solely by using "King Kunta" lyrics, which hands-down was the proudest moment of my night and, possibly, life. Then, I proceeded to lose that man's number when I also lost my phone by leaving it in the back of a cab at 3 a.m. (least proud moment of the night and, possibly, life).
As I sat in a cab with no phone on my way back to the UES, I tried to think of how I was going to get my phone back. Probably due to the champagne from prior in the evening, I couldn't think of anything -- so, instead, I had the driver drop me off at the bodega by my apartment, purchased a terrible coffee, and watched the sunrise on the East River by myself for half an hour.
Then, I promptly went up to my apartment, sent Zach the following Facebook message and fell asleep.
“Yo, I left my phone in a cab, can you call the [expletive] out of it until someone answers? When you wake up, can I be really [expletive] annoying and possibly make you come here to track it down with me? [expletive, expletive, expletive] Sorry. I’m the worst. See you soon, k, bye.”
It is a testament to our friendship that when I finally woke up, all I received back from him was "I'm coming your way now," to which I responded, "BAE," even though I'm really not entirely sure what that word means still.
Zach did call the [expletive] out of my phone and someone did answer -- it was my cab driver and he was NOT happy. Turns out, he works the night shift and all of Zach's incessant calling at my request was not working out well with his napping schedule. He promised Zach nothing would happen to my phone and he'd come return it to me whenever he woke up.
At this point in the day, I was in a coffee shop by my apartment and, also, pretty sure I was actually dying from the amount of champagne I'd consumed the night before. I ordered a sandwich and coffee, and with sleepy eyes, turned around -- to run directly into a sweaty, shirtless Zach. He had LITERALLY ran to me in my time of need. I almost cried and it wasn't even noon yet.
And, so it is in this way that our Sunday morning became very similar to our Saturday night. Because my cab driver was sleeping until 6 p.m., Zach and I had quite a bit of time to kill and we once again found ourselves seated across from each other in my apartment, splitting bottles of wine.
This went on for a few hours and a few bottles of wine. I'm not sure if we decided to leave my apartment because we'd drank all the wine or because the frozen water bottles we were once again cooling ourselves down with had completely melted, but either way, Zach and I decided to grab a picnic blanket and another bottle of wine to head into Central Park. (Again, not as romantic as it sounds). But, before we'd reached Central Park or even a liquor store, we became distracted at Bar Coastal.
To give you a sense of how easily we are distracted, Bar Coastal is a sports bar literally a block from my apartment. Zach and I have only been to Bar Coastal one other time and, I won't get into the exact details of it, but in a celebration of both the Colts game and Martin Luther King Day, we somehow had a bar tab close to $500 before 10 p.m.
So, yes -- it's a dangerous place for us to be together.
Obviously, we went inside.
"I did a bad thing," Zach informed me as I came back from the restroom and sat down across from him.
Almost immediately after the words were out of his mouth, our waitress came over and placed a gigantic bucket of Rolling Rock on our table. I looked at the bucket, looked at Zach, then looked at our waitress, who smiled and walked away. As Zach reached into the cold, ice bucket, he handed me a beer, then said "Oh, also, I forgot my wallet."
Zach sent this photo to all of our friends, stating that I was the "least adult" since I lost my phone in a cab, knowing I couldn't even defend myself because, you know, my phone was still in West Harlem.
Two-and-a-half Beer Buckets later (we'd convinced the waitress to give us extra beer because we accidentally spilt one IN the bucket, leaving us with an odd number of cans and a massive dilemma) and one phone conversation with Zach's mom where we had to once again explain, "Yes, we're at the bar at 3 p.m. and no, we still aren't dating," my cousin and her boyfriend arrived to have dinner with us. I hadn't seen Jenna and Kyle in a few months, so the day that had started out terrible at 3 a.m. was actually turning about to be quite lovely. Plus, Jenna was able to get this rare footage of Zach and I chasing down my cab driver once he'd finally woken up and driven out to the UES to return my phone.
I cried.
After my phone was miraculously returned to me, I honestly felt as if I could do anything though, again, this may have been due to the multiple Beer Buckets. The four of us decided to celebrate even further by getting ice cream but, as it began to get later, we split up -- Jenna and Kyle heading back to their apartment and, somehow, Zach and I ending up walking next to the water in Central Park, casually eating our ice cream cones and taking in the view of the city, recapping our strange, wonderful day.
And, like with everything we do, it sounds more romantic than it actually was. Once again, Zach was sweating and shirtless. I had ice cream pretty much all over my face, hair and purse because I apparently turn into a two-year-old when given a Chocolate-Peanut-Butter cone with sprinkles. The only time we held hands was when Zach literally had to pull me out of the way of a homeless man slapping himself.
Still, it was pretty great. So, even if I'm maybe bad at finding an actual boyfriend, I'm lucky enough to have a friend like Zach who will devote an entire day to searching for a lost cell phone and, you know, drinking wine.
But, don't worry, everyone -- we're still #notdating.