A few weeks ago, after coming back from a successful night at Barfly, I sat in a cab on my way back to the Upper East Side and decided to make a list of reasons why I didn't have a boyfriend. I'm not quite sure what prompted this, but it may have been because I'm mostly kidding, yet actually sort of serious about finding one with an air-conditioning unit before summer in NYC really hits. This is based solely on the fact I think Arthur will become more likely to kill me as the heat progresses and, also, because the other day I was grocery shopping, heard that Jason Derulo song "Want to Want Me" for the first time and honestly thought he was singing about an air-conditioned apartment for at least the first 35 seconds.
Anyway, here are the three reasons my cab driver and I came up with as to why I have not bothered to find a significant other in the six months I've lived in New York City. (Sidenote: I LOVE talking to cab drivers about life. Once, on a drive crosstown, my cab driver told me all about how he was studying history to prove the Titanic didn't really sink. He was very into conspiracy theories. As we pulled up to my destination, he said "And, don't even get me STARTED about 9/11," to which I almost asked him to keep driving, but then I knew I'd end up spending my entire day in his cab and I definitely did not have enough money for that. Perhaps the fact I'm more enamored by cab drivers than acceptable men to date is another reason why I do not have a boyfriend.)
1. I am bad at Tinder.
I'm not going to lie to you and say I don't have a Tinder because, yeah, I totally do. I don't think I utilize it correctly though because I kind of hate the idea that I'll find my future significant other by staring at my iPhone. I have gone on exactly one Tinder date and, after he told me some highly inappropriate things, I was so horrified that I've gone back to using the app solely for the novelty of seeing who I have connections in common with in New York City.
Really, though, I think I just haven't grasped or adapted on how to date within today's society. There's so much access to a person at all times -- whether that be through constantly contacting them via their phone or stalking them on all forms of social media. We get mad when a guy doesn't text back, but is liking photos on Instagram. We analyze every tweet. We click through all their profile pictures, wondering if he's still in love with the girl who he's posed with in 2008. It's absolutely exhausting and I've learned I don't have the time or energy to devote to that because I hardly have the time or energy to devote to things that matter, like cleaning my stove -- a thing I learned is very, very important the other night when I accidentally set part of my kitchen on fire (again).
I recently went to Chicago to visit some friends and we were talking this over after having dinner at a bar where someone had recently been murdered. (I added in that fact in case you didn't think I had any street cred). That conversation made me truly realize how different dating today is than when my parents or, especially, my grandparents got together. They were writing each other letters and waiting days to get in a quick phone call and they definitely weren't getting bombarded with inbox messages so provocative I feel they are inappropriate to put on my blog, a place where I once wrote an entire story about my cat potentially being sexually assaulted. I tried to tell my cab driver about this, but he insisted it was probably because my Tinder profile picture alternates between me in the bear suit from Workaholics and now, this photo of me accidentally strangling my friend Abby's cat, George. So.
George is not a huge fan of being held by me.
2. It is actually impossible to come up with a clever username.
My feelings about my lack of success at Tinder-dating trickle down over to the world of online-dating, though to be fair, I've never actually tried it. This is 98% due to the fact I could not think of an acceptable username and 2% attributed to the week I decided to try it, someone stole my apartment's Internet, basically rendering me useless.
When I was in seventh grade, my parents decided I was old enough to have my own email address and, before I committed, I spent days trying to decide what was witty, fun and encompassed my personality into the online world. Every night for two weeks, I'd sit down with my tiny notebook after dinner and brainstorm possibilities until, finally, I made my official choice.
I chose DancingDiva and it is still one of the most embarrassing facts about me.
That was ten years ago. When I grew out of my "DancingDiva" phase, I switched my email and all subsequent usernames thereafter to some rendition of my first and middle initials combined with my last name. I was planning on banking on this for basically the rest of my life, until one night after a few margaritas with Chels and Zach (I feel like that's how a lot of stories on my blog begin…), I decided to sign up for online dating because I was bored and maybe (read: definitely) a little bit tipsy. But, when it came to actually inputting a username on whatever dating site I'd chosen, I was at a complete loss. I couldn't use my normal handle of "jrprandato," because the Internet is a scary place with scary people and I did not want those scary people knowing my last name or, really, finding out anything about me. But, even though it's been a decade since I came up with "DancingDiva," it turns out I am still pretty terrible at putting together an acceptable username -- so much so that I deemed the task impossible and promptly went to bed instead. Considering that inputting a username is literally the first step in finding an Internet boyfriend, it's safe to say I am a failure at online dating.
My cab driver wholeheartedly agreed.
3. I'd rather be doing yoga.
Since moving to New York, I have skipped out on an absurd amount of dates to instead spend 90 minutes in an 105 degree room. This is because my idea of a perfect weeknight is practicing yoga with my favorite instructor, then drinking tea and writing either letters or blogs until my bedtime of 10:30 hits.
I know -- I'm a 75-year-old woman.
It's no secret I've become re-enthralled with Bikram Yoga since moving here. I tell pretty much everyone I've ever met and, in an act of true commitment, even ventured to Times Square, my least favorite place in the entire world, to participate in a celebration of the Solstice by practicing Bikram with 1,600 other humans. I have eased up from my old routine of practicing Bikram two times a day, though. (As it would turn out, my doctor didn't necessarily think it was good for me to be spending 3+ hours a day in that hot of a room 14 times a week). But, I have gotten to the point where if I don't participate in my favorite instructor's class at least three times a week, I feel at a complete loss. Not to be dramatic, but this is because I pretty much consider him to not only be my yoga leader, but also my therapist. I've never actually been to therapy, but I imagine the end result feels as satisfying as I do laying in the final savasana of his class. Because of this, I refuse to make plans during any of the practices he is leading which, of course, are at prime date-night times.
So, according to my cab driver, all of these could be valid reasons why I don't have a boyfriend. Or, it could be because when I do go on dates, I have a tendency to also bring along Zach and Chelsea.
Despite what everyone and their mothers (and, also, our mothers) think, Zach and I are not romantically involved in any way, shape or form -- although, in the spirit of full disclosure, I will note that we did kiss once briefly at Dill Street when I thought he was someone else and was also intoxicated enough to give my number to the guy who served soup at The Atrium, causing the remainder of my senior year to be filled with a panic whenever I tried to order the chicken and rice soup in AJ. But, because everyone always thinks we're dating, including the man who thought we were involved in a domestic dispute, Zach and I cannot go anywhere alone together if we want to get hit on -- which, we do because we are very poor 23-year-olds who enjoy free drinks.
So, in a move that made absolutely no sense, I decided to drag him and, also, Chelsea, on a date with me… to a death metal concert.
#notdating
The entire ordeal, which could come to be known as "The-Time-We-Thought-We-Were-Going-to-Die-In-Bushwick," started awhile back when I met that skateboarder in a tea shop. He'd told me about his book release party, sent me the dates and, despite it being a month in advance, I officially committed to meeting him there.
Then, I found out the band was named after an STD and, also, would for sure be characterized under the genre of very, very heavy metal. This is when I discovered that I was afraid to go to a sketchy bar in Bushwick alone at night and that I have really, really good friends because Chelsea and Zach both said they would go with me, even though Zach had to catch a flight early the next morning and Chelsea was certain we were going to be killed.
As the date of the party approached, I started to get kind of nervous because I was positive we were not going to fit in. In the first place, as a general rule, Zach refuses to go to Brooklyn. He doesn't think he's hipster enough, which is actually a pretty accurate statement and Chelsea and I are from Idaho, a place that is likely as opposite as possible from the grungy, death metal experience we were preparing for. Also, I live on the Upper East Side and, while I do not consider myself an UES girl by any means -- when I moved here, I started watching some episodes of Gossip Girl to see if it reminded me of my life and, honestly, the only person I identified with is the girl who says she "never wants to hear a Flo Rida song again" -- I was fairly sure my address was definitely going to take away all the street cred I'd earned by eating at the murder bar on my Chicago trip.
Two days before the show, I decided to Google image search the venue. I should not have done this. The photos showed a lot of head-banging, moshing and were all doused with a red tint that vaguely reminded me of a horror film. I kid you not, actual tears came out of my eyes at work because I was laughing so hard at trying to imagine Chelsea, Zach and I there. I sent the photos to Chels and, after further deliberation and realization we owned no appropriate death-metal clothing, we made the decision not to go to Bushwick.
Sidenote: working with my best friend is simultaneously the best and worst thing to ever happen to me because obviously, we get to spend a ton of time together which is amazing, but also, we get to spend a lot of time together at LOFT on our lunch break, which is amazing, but not so much so for our bank accounts.
And, I really had made up my mind about not going until I sent a text to the group titled "Professional Bad Ass Motherf***ers," a text created over a year ago when half of us were graduating from college and were desprately trying to find snacks during the ceremony. Since we've graduated, the group text has really not progressed much -- mostly, it's us asking each other important questions, like "Are chips too loud to eat in a quiet office?" or "Are we yuccies?" or, in this case, "How do I tell this guy I can't make it to his party because I'm afraid of being trampled to death in Brooklyn?"
I explained the situation and got a large amount of responses ranging from the skull face emoji to "But, is he hot?" The text that really changed my mind though was from my friend Meggy, who only said "It WOULD be an experience…. and a great story." Zach, who is also part of the "Professional Bad Ass Motherf***ers," and I met up for drinks at (of course) Barfly later that night and, before I'd even sat down, we'd looked at each other and realized that Meggy was right.
We were going to go to Bushwick for the story… and, Chelsea was coming with us.
The next day was Friday, the day of the release party and, thank God, my day off, so I was able to devote an inordinate amount of time to finding an appropriate death metal outfit. I think the fact I found my outfit at Top Shop is a sentiment of how ill-prepared I was to attend the show, but I eventually settled on a pair of black high-waisted skinny jeans with so many holes in them, my friend Drew later told me he thought I looked like a homeless person. But, as I was purchasing them, I looked down at the label and saw the brand name of the jeans were called the same name as the skateboarder (!!!), so I took this as a good sign and left the store with a significantly less amount of money and a significantly more amount of black clothing.
That night, I showed up at Zach’s apartment and he immediately handed me a glass of wine before I’d even stepped all the way into the door which is how most nights at his place now begin. Zach started his new job the same week I started at TIME and one of his clients is a Spanish winery, meaning he has unlimited access to a fully-stocked wine closet. Him having this job is straight up the best thing that has happened to me since moving to New York City, but because of this, we were definitely the only people who were pre-gaming the Bushwick death metal concert with fancy wine in Gramercy Park.
Chelsea arrived at Zach’s and, once we’d drank enough wine to convince ourselves this was actually a good idea, we got on the subway to Bushwick where it became apparent we were not cool enough to go where we were going. Everyone on the subway was a real hipster and, at this point, we hadn’t even made it into Brooklyn yet. It was clear we were highly unprepared for whatever we were getting into.
So, there we are, the three of us on the train -- me in my ripped jeans, Zach in the only black shirt he owns (he had come out of his room originally in a bright pink buttoned-up shirt and Chelsea and I yelled at him immediately to change), and Chelsea in a flowered romper, because she had been really planning on Zach and I flaking out of actually going through with this. But, laughing really hard at the absurdity of the situation we were entering, we got off at the subway stop that was going to take us to either the death metal bar or, you know, to our death.
Once we got off in Bushwick, our first problem was actually getting to the bar because, I'm not sure if you've ever met Chelsea and I, but we are absolutely horrible at directions. One time in college, Ball State was playing IU at the Colts stadium and we somehow stretched what should have been a little over an hour drive into a two-and-a-half hour affair. Like, literally, we got to the game so late, they didn't even take our tickets or want to hear our explanation about why we had accidentally gone to Greenfield, Indiana, instead. After that incident, I've relied less on my sense of direction and more on Google Maps, which really just led to us losing whatever coolness factor we'd had in Brooklyn when my phone kept telling me loudly to keep turning to the right until, eventually, the three of us ended up facing the death metal bar.
Which, didn't look like a death metal bar at all. Actually, it was kind of cute. There were people dining outside on the terrace, sitting below lights that strung all around and gave off a much calmer ambiance than the photos I'd seen when I Googled the place a few days before. We walked inside feeling much, much better about the situation and, although the place was definitely dive-y, it was dive-y in a way where we were pretty sure we weren't going to be stabbed and/or trampled.
I grabbed us beers and text the skateboarder to see where he was at while Zach went to the restroom. At the same moment I received a text back that said something along the lines of "Come on in through the big door," Zach came back from the bathroom looking just absolutely terrified. While he tried to explain the atmosphere of the restroom to Chelsea, I scanned the room trying to locate wherever "through the big door" was and, when I found it, I'm pretty sure I looked as scared as Zach.
As it would turn out, "through the big door" was literally referring to the big door to the left of the bar, where a large man with very scary tattoos was granting people entrance into what we deduced from the sounds coming out of it was actually the death metal concert. And, according to Zach's reaction, the bathroom was much more representative of whatever was waiting for us behind that door.
Chelsea and I were both too afraid to actually use the bathroom, but luckily, Zach took a panoramic.
The three of us looked at each other and, without a word, I turned around and ordered more beer because it was clear we were not going to be able to enter that room without some more liquid courage. Then, in a move I still don't fully understand, but definitely fully appreciate for the story, Zach, Chelsea and I intertwined hands, closed our eyes and led a small prayer group before we headed over the large, tattooed man.
As soon as we walked in, the noise was absolutely deafening and there were lots of people thrashing their heads about in ways that looked harmful for the neck. I locked eyes with the skateboarder and immediately darted away to talk to him because finding a familiar face in a place like that is truly a beautiful thing. When I located Chelsea and Zach shortly after, they were squeezed in between the band and the bartender, both looking shellshocked and more than slightly horrified, though in Chelsea's case, I couldn't tell if this was from the heavy metal or the fact Zach had just taken a selfie.
The flash went off and it's safe to say Chelsea and I both thought it was where we die.
To say we didn't fit in would be a vast understatement, but by that point, I'd found the frozen margarita machine and was getting advice from the bartender about where in Brooklyn is the best place to get a septum piercing, so now we were pretty committed to the scene.
We tried our best to blend in with the crowd, but as it turns out, whipping your ponytail back and forth as if you are Willow Smith in front of the stage is not the best way to blend in at a death metal concert. (Chelsea has photos on her phone of this that I never want the world to see). As the night died down and we realized our ears might actually be bleeding a little bit, I made future plans with the skateboarder, then linked arms with both Chelsea and Zach as we left the bar, thanking them approximately a million times for coming with me to the scariest place they'd ever been.
Then, somehow without realizing that this brick wall had an entire screaming face on it, Chelsea and I forced Zach to take photos of us and we left Bushwick the same way as we arrived -- laughing absurdly at our situation and experience and glad we came for the story.
I wrote some of this blog right before I went out with the skateboarder again. I had met up with Zach for a drink (or two) at (obviously) Barfly before the date because pre-gaming dates is what real friends do. Right before I left, I invited him to come along with me -- he'd come to the first one, at this point it only seemed right to bring him on all subsequent dates.
#notdating
Understandably, he refused, though I think this is less because he didn't want to go to Welcome to the Johnson's, but more because he wants me to find a boyfriend so he can have a straight male friend to hang out with and he was scared that showing up on my date with me might kill that vibe.
As it would turn out, though, the skateboarder and I approach dates very, very similarly. When I arrived at the bar we'd agreed on, he was there with his friend (meaning, if Zach had come with me, he would have met not one, but two straight male people to befriend). I'm pretty positive this was because his friend is visiting him for the next month and not because he was afraid to meet up with me by himself, but you know, you can never be too sure. On my way home, I considered running the situation past my cab driver, but I was too exhausted and, instead, we sat in silence -- all the way back to my un-airconditioned apartment.