When I first arrived to New York City, I immediately began dating. My twenties were a season of playing it safe. Content with the man that was right in front of me. Unaware that the investments I was making in my youth would not pay off. And I learned quickly, this city leaves you wanting more and more.
What had I missed not dating in the past decade?
What were the perks of being single?
So, I decided, I was to live in my own little movie. Voluntarily creating stories with a varying cast of characters every week. I was coping. A much needed distraction from the unwavering pain of losing everything I believed to be mine—
My first Friday, an icy evening in January, I went out with a filmmaker in Greenpoint who pursed me while I was living in Los Angeles. A few days later, I was sipping expensive negronis with an Italian man on a rooftop bar in Williamsburg. A couple days after that, I was kissing a Michelin Star chasing chef at a Nolita dive.
And just like some modern rom-com, each man I met, I collected their name into my notes app. My version of a little black book. An immortalization of my sweeping clean slate. All my friends knew about it. My conquests and crushes and potential enemies were each given code names. Blessed with bylines and cheeky anecdotes regarding our time together. Line by line serving as a reminder of what I liked and what I despised in these interactions. It was for my own amusement. Sugar coating my grief by running from the past, and avoiding daydreams of the future.
Dating in this city is about perception. You decide when it becomes miserable.
My initial heartbreak was concealed by my flirty tactics and chameleon-like nimbleness. I avoided certain subjects: Weddings, dogs and previous relationships. Spoke vaguely on my time living on the West Coast. Occasionally, I would slip. My secret lingering between my martini teeth. There was a sticker shock when my date finally learned the truth (whether I told them, or they stalked my public internet persona). Blood leaving their faces white. Suspicious eyes. A finished glass sweating with ice.
My brain was rewiring to not take it personal. I was not looking for anything serious. Dating was an opportunity to learn more about myself. And I was grasping slowly, that it is normal for people to come and go into your life with little to no explanation. People are not things you can hold onto.
And I was having fun!
Baby lawyer. Classically pretty. Father owned beach clubs in the South of France. Dressed impeccably. Spent way too much $$$ on me.
NBA coach. Lunched me at Sant Ambroeus before his game at Barclays. High-fived one of his players when he caught us on the street in SoHo.
Sweetie pie surgical resident. Did not like him, but took him on a double date with my best friend because I thought they could be a good match.
My Italian fake boyfriend. The first man I had feelings for after my ex. He was looking for a mother not a girlfriend. 6’4, FUNNY AND WELL-EDUCATED!
Pretentious Lower East Side architect with the dead eyes. Insane downtown loft that he gut renovated during Covid.
CNN journalist who smoked me out and took me to the Natural History Museum. Soft spot for his unbridled optimism and native New Yorker charm.
Wannabe hockey player divorcee. Called me an entitled bitch after I joked “You have to buy me dinner, if you want to sleep with me.”
Putting myself out there was never going to be my problem. I probably need the opposite advice. The me now, tries her best to sit back. See who comes to her first-
Raya. Hinge. DMs. Making eyes on the train. Flirting with strangers in dimly lit corners. Kissing in the back of cabs. Late night dinners in red leather booths.
I was aware my carefree demeanor would have an expiration date. I was not boy crazy, but was addicted to the diversion.
A few months later, spring arrived to Manhattan. I moved uptown to a small studio on East 85th. As the days crept longer, the air became heavy, ushering in a sticky unexpected sadness that I so desperately tried to evade. It followed me in the shadows of Central Park. And late at night in the vents of my air conditioning. I hated being alone. And the plot of my real life insistently appeared more like a film, as the messy details of my ex’s betrayal continued to surface. I wanted to skip this! And, the only part of the narrative I could control were the places I went to and the people I met. So, I took a break from dating. No apps. No prospects. My summer blurring into a montage of drowning hangovers, and oversleeping and sobbing under yellow streetlights. I felt crazy. But I had to face it. Stop searching for the missing pieces of myself in the mouths and fingers tips of strangers.
Eventually, autumn found its place in the city. And so did I. Clarity came with a shock of confidence. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I was ready to gamble again. And like I said, this city leaves you wanting more and more-
Another date to the Met, chatting about siblings, and vacations and university with the audience of Monet and Degas. Another night alone at a downtown bar leaving with multiple numbers saved in my phone. Another gym session, staring down the Travis Kelce knock-offs while I sweat on the stairmaster. It felt easy to allow men to distract me. And more code names were added to the list-
One evening on the Upper East Side, I was chatting up a film producer who was visiting from Los Angeles. He squeezed me in between screenings with his east coast team. Corny live jazz soundtracked the club. My head was hurting from a third glass of red wine. He walked me home, arm and arm, down a tree line street. White Christmas lights strung between the bare branches. Reaching and reaching towards the city skyline. He grabbed my hand, pulling me close to kiss me. It felt like snow could come at any moment. He whispered, “This feels like a movie. Your life must feel like this everyday.”
I pulled away, faking a smile. Noticing now, that my nose was running and the frigid wind actually stung my face raw. He was not wrong. But I realized, these men were using me for their own plots as well. I was the mysterious, broken, cool girl. And whatever character they needed me to play that evening (their girlfriend, their lover, their mistress), I performed, almost dutifully.
It was not a film to me anymore. This was my real life.
We got to the front door of my walk-up. “This is me.” He gave me puppy dog eyes, wishfully hoping I would ask him up. I pecked him on the cheek and thanked him. “Next time I am in the city, I will let you know”. Of course, he wouldn’t.
I was tired of being an idea to men. I was tired of being an idea to myself. I was tired of men being ideas and stories saved on my phone. New York was not just some backdrop to imprint my fantasies onto. It was my actual life now. And that night in December, I realized I was ready to fully live in it. My brain is talented at spinning stories out of nothing. But that creates a distance. Protecting me from fully experiencing it. Boredom came from the falsifications of intimacy that appear in casual dating. I wanted more for myself. Disinterested in shallow, detached connections. I realized bravery was required. Firm boundaries needed to be established. I was stepping into uncharted territory-
I still have the little black book in my notes app. I don’t add names as often as I did over a year ago. I know one day, I will laugh when I write my future partner’s name on the list. But for now, there are no expectations on the outcome of my story.
You sound very similar to me… it’s definitely a journey, the dating game… loved reading this 💕
“Dating in this city is about perception. You decide when it becomes miserable.” - this lineee 👏🏻👏🏻 feel it similarly in LA