A few years ago the NYTimes ran an article about a group of commuters from Long Island. They had all been riding the same trains together roundtrip daily for over a decade, more or less because of similar work schedules and because they lived in close proximity of one another.
Every Friday afternoon on their trip home they'd celebrate. Celebrate making it through another week in their meaningless jobs, rejoice in the fact that they had dealt with their boss's vicious comments and outrageous demands for another five days. One girl would bring a bottle of wine, another would bring fresh bread from the hot baker she'd flirt with as she passed his store window daily. One of the business men assigned himself the weekly duty of picking up gourmet cheese, and his buddy would usually grab a six pack from the package store outside his office building.
But what was so unique about this gathering? None of them knew each other outside of their daily commutes-- they had all met after seeing each other regularly. Maybe they realized they were sitting next to the same people each morning or afternoon, or perhaps someone haphazardly spilled coffee on another person one day, prompting apologies and ultimately leading to a conversation. Who knows. The trajectory of events doesn't matter so much. They made friends with the people around them-- people who in the end they probably spent more time with each day than their own families.
I think about this sitation when I notice myself eye-raping that gorgeous man with the ultra-short brown hair on my subway ride each morning. Being the sicko that I can be, I've picked up on the fact that he gets on somewhere between three or four stops after me. I also know that he hops off the train one stop after me. I mean he must-- that's the train's final destination. Today though I got my hopes up and thought maybe, just maybe, he was getting off at my stop and I could happen to "bump into" him on my way above ground. Really he just stepped off to let a flood of people exit without having to maneuver around him. And that just made him that much more dreamy-- a guy with manners!
Now I'm not trying to imply a connection between the first part of this story and this man that I'm going to marry in about six years. (Yea, we're getting married and having three kids. Obviously.) Not at all. But what I am trying to say is how I'm starting to realize that these seemingly meaningless people that we see regularly maybe do mean something.
Take for example that disgusting couple who commutes together every single morning. They always wind up in my car. They're not disgusting because they're ugly or forgot to shower-- they're actually so lovey-dovey they probably already took two showers together this morning. Who knows, maybe it's out of some deeply repressed form of jealousy that I end up despising them, cringing at the very first sight of them at 7:43 each morning. Without without fail though, when I'm BBMing with S, she gets an abrupt message from me-- right in the middle of our morning conversation involving me coaxing her out of bed all the way from a million miles away-- that says "UGH, that gross commuting couple is here AGAIN."
Realistically, do I ever expect to approach Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome? Of course not. And am I ever going to tell that couple, the girl with her cutesy winter hats, the man with his rugged North Face backpack and scruffy facial hair, that on the surface I find them repulsive but I'm really hoping for happiness as simple one day in MY life? Again, of course not.
The story of the New York commuters represents a rarity-- something nice developing after years of potential misery on the Long Island Rail Road. The people I see daily-- well, they're not going to become my drinking buddies for 5pm on Friday nights anytime soon, but as weird as it is, after months these complete strangers have become fixtures in my morning routine.
Carrie Bradshaw once said that "It's romantic when someone offers me a seat on the subway." So for now it's important to notice the simple little gestures and then maybe in the future, if GOD FORBID I'm still doing this daily ten years down the line, the couple will do that couple-y thing, move to the suburbs and a new revolting pair will replace them. And I can do more than just intensely stare at my piece of eye candy. Hey, a girl can dream, right?
XOXO,
R.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
How Sarah Jessica Parker Ruined Our Lives
For those of you who don't know, R and I live in different cities and went to different colleges. We met when we were summer interns at a major news publication, and bonded while browsing through personal finance books at Barnes and Noble for an assignment. We became fast friends.
Midway through the summer, a friend of mine who was an intern at an event planning company managed to get me an invite to the launch party of an organic skincare line. When she told her boss I'd write something for the Style editor at my internship, she put me on the VIP list. I brought R as my plus one.
When we found out that the guest list included a few fashion magazine editors and Sarah Jessica Parker, we went into heavy planning mode. We spent weeks deciding on perfect outfits, what we would say when we met SJP, etc. When dress shopping, I kept thinking, "WWSJPW?" That's "What Would Sarah Jessica Parker Wear?" When the day finally came, we were both a bit on the nervous side.
The afternoon was off to a good start. A woman came up to me and said “Where’d you get that great dress that hides your bra straps?!” I thought to myself “Oh my God, are my bra straps sticking out?!” But it turns out they weren’t, and she actually liked the dress. Success. A bit later, another woman asked me who my dress was “by,” and I hesitated a moment, wondering if I should lie. “Oh, thank you, I just got it at H&M actually.” The truth. She was shocked—another good sign.
The theme of the event was "Sexy Green," so naturally, the "signature drink" was something green and fruity that didn't taste remotely alcoholic. I never know what to do with my arms or hands when I’m uncomfortable, so consistently having a drink in one hand helps. Except these drinks were literally gulpable, I was thirsty, it was hot outside—I could think of a variety of other excuses. I think R and I were both feeling a bit tipsy as time went on, but we stayed composed.
The end of the event approached, and SJP had not made an appearance. We were pissed. We had another cocktail, said our goodbyes, got our swag bags and left.
We were drunk and desperate for Pinkberry. We stopped at the one by R’s apartment to get our fix. As it always was in the middle of the summer, the line was long. It was clear we’d be there for awhile, so we began to debrief.
“Sarah Jessica Parker and I are SO over,” I said. I realize now how silly we must have looked— two drunk girls in fancy dresses standing in line at Pinkberry talking shit about SJP.
The man in line in front of us seemed to be pretty amused. He turned around and smiled, and I continued. “I even hate her character on Sex and the City. I’m done with her, she is an inconsiderate bitch!” At this the man turned around again and started laughing. We smiled back at him… he was really, really cute. When he turned to face the front again, R and I giggled quietly to each other.
We got to the front of the line and placed our orders, then moved to the end of the counter to wait for them while we talked more about our newfound hatred for SJP. R picked up where I had left off. “How do you just say you’re going to an event and then not go? That’s just rude. She’s Sarah Jessica Parker. If she says she’ll be there, people make special arrangements for her. Like if you’re not going, don’t say you are.”
The man turned to us again. “You two are funny," he said. We smiled at him while I desperately tried to come up with something clever to say. While the wheels spun in my head, the guy behind the counter called a name. It was his. He had two of them… Wow, he must be hun—
Right then, a woman came up behind him, put her arm around his waist, and took one of the containers from his hands. His girlfriend. Damn. I smiled at him one last time and turned to R with a frown.
All in all, it was a disappointing evening. No Sarah Jessica Parker, the love of our lives had a girlfriend—was there any hope for humanity?
But thinking back, I’m reminded of something Lo said to Lauren Conrad once on The Hills (yes, I am aware of the dangers of seeking wisdom in MTV reality television). I like to think of this whenever I know I’m feeling down.
“Eat your Pinkberry and enjoy life.”
Love,
S
Midway through the summer, a friend of mine who was an intern at an event planning company managed to get me an invite to the launch party of an organic skincare line. When she told her boss I'd write something for the Style editor at my internship, she put me on the VIP list. I brought R as my plus one.
When we found out that the guest list included a few fashion magazine editors and Sarah Jessica Parker, we went into heavy planning mode. We spent weeks deciding on perfect outfits, what we would say when we met SJP, etc. When dress shopping, I kept thinking, "WWSJPW?" That's "What Would Sarah Jessica Parker Wear?" When the day finally came, we were both a bit on the nervous side.
The afternoon was off to a good start. A woman came up to me and said “Where’d you get that great dress that hides your bra straps?!” I thought to myself “Oh my God, are my bra straps sticking out?!” But it turns out they weren’t, and she actually liked the dress. Success. A bit later, another woman asked me who my dress was “by,” and I hesitated a moment, wondering if I should lie. “Oh, thank you, I just got it at H&M actually.” The truth. She was shocked—another good sign.
The theme of the event was "Sexy Green," so naturally, the "signature drink" was something green and fruity that didn't taste remotely alcoholic. I never know what to do with my arms or hands when I’m uncomfortable, so consistently having a drink in one hand helps. Except these drinks were literally gulpable, I was thirsty, it was hot outside—I could think of a variety of other excuses. I think R and I were both feeling a bit tipsy as time went on, but we stayed composed.
The end of the event approached, and SJP had not made an appearance. We were pissed. We had another cocktail, said our goodbyes, got our swag bags and left.
We were drunk and desperate for Pinkberry. We stopped at the one by R’s apartment to get our fix. As it always was in the middle of the summer, the line was long. It was clear we’d be there for awhile, so we began to debrief.
“Sarah Jessica Parker and I are SO over,” I said. I realize now how silly we must have looked— two drunk girls in fancy dresses standing in line at Pinkberry talking shit about SJP.
The man in line in front of us seemed to be pretty amused. He turned around and smiled, and I continued. “I even hate her character on Sex and the City. I’m done with her, she is an inconsiderate bitch!” At this the man turned around again and started laughing. We smiled back at him… he was really, really cute. When he turned to face the front again, R and I giggled quietly to each other.
We got to the front of the line and placed our orders, then moved to the end of the counter to wait for them while we talked more about our newfound hatred for SJP. R picked up where I had left off. “How do you just say you’re going to an event and then not go? That’s just rude. She’s Sarah Jessica Parker. If she says she’ll be there, people make special arrangements for her. Like if you’re not going, don’t say you are.”
The man turned to us again. “You two are funny," he said. We smiled at him while I desperately tried to come up with something clever to say. While the wheels spun in my head, the guy behind the counter called a name. It was his. He had two of them… Wow, he must be hun—
Right then, a woman came up behind him, put her arm around his waist, and took one of the containers from his hands. His girlfriend. Damn. I smiled at him one last time and turned to R with a frown.
All in all, it was a disappointing evening. No Sarah Jessica Parker, the love of our lives had a girlfriend—was there any hope for humanity?
But thinking back, I’m reminded of something Lo said to Lauren Conrad once on The Hills (yes, I am aware of the dangers of seeking wisdom in MTV reality television). I like to think of this whenever I know I’m feeling down.
“Eat your Pinkberry and enjoy life.”
Love,
S
Monday, March 1, 2010
When the Worst is Really the Best
The idea of a first date is a scary one. I get it. No, really, I do. As one friend put it, she always feels like it’s a job interview, where the sole purpose is for the other person to pass judgments and decide if they deem you worthy enough of a second meeting. Legitimate concern—that I won’t argue—but really, what’s the worst that could happen?
I try to always remember that a first encounter can go one of three ways, none of which ultimately are all that horrific. Let me break it down as follows:
--Possibility A: It goes really well. Now when I say possibility, I sort of intend to imply in this particular case a “a rarity” or “unlikely event.” In either case, it happens that a first date can leave you wanting more, if not because of magical chemistry but because you simply enjoyed each other’s company. Don’t expect this outcome, but rather be pleasantly surprised when it does happen.
-- Possibility B: The date is FINE—not GREAT, but he didn’t insult you, offend you, or leave you drunk searching for a cab on a desolate street corner at 2am. This situation represents the WORST case scenario. Curious that it’s the worst, right? A neutral date leaves you without craving another get-together and with an uneasy feeling that you just wasted an hour of your time that could have been better spent, perhaps scrubbing strains off your stovetop or balancing your checkbook. Because both are things we really do regularly.
I guess the plus side is that at least if your heart isn’t fluttering when you gaze into his baby blues (OK, I even just grossed myself out) you’re one step closer to knowing what type of person you’re not looking for. The one way that you can turn around this less than ideal situation is if you can later develop a friendship. Believe it or not, that actually can and does happen.
--Possibility C: Your date is so bad that you want to leave faster than if you were stuck in a padded cell with Miley Cyrus playing on repeat. Remember Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day? I think there’s something to be said about the title of this childhood tale: sometimes the concept transcends to the adult world and, even more specifically, the dating scene.
Maybe it’s as simple as your date telling you he doesn’t get very much action in the bedroom. It could be as unnerving and embarrassing as he gets arrested as you’re enjoying fine wine in a candlelit restaurant. (Both examples are drawn from true stories, I swear.)
Regardless, there are bound to be situations gone awry and sometimes, when we’re incredibly lucky, they actually make for the best dates. What more could a girl want on a Sunday morning than to share a multi-coursed brunch with girlfriends—accompanied by sidesplitting laughter as you recount the hilarity of your escapades? Isn’t it fun to be able to laugh, and I mean REALLY laugh, at the inappropriate and uncalled for behaviors of last night’s dinner partner?
After all, if a guy spends a date describing in detail his uncircumcised penis, at least you can smile knowing that you’ll never have to experience it firsthand or know if he washes under the flap.
XOXO,
R.
I try to always remember that a first encounter can go one of three ways, none of which ultimately are all that horrific. Let me break it down as follows:
--Possibility A: It goes really well. Now when I say possibility, I sort of intend to imply in this particular case a “a rarity” or “unlikely event.” In either case, it happens that a first date can leave you wanting more, if not because of magical chemistry but because you simply enjoyed each other’s company. Don’t expect this outcome, but rather be pleasantly surprised when it does happen.
-- Possibility B: The date is FINE—not GREAT, but he didn’t insult you, offend you, or leave you drunk searching for a cab on a desolate street corner at 2am. This situation represents the WORST case scenario. Curious that it’s the worst, right? A neutral date leaves you without craving another get-together and with an uneasy feeling that you just wasted an hour of your time that could have been better spent, perhaps scrubbing strains off your stovetop or balancing your checkbook. Because both are things we really do regularly.
I guess the plus side is that at least if your heart isn’t fluttering when you gaze into his baby blues (OK, I even just grossed myself out) you’re one step closer to knowing what type of person you’re not looking for. The one way that you can turn around this less than ideal situation is if you can later develop a friendship. Believe it or not, that actually can and does happen.
--Possibility C: Your date is so bad that you want to leave faster than if you were stuck in a padded cell with Miley Cyrus playing on repeat. Remember Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day? I think there’s something to be said about the title of this childhood tale: sometimes the concept transcends to the adult world and, even more specifically, the dating scene.
Maybe it’s as simple as your date telling you he doesn’t get very much action in the bedroom. It could be as unnerving and embarrassing as he gets arrested as you’re enjoying fine wine in a candlelit restaurant. (Both examples are drawn from true stories, I swear.)
Regardless, there are bound to be situations gone awry and sometimes, when we’re incredibly lucky, they actually make for the best dates. What more could a girl want on a Sunday morning than to share a multi-coursed brunch with girlfriends—accompanied by sidesplitting laughter as you recount the hilarity of your escapades? Isn’t it fun to be able to laugh, and I mean REALLY laugh, at the inappropriate and uncalled for behaviors of last night’s dinner partner?
After all, if a guy spends a date describing in detail his uncircumcised penis, at least you can smile knowing that you’ll never have to experience it firsthand or know if he washes under the flap.
XOXO,
R.
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