Save The Date.
I celebrated New Years Eve at Yotel near Times Square. At one point I grabbed a cocktail at the bar, and finished it up at a table nearby since we weren’t allowed to bring drinks onto the dance floor. While I was there, a man in his early thirties who I came to know as Mo approached me. Although he wasn’t my usual type, he wasn’t unattractive either. Mo was funny and just as snappy with the one-liners as I was, so while I’m not sure if I would’ve dated him I definitely would’ve went on a date with him. We continued our seemingly good conversation until he asked me what I did for a living.
I remember quitting my job at the Chronicle in 2011, so I could be proud of my answer the next time someone asked me that very question. So you can imagine my disappoint when I couldn’t say something cool like, “I’m an editor for Complex Magazine,” or “I’m a treatment writer for Sony Records.” I couldn’t even give him a meaningless answer like, “I’m an professional slave executive assistant.” All I said was, “Nothing. I moved here to write, but haven’t found a job yet.” Wamp-wamp.
At that point it didn’t matter that we were having a stimulating conversation seven seconds prior, or that I was looking NYE fly in my backless dress and nude Louboutins, and he probably wouldn’t have cared if my occupation was axe-murderer anyway. The conversation was DONE. I walked back to my friends feeling slightly discouraged, but forgot about it as soon as the DJ played Fucking Problems.
However, as I type this I am reminded of it again. One of the most popular questions I get asked regarding my move is, “Oooh who are you dating now?” Women seem to have this strange misconception that New York is like a candy store for women like me, when it’s more like a bad window shopping experience. I blame this partly on on Beyonce and her damn Soldier video, thanks a lot Bey! I have not seen a single Morris Chestnut or Method Man since I’ve got here. Either that or I’ve been too busy looking down at my phone to transfer money from my savings to my checking account (again) to notice.
The truth is, I haven’t been on a single date since I got here. But that’s not surprising at all. What’s surprising is I don’t even care! I’ve been too preoccupied trying to get a fucking job. Ain’t nothing going on but the rent these days, and I can’t make out with these hot Puerto Rican dudes if I have no apartment to take them back to. A lot of folks thought I was going to embark on a dating free for all worthy of a book of hump-day posts. Obviously I would love that, but for the first time in my life EVER, meeting a cute guy is the last thing on my mind. It’s probably the only good thing about being desperate for a job.
I know I’m more than a paycheck, and it really shouldn’t matter. I’m sure it doesn’t to men who just want to fuck. But I don’t want a man “just to fuck”. I want more. So naturally I can’t expect even a little something if I can’t even give a little anything. I used to ask the universe for a male version of me, and right now I’m not content with who I am. And I can’t expect a man to want to date me if I don’t want to date me.