The marching band paraded merrily down Central Park West. Each member was perfectly color coordinated in red and black cardigans. Gold confetti flew from the sky over the Upper West Side’s iconic apartment houses.
In the celebration of New York’s most beloved season, fall, the band played “danke shoen.” Revelers screamed with great joy. Unfortunately, the fall parade happed in my own imagination. What did Central Park West really look like on that first chilly day?
Beep, beep, beep, hello, gridlock. Traffic was halted, as I attempted to go crosstown in a cab. While I glanced at the meter, positive thinking kept me from going insane in the membrane (90s rap reference).
“Oh, I like my outfit today. The black cardigan goes well with my checkered shirt and grey tie,” said I, attempting to keep Zen like. Miraculously, I survived gridlock and flew through Central Park. Hello, Upper East Side, I am ready for friends and burgers,” said I.
At my friend’s BBQ, I was reunited with some of my favorite New Yorkers. We sang, gabbed and most importantly talked about our love lives. “I’ve been on tinder. If I had a dollar for every hipsters and post-collegiate banker I found on here (pause), I’d buy us all co-ops,” said I with a giggle.
With a smile, I pulled out at the app to show my gal pals. Suddenly, I received a message. “Wow, that never happens,” said I in amazement. Typically, I had to send the first message and typically didn’t a get a respond back.
The following song played in my head. “Finally, it has happened to me, right in front of my face and I just could not hide.” Sang I with a distinctive Broadway edge. This folks is another distraction brought to you by great dance songs of the 90’s. Thank you, Cece Peniston. Back to this romantic New York story.
After a few too many glasses of wine, I developed liquid courage and messaged him back. He was cute, nerdy and drank a bloody Mary like a champ. Also, we shared similar interests in books and museums. After that last glass of wine, I messaged him, “let’s hang.” He agreed.
The next day, I woke up and reviewed our conversation. “Shit, if I say anything I am blaming it on the pinot,” said I. “Okay, one cheeky question, but overall pretty tame,” said I. Afterwards, I messaged him my number. Immediately, we were to meet a wonderful wine bar in the East Village.
On that faithful day of the date, I prepped myself. “Hello, luxurious cardigan. You shall adorn me, since this guy may potentially be my future husband, but I won’t get emotionally attached. That’s right no emotional attachment,” said I. That night, a bit of humidity had returned to the city. I texted my date, “are we still meeting up tonight?”
While crossing Park Ave, I received a text. It read, “sorry for the short notice. I have to stay at work a bit later, need to postpone.” I shook my head with bewilderment. “Not to sounded jaded, but I think he’s lost interest, “ declared, I.
I texted him back, “ I am booked until Saturday (it was a Tuesday).” He never responded back. Disappointingly, I met with my single gal pals, Natalia and Aura. As our glasses of wine arrived, I proclaimed, “I don’t think this guy is interested.”
“What did you text him?” asked Natalia. I handed over my phone. “ Oh Anthony, you should never text a guy, are we still meeting up. It gives them a way out of the date,” said Aura. “Shit, I declared. Indeed, I never heard back from the charming tinder guy.
After wine, I walked toward the Upper West Side. While crossing fifty-seventh street, Midtown was quintessentially spectacular. The window displays were chic. Yellow cabs decorated the grey pavements, while perfectly manicured men dashed into the subway.
“Oh, New York, you’re dating scene sucks, but at least you’re entertaining,” said I. As I entered the subway, I cooled off with the Arctic chill of artificial air. “Yo, DJ pump this party,” sang a familiar voice from the 90s.
That’s right. “Even with being stood up, I could always have a party in my head with a marching band, disco balls and plenty of glitter, “ said I. Then I boogied down, mentally, of course.