In the dead of winter, New Yorkers look for romance more aggressively. Nothing says love like wearing matching Christmas sweaters, enjoying a hot chocolate and cuddling up to another evening of liberal news coverage. Thanks to our friends at MSNBC.
Secretly, I wanted to have campy adventures with a sweet but neurotic boy. Mr. Quirky pants fit the bill. We shared a high neurosis level, campy interests and were both gay, which is always important. Meeting another neurotic gay was a real treat.
We spent time together, discovering new restaurants, doing drinks and having adventures around the city. Soon, I had fallen for Mr. Quirky pants and his dry wit. However, I didn’t know how to tell him. Could I say it through performance art? Maybe write him a poem? Or could I learn the guitar in a week and serenade him?
None of these options made it to the New York stage of life. Mr. Quirky pants went back to the Midwest to re-coup. Therefore, my plans to tell him how I felt were put on hold. However, I did meet an adorable guy from Tennessee online. We set up a date. I was on the subway from Queens to Union Square, when I received a mysterious phone call.
“Hey it’s Mr. Quirky pants,” he answered. We talked. The train kept picking up more passengers. By the time, the N train was to go underground; he said something shocking “I love you.” I smiled from ear to ear. The train was then going underground.
“Oh no, this is going to ruin my love buzz.” It did. After saying those magical words, I felt dumbfounded. “Now, I’m going on this date, how awkward,” I thought to myself, exiting the Union Square Station.
I walked east on 14th street and there was Mr. Tennessee. We had a lovely date in the East Village. However, the thought of Mr. Quirky pants persisted. My gut was telling me, just open up to Mr. Tennessee and let him charm you. He did. We kissed under the Downtown Manhattan moonlight. It was a splendid date.
A week later, Mr. Quirky pants invited me to lunch at one of Queens’ many Greek diners. I thought to myself, oh he’s gonna profess his love over waffles, bacon and a coffee, how romantic. Instead, I got the ” let’s not date and just be friends speech.” Not exactly, what I wanted to hear.
Instead of having hard feeling over Mr. Quirky pants’ loose use of the word “love,” we continued to be friends. As for Mr. Tennessee, he never returned my text.
Love happens. In New York’s land of the perpetual single, finding love is the equivalent of living in a rent-controlled apartment. It’s rare, but when it does happen, celebration must commence. In the mean time, we could take joy in watching Sex & the City episodes, eating ice cream and shopping. It may not be a handsome man, but has the same satisfying effects.