Crocodile on a Cardigan

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.

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Frolic on 72nd Street

“If my friends could see me now,” (from the musical, Sweet Charity) is my theme song for that most charming season, autumn. When the skies above New York City, morph into a spectacular golden grey, overwhelming humidity travels south.

My cardigans and I have always reveled in lightly chilled winds. Not only is New York is painted in dynamic hues of red and orange, but the city evokes a more romantic facade.

In the mystical land, Norah Ephron romantic comedies, a new kind of love was igniting. ” Let’s go see the beautiful fall foliage today, said my one of my best gay buddies. With that statement, he gathered up the troops for a field trip to Central Park. One troop was running fashionably late, which kept us gays, quite anxious.

As we chatted it up in the background of a friend’s cozy, Upper West Side apartment, the buzzer sounded. “Finally,” we all shouted. I was curious to meet this new troop.

The door opened dramatically. There he stood, Noah. He traveled all the way, crosstown just to see foliage with us. I took a gulp. “Hello, Noah, I thought to myself. My palms were sweating and caterpillars transformed into butterflies with his very appearance.

He had a classic intellectual look. With short dark hair, black-frame glasses and a fashionable black sweater, he was physically a charmer. I extended my hand to introduce myself. He turned his head, avoiding eye contact with me. The butterflies fell from the sky and returned to their cocoon. “Shit, he knows I am interested and gave me the cold shoulder,” I thought to myself.

I dusted the disappointment from my shoulders and we headed toward Central Park. The city was dusting itself from the reminients of a brutal summer. It was beaming with a renewed sense of self.

Even though, I felt slightly rejected by Noah, I decided to get to know him better. This time, I played calm and collected, strolling with the troops around the Jacqueline Kennedy Onasis Reservoir. We made good conversation, but the eye contact was perpetually non-existent.

” Gee, where is all the foliage?” cried one of the troops. Indeed the park was barely painted in orange and red. Miraculously, there was one tree toward Fifth Avenue, which drenched in red leaves. We all took pictures. “Mission accomplished, let’s go have a drink, boy,” I declared. Over margaritas and tacos, I wanted to uncover the mystery of Noah.

Even after a few frosty adult beverages, Noah turned his head, anytime we made eye contact. “Oh I hate the head turn, oy to the vey,” said a disappointed, I.

The troops decided they wanted to see a film at the local IMAX. ” Hey guys, I have a hard time at movie theaters, they make me sleepy. I am going back to my apartment,” said I.

With that I gave the troops a hug, goodbye. I reached over to give Noah a hug. ” Nice to meet you,” he said. “Thanks you too, said I. He kept an emotionless exterior and finally made direct eye contact.

“I think you’re absolutely adorable,” said Noah. The butterflies once again rose from cocoons. My brain swung to the sounds of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, singing, “Let’s call the whole thing off,” while orange leaves fell from the sky. “That means he’s into you,” whispered my friend into my perky ear.

“Back at ya,” I told Noah. I walked away. Then I thought to myself, “shit I walked away, rather than having the balls to ask him out on a proper date.” Rather, than dwelling on my lack of action, I utilized the experience to always seize the moment. With that said, I shall write the next fellow I fall for, a most wonderful poem. Who could resist a witty poem filled with romance?