Things have changed a lot since I was last single…. April 7, 2006

Things have changed a lot since I was last single.

For one, I no longer have a posse of girlfriends willing to don barely-there shirts, hail cabs downtown at midnight and compete for attention from men at over-hyped “hot spots” before inevitably ending up at a diner, discussing ex-boyfriends and whether or not they were really all that bad, like maybe I should call him, perhaps he no longer has commitment issues that compel him to cheat?

No, most of those girls are now wearing a lot more clothing on Saturday nights and have been lost to serious relationships, soul and time sucking jobs, starting families or Brooklyn.

At 22 it was age-appropriate to prowl the city with condoms tucked into our clutches and go home with boys we’d known less than two hours total. After 25 (I don’t care what propaganda Sex and the City tried to convince us all of), it’s time to grow up, respect oneself and set some standards.

I thought about that the other night while I was overanalyzing everything the Boy has said in the past week in an attempt to determine whether or not he is going to break up with me (“You are everything to me,” good. “Sometimes you act like it’s the end of the world,” bad.)

I came to the conclusion that being single now would be much different than being single then. And by different I really mean “would suck so much OMIGOD I might as well go the nun route, because seriously, fuck it, I wouldn’t even know where to begin now.” (Note to People Who Jump To Conclusions Easily: that does not imply that I am staying in my current relationship because I don’t want to be single. I am staying my current relationship because I am in love.)

5,434,536 gallons of Mint Chocolate Chip and guacamole later, when I’d finally be able to consider dating again if the Boy were to break my heart, I’d most likely be throwing all hope into “it’ll happen when I least expect it.”

Which, actually, is what happened with the Boy.

I was at Suite 16 for my friend’s boyfriend’s birthday. He makes six figures at age 24 and thus we were surrounded by other boys who make six figures at age 24 and apparently use most of those six figures to buy striped shirts that all look the same. And hair gel. Lots of hair gel.

After a few hours of free drinks and unwanted attention (“You know, I can drive you uptown later. My car’s outside. It’s the white Beamer, I don’t know if you noticed it on the way in”), I eventually hailed a cab (“Isn’t the Upper East in, like, the opposite direction of Hoboken? Thanks but…uh…I’ll be fine”).

Somewhere in the early 30’s and 8th Avenue, my phone rang. It was a friend from high school who was drinking with some of his co-workers from Major NY Newspaper and wanted to know if I wanted to drop by.

The truth was, I didn’t. But I was also wearing a very cute outfit that I didn’t want to be wasted on Mr. Banking Beamer and the like who were only interested in what was underneath.

I instructed the cab to pull over once we got to 48th. The bar was Irish and small and over-crowded and full of people who had been drinking since they got out of work. I was in my element.

I noticed the Boy the minute I walked in. It would’ve been pretty hard not to, seeing as he’s dark and handsome and completely my type. But he was surrounded by people and I was busy pounding lemon drop shots because, you know, I’m all about the class.

About fifteen minutes later, the Boy approached me.

“I don’t believe we’ve met, but are you drinking beer out of a straw?”

I replied that it was cider.

We didn’t take our eyes off of each other for the next hour, until he, shit, really had to go, 5am flight down to spring training, let’s exchange numbers, will call in two weeks when I get back, it was really nice meeting you, Clink.

Will call, my ass. I was thoroughly convinced that I’d never see him again and subsequently pouted in my cider until the bartenders kicked us out and I ended up at a diner, discussing an ex-boyfriend.

Well, y’all know the rest of the story. He did call. And ever since I’ve been thinking about what would’ve happened if I had never told the cab driver to pull over (and also if I hadn’t been drinking cider out of a straw, but something tells me he would’ve approached me anyway).

You see, if I were single again, that’s what I’d be hoping for. The magic, the surprise, the unexpected-yet-wonderful randomness of that night (thank you Hedge Funders for being so god damn self-absorbed and boring, forcing me to want to head home four hours before closing time!).

I’m really not sure if it ever could be recreated. Let’s hope I never have to find out.