First, let’s get this out of the way. I’m soooooo sorry for being delinquent in my blog posting for the last (gasp!) month. For those who even noticed, I’ve just been…busy not really being busy. (That is, up until this week when I actually was busy, and yet here I am. Not sure how that happened. But I digress.) I thought about posting all the time. But we all know thinking and doing are two different things. I came close several times and have quite a few drafts to show for it. But…well…here I am now.
Last night I attended a singles event. Actually, let me rephrase that: Last night I hate-attended a singles event. Before I even got there I was wondering when I could leave.
I signed up for it via OK Cupid, the online dating site that I’m semi-on. By semi I mean, I log on when I’m bored and mostly just flip through the “visitors” section to see who’s checking me out. Call it narcissistic or call it an efficient use of time. Either way, my man-finding efforts are pretty blasé at best, and I know it. Part of it is that I’m still not sold on the whole online-dating thing. Another part of it is that while I’m (finally!) feeling the most settled back in New York since returning in June, I’m still not 100 percent sure I want to remain “settled,” and, well, that notion often comes with the BF territory. Plus, I work so hard at all the other things I want in my life: a byline in the New York Times, making it to yoga class regularly and on time, eating enough protein, reading each of the five magazines I subscribe to, remembering my keys before I leave the house, maintaining meaningful relationships with my friends and family, doubling my American Airlines miles, er, writing blog posts…that sometimes I just want something—someone—to come easy. To come to me.
So I flit in and out of feeling compelled to act on my desire to meet someone and feeling fine with just doing my thang, trying so very hard to believe it’ll happen in the midst. Last night’s attempt was clearly a result of the former.
OKC occasionally hosts meet-and-greet type mixers where for a nominal fee, you could, say, swap books with other members at the Strand, go on a literary walking tour through downtown Brooklyn or, in tonight’s case, taste beer.
I know what you’re thinking: Obviously she chose the event with booze. But I really just chose it because a) it was the cheapest one, b) it was in Brooklyn (and I sorta feel like that’s where all the cool guys my age are), and c) it was the only one I could get into. Yup, there’s a wait list for these events! For good reason, though: They want to keep the guy-to-girl ratio even, so if there’s too many of one sex signed up, they won’t open it up to the other until it balances out.
Knowing all of this, I assumed there’d be a quality balance of men vs. women at the event, along with one or two of my “high matches,” which is how OKC gets you to pull the trigger without seeing the full profiles of the other members who have signed up. And maybe there was. But of that balance, I’d say there was one guy I was interested in talking to—and I wasn’t the only one who thought so. All the bees were swarming around this one Honey, waiting to get their lick.
It could’ve gotten sticky, but I kept my cool, slowly sipping my first taste of beer, occasionally glancing around the room to see if anyone new showed up and who my competition was. But time was dragging, and I’m pretty sure I had only been there for four minutes. That’s when I sent out a “help me!” text. Or three. Then I decided, ‘Oh, screw it. I’m here and came alone on purpose. I may as well talk to someone.” I locked eyes with a fellow singleton nearby and after the initial pleasantries, it was clear we clicked. We appreciated each other’s sense of style and commiserated over the awkwardness of these thing. Unfortunately for both of us, we weren’t interested in each other in that way, as this fellow singleton was a she and the biggest thing we had in common was that we were both interested in talking to Mr. Honey. Still, we agreed he wasn’t even that cute; just cute considering the other prospects in the bar, and so we bonded over bad-tasting beer and played Jenga while agreeing that misery loves company.
It was plenty pleasant, yet I still kept thinking: This is what I went home and changed my outfit for? I’d so much rather be at home watching ‘Survivor.’
But when all was said and done—which was about 67 minutes after I arrived—was it a terrible night? No. Did it end the way most of my nights end, whether or not I spend $16 on a singles event? Yes. And how’s that, you ask? With me sitting solo at a restaurant, eating a personal pizza pie and enjoying my busy-not-being-busyness.