Disappointing Women of New York: Part 1

The Mirage

It was the New York dinner party of beautiful 30 year olds that you see in movies and on TV. In a 3rd floor apartment in Greenwich Village, everyone was kind, curious, successful. You know the party you’re picturing in your head? It’s that. Apologetic Ivy-League lawyers and consultants telling you how it’s a GREAT time to visit Costa Rica. It was utterly infuriating. How was everyone so happy? Why was no one else dying inside? I didn’t feel like I belonged. I still don’t. 

It was too much, so I sat down in the corner to brood. These were my friends and I loved them deeply but I wanted to wallow. And then this woman Valerie came and sat next to me and we talked for one hour. 

Her eyes would get really small when laughter spread across her face—laughter that was frequent and genuine. She was brilliant. Undergrad at Harvard and law school at Yale - though it could have been the other way around without making any real difference. She looked at you with encouragement as you spoke, like how someone watches their youngest sibling get on the stage at graduation, listening to you with bright blue eyes. It goes without saying, she was beautiful, because everyone here was beautiful. 

The hosts were a gracious couple, bubbling with anecdotes but pausing to hear yours just as readily. They waltzed from guest to guest, taking turns serving snacks and refilling glasses: imagine a pair of synchronised swimmers but in even better shape. Where are the normal people? This party had exquisite home-made pizza. Where are the people eating pizza out of pizza boxes, where the excess oil has created an Exxon Valdez spill in the corner? 

I had known of Valerie and spoken to her briefly before at some other dinner party. I thought: man, whoever gets to hang out with her is a lucky guy. I was projecting, of course. She may have been a total psycho. But she wasn’t, as I was finding out. She was even lovelier, more tenacious and eager to learn than I could have imagined. I couldn’t believe she cared about my rant on why healthcare and education are never election issues. Even I have gotten bored of that rant.

I found myself falling for her when we began talking about the things we despised. The fickle nature of the stock markets, cliched pet-peeves, Skrillex, lawyers and American faux-politeness. 

I dropped a reference to how much I loved one of the many movies no one else had time to see and she lit up. I think it was “Embrace of the Serpent”. She had seen it too. She loved going to the movies too. There are a few of us who actually go to the cinema to watch films and stay for the credits and stand in line to buy overpriced popcorn with all the old people because we like the experience of going to the movies. She asked for my number and told me she was in a movie club she wanted to invite me to. 

Was this real life? My mind couldn’t process this. I had never been in this situation before. You know when things feel too perfect and you check your pockets to make sure you have your keys and you do have them - and you’re just having a great day? What the hell was happening. We exchanged numbers. While half my brain was engaged in the conversation, the other half was playing a side-game, imaging a life together and a future of indie cinema and squinty-eyed laughter. The cynic was too busy being utterly infatuated. 

We were just sitting there, finishing each other sentences. I felt a sense of belonging among those talented, shiny Senior Associates (some were junior V.P.s, I’m sure). 

“You should definitely come along to our next film club meet,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder. And then it came. “Wait, actually you should meet Eugene, I feel like you guys would totally get along.”

Oh no. No Eugene. Please be the gay best friend. Please Eugene, I need this. 

But Eugene was her boyfriend or fiance or husband or something. Strapping, gentle and totally confident in Valerie’s regard for him. He strolled over and shook my hand with a smile. They kissed the kiss of a couple in love and I made an excuse about having to go to the bathroom before Eugene could ask the thoughtful question he was about to ask. 

I have thought about that conversation a lot. Have I ever been someone’s Valerie or God-forbid, someone’s Eugene? Until I fix my own insecurities, I’m sure I will project unfairly onto suspecting strangers whose only crime has been to have been human. Until then, I fear I will always wait for a Eugene-shaped Exxon Valdez to come out of nowhere and send me back to my one-seat movie theatre.