could no longer stand “getting out there” another minute, another night at a bar I didn’t want to be drinking in, another party on a night I felt like staying home and watching TV, another evening with my not-usual crowd, I would duck back into the comfort zone for a while. Then the comfort zone would start to scare me and I’d hurl myself back “out there” again. Until someone again toldme, “It’ll happen when you’re not looking!” Oh, they’ll keep saying it. The only more incomprehensible statement I can think of is when people say, “Well, he died doing what he loved,” and they take comfort in that. “Did you hear? Joe was killed in a hang-gliding accident.” “Well, he died doing what he loved!” I’m sure Joe would rather have lived while cleaning his toilet than die hang gliding.
But now here I was—post-Addicts, post- SNL , post- 30 Rock , post-any-employment-whatsoever. I had no excuses. I was ready to tackle dating with the hard-earned maturity of an adult and, feeling I was trying to start fresh, with the wide-eyed naïveté of a sixteen-going-on-seventeen-year-old dancing around the gazebo, without the teenaged boobs to match. At the same time, and Horsemeat didn’t help, I had the bitter, seen-it-all cynicism of a WWII vet: Something in me was pretty sure that by the time I was this age, my early forties, all the Nice Guys who wanted a real relationship had already married their college sweethearts and converted to Judaism.
“She’s Siiiinngle!”
One night in the midst of this determined state, I was a featured guest on a live talk show that took place in a theater. It was similar to a live Conan or Letterman—a funny host and an audience, but not televised, just a theater piece. During the interview, the host asked me if I was dating anyone special. I said no, I wasn’t. He turned to the audience and yelled, “You hear that everyone? She’s siiiinngle!”
The interview ended and I walked back to my spot in the audience to rejoin my friend Ryan at our seats in this small theater. No sooner did I sit down, having just been announced as a single lady, than a gentleman appeared next to me in the darkness. The show was still going on and he leaned over and whispered, “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thanks,” I said, ever oblivious to an opportunity.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, but thank you.”
He walked away toward the bar, and Ryan turned and hit my arm. “Hey, he’s cute!”
Huh? Is he? I thought about it for a moment. I guess so. I don’t know. Not really my type. My type, however, had not worked out for me in the past and should probably have been manually shifted out of its stuck position in my brain. Maybe it was time to go against my type. This guy was your standard NYC Jewish-looking dude that I never went for. He sported a goatee and a newsie cap.
And all of a sudden, he reappeared.
“Here. I got you a water.”
“Oh, thanks.”
This guy was persistent. I said I didn’t want a drink, but I think he must have been, dare I say, hitting on me? I mean, the host had just said I was single not five minutes before. He started talking to me, quietly, as the show was still going on. He told me he was a writer for Gotham magazine. As the show was ending, he said, “Well, I’m gonna take off now, but here’s my card. Call me. We’ll go have some fun.” Those were his words. “Call me. We’ll go have some fun.”
This was proof that I just needed to get out of my usual routine! Change it up a little bit. Meet new people. Get out there. Ryan was way into this guy for me, telling me that I had to e-mail him.
The next day, Ryan kept pestering me. “OK, did you contact the guy? Did you?”
“No. Not yet.”
Ryan is one of my inner-circle gays. We first met at my audition for SNL . He worked in the talent office, booking the musical guests. He’s of Japanese descent, Mormon-raised though not practicing, Hawaii-born. Remember I said that Ilucked out
But now here I was—post-Addicts, post- SNL , post- 30 Rock , post-any-employment-whatsoever. I had no excuses. I was ready to tackle dating with the hard-earned maturity of an adult and, feeling I was trying to start fresh, with the wide-eyed naïveté of a sixteen-going-on-seventeen-year-old dancing around the gazebo, without the teenaged boobs to match. At the same time, and Horsemeat didn’t help, I had the bitter, seen-it-all cynicism of a WWII vet: Something in me was pretty sure that by the time I was this age, my early forties, all the Nice Guys who wanted a real relationship had already married their college sweethearts and converted to Judaism.
“She’s Siiiinngle!”
One night in the midst of this determined state, I was a featured guest on a live talk show that took place in a theater. It was similar to a live Conan or Letterman—a funny host and an audience, but not televised, just a theater piece. During the interview, the host asked me if I was dating anyone special. I said no, I wasn’t. He turned to the audience and yelled, “You hear that everyone? She’s siiiinngle!”
The interview ended and I walked back to my spot in the audience to rejoin my friend Ryan at our seats in this small theater. No sooner did I sit down, having just been announced as a single lady, than a gentleman appeared next to me in the darkness. The show was still going on and he leaned over and whispered, “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thanks,” I said, ever oblivious to an opportunity.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, but thank you.”
He walked away toward the bar, and Ryan turned and hit my arm. “Hey, he’s cute!”
Huh? Is he? I thought about it for a moment. I guess so. I don’t know. Not really my type. My type, however, had not worked out for me in the past and should probably have been manually shifted out of its stuck position in my brain. Maybe it was time to go against my type. This guy was your standard NYC Jewish-looking dude that I never went for. He sported a goatee and a newsie cap.
And all of a sudden, he reappeared.
“Here. I got you a water.”
“Oh, thanks.”
This guy was persistent. I said I didn’t want a drink, but I think he must have been, dare I say, hitting on me? I mean, the host had just said I was single not five minutes before. He started talking to me, quietly, as the show was still going on. He told me he was a writer for Gotham magazine. As the show was ending, he said, “Well, I’m gonna take off now, but here’s my card. Call me. We’ll go have some fun.” Those were his words. “Call me. We’ll go have some fun.”
This was proof that I just needed to get out of my usual routine! Change it up a little bit. Meet new people. Get out there. Ryan was way into this guy for me, telling me that I had to e-mail him.
The next day, Ryan kept pestering me. “OK, did you contact the guy? Did you?”
“No. Not yet.”
Ryan is one of my inner-circle gays. We first met at my audition for SNL . He worked in the talent office, booking the musical guests. He’s of Japanese descent, Mormon-raised though not practicing, Hawaii-born. Remember I said that Ilucked out
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