the meatpacking district. I stood from the bench and danced a jig.
To Markt, to Markt, I am a fat pig.
Home alone again, home alone again,
Will it always be my gig?
At least for most of the evening, I’d be out with a pack. The New York single scene wasn’t all that disparate from the Upper West Side dog run. Like wild dogs traveling through twilight in nonstop strides, constantly in jeopardy of ambush, with a need for securing their own prey, my pack of chicklet friends announced their presence, not with howls, but silently, through scent, communicating their territory to neighbors. You could nearly see Creed’s Fleur de The Rose Bulgarie, as if it left tracks indicating where we’d been, who we’d conquered, and who we’d left for dead. If a dog strays from the group, he’s less likely to eat, so his chances of survival increase when he stays, not strays. When a woman strays, deciding to abstain from a night out with friends, she’s less likely to meet anyone, and more likely to sit on her fat ass watching Lifetime TV, increasing her chances of doing just that for the rest of her sad-sack life. It’s precisely why women move through the night in groups, right down to their lengthy bathroom visits. It was going to be a great night. I could smell it.
REMARKABLY, I WAS FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLY TO DINNER. Nevertheless, there was no chance we’d be seated anything short of a half hour after our actual reservation at Markt. The dinner was in honor of Dulce’s twenty-fifth birthday bash. Girls like Dulce were always having “bashes,” yet this was only the second time I’d celebrated her birth since meeting her on a double date with Gabe, two years prior.
Her beauty intimidated me at the onset. There I was, married to Gabe, wearing matronly capri pants, a cashmere cable knit complete with pearls, and a ribbon headband—always the “tell” of a married woman, dressing the proper preppy part to complete the proper married picture—when along comes girlfriend d’force, in heels and hoochiewear, complete with perfectly threaded brows and overly glossed lips. She wore a minute of a jean skirt with a pink baby tee clearly made for a Chihuahua. Dulce looked like a soft porn DVD cover featuring young dirty college girls on spring break. I remember touching Gabe’s arm to make sure he was still there.
I imagined she’d be aloof and only warm when prompted to speak of her childhood abroad, where I was certain she partied on the bronzed shoulders of men while wearing little more than a belly chain. Gabe had mentioned something about Chile, but I imagined Brazil. He couldn’t have birthed a more erroneous story if he’d actually closed his eyes and pushed. Apparently, Dulce was really Allyson Reese of Austin, Texas. She acquired the pet name Dulce from her sorority sisters when she’d returned from her Chilean semester abroad, not speaking Spanish, but “a speaking a English with a Spanisha accent” to replace her sometimes southern one. If Dulce were a scratch and sniff sticker, she’d smell like birthday cake.
The guy from the double date broke up with Dulce two weeks later, claiming, “I need to focus more at work, and you’re a distraction.” I didn’t really believe girls who looked like Dulce could ever be abandoned. She was Austintatious : big jewelry, big breasts, big heart. She’d just moved to Manhattan from Baltimore, where she’d gone to college, to live with him, so this didn’t just make Dulce dumped; it made her homeless. Gabe relayed that, really, his friend believed she was just too immature.
“Immature how?” I wanted to know. Gabe just shrugged. How infuriating men can be with their lack of probing questions. “So you’re a real stickler for details, huh?” I crossed my arms waiting for a reaction. “You mean, you didn’t even ask?” Gabe shrugged again, then diverted his attention to his medical flashcards. “Where’s she going to live?” Another shrug.
To Markt, to Markt, I am a fat pig.
Home alone again, home alone again,
Will it always be my gig?
At least for most of the evening, I’d be out with a pack. The New York single scene wasn’t all that disparate from the Upper West Side dog run. Like wild dogs traveling through twilight in nonstop strides, constantly in jeopardy of ambush, with a need for securing their own prey, my pack of chicklet friends announced their presence, not with howls, but silently, through scent, communicating their territory to neighbors. You could nearly see Creed’s Fleur de The Rose Bulgarie, as if it left tracks indicating where we’d been, who we’d conquered, and who we’d left for dead. If a dog strays from the group, he’s less likely to eat, so his chances of survival increase when he stays, not strays. When a woman strays, deciding to abstain from a night out with friends, she’s less likely to meet anyone, and more likely to sit on her fat ass watching Lifetime TV, increasing her chances of doing just that for the rest of her sad-sack life. It’s precisely why women move through the night in groups, right down to their lengthy bathroom visits. It was going to be a great night. I could smell it.
REMARKABLY, I WAS FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLY TO DINNER. Nevertheless, there was no chance we’d be seated anything short of a half hour after our actual reservation at Markt. The dinner was in honor of Dulce’s twenty-fifth birthday bash. Girls like Dulce were always having “bashes,” yet this was only the second time I’d celebrated her birth since meeting her on a double date with Gabe, two years prior.
Her beauty intimidated me at the onset. There I was, married to Gabe, wearing matronly capri pants, a cashmere cable knit complete with pearls, and a ribbon headband—always the “tell” of a married woman, dressing the proper preppy part to complete the proper married picture—when along comes girlfriend d’force, in heels and hoochiewear, complete with perfectly threaded brows and overly glossed lips. She wore a minute of a jean skirt with a pink baby tee clearly made for a Chihuahua. Dulce looked like a soft porn DVD cover featuring young dirty college girls on spring break. I remember touching Gabe’s arm to make sure he was still there.
I imagined she’d be aloof and only warm when prompted to speak of her childhood abroad, where I was certain she partied on the bronzed shoulders of men while wearing little more than a belly chain. Gabe had mentioned something about Chile, but I imagined Brazil. He couldn’t have birthed a more erroneous story if he’d actually closed his eyes and pushed. Apparently, Dulce was really Allyson Reese of Austin, Texas. She acquired the pet name Dulce from her sorority sisters when she’d returned from her Chilean semester abroad, not speaking Spanish, but “a speaking a English with a Spanisha accent” to replace her sometimes southern one. If Dulce were a scratch and sniff sticker, she’d smell like birthday cake.
The guy from the double date broke up with Dulce two weeks later, claiming, “I need to focus more at work, and you’re a distraction.” I didn’t really believe girls who looked like Dulce could ever be abandoned. She was Austintatious : big jewelry, big breasts, big heart. She’d just moved to Manhattan from Baltimore, where she’d gone to college, to live with him, so this didn’t just make Dulce dumped; it made her homeless. Gabe relayed that, really, his friend believed she was just too immature.
“Immature how?” I wanted to know. Gabe just shrugged. How infuriating men can be with their lack of probing questions. “So you’re a real stickler for details, huh?” I crossed my arms waiting for a reaction. “You mean, you didn’t even ask?” Gabe shrugged again, then diverted his attention to his medical flashcards. “Where’s she going to live?” Another shrug.
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