The Relationship Runaway

This week I dated a relationship runaway. Well, that's the conclusion I came to, anyway. How else can I describe this phenomenon? We meet for the first time on a date, both of us dressed in our finest. The setting: a sexy little sushi bar in Noho, filled with glamour girls and finance types. The mood is electric. We hit it off from the start. Our conversation rolls effortlessly from our mouths, into the space between us (which is ever diminishing) and adds immeasurably to the atmosphere of the club. We are glittering. Superstars. We don't discuss work. We don't resort to small talk. We order some sushi and nibbles, which arrives and is delectable. We share a bottle of wine. We are heady, but not drunk. Accidentally, as I am making an emphatic point during dialogue, my fingertips graze his knee. His eyes flicker ever so slightly, and so later I begin doing it on purpose. He returns the gesture. Talk turns to our respective heights. I ask which of us is taller, and he suggests we stand and measure. When we do, he steals a kiss. It's gentle, warm and perfect. He pays the bill and we head for a cosy jazz bar a short cab ride away. Snuggled close together at the bar, we continue in kind, with another drink and then head for my apartment. I say I don't think we should rush things; he acts the perfect gentleman. At around 2am, he excuses himself to use the bathroom and returns to find me curled up asleep on the bed. I awaken sometime later and realize he has been in the bathroom a while, so I check on him and find this note: "You looked so peaceful, I thought it was time to leave. Was a lot of fun. Call me when you wake up." It was signed with a heart and his name. Elated, I put myself to bed and woke a few hours later, on top of the world. But then things turned weird. Over the next few days there were phone calls and interactions that did not follow logically from the experience we had shared. Sure, I could blame myself, wonder whether I'd drooled on my pillow or whether it's possible for one person to think a date was flawless while the other was having an awful time. But I know better than that. The date was great, but that's just it: sometimes one great date is all you get. Having dated a relationship runaway once before, and having experienced the phenomenon for other reasons as well, I know it to be true. And after great dates, I remind myself of the refrain. Even when I am positive things will progress well, I mockingly warn myself: "Sometimes one great date is all you get". It saves me every time. However, the relationship runaway is a species that should be observed closely and documented. The two that have dated were both almost 40 (I am 29). They were both intelligent, successful, gentle teasers and softly spoken. When these relationship runaways revealed themselves my friends reassured me, "No wonder he's 40 and still single. I thought something was up with him, right from the start". The optimist invariably, I can't help but think at the outset that these bachelors will transform when they meet the right girl. Who knows, maybe they will. Until then, I guess I'll keep enjoying the great dates, even if they're an enigma to me.

Why don't you tell me what you really think?

As I was walking home last night, a woman, who seemed quite inebriated (and a little messy as a result) decided to give me some unsolicited advice. Striding towards me, in her dirty white punk outfit, she focused her mascara-smudged eyes on mine, and spat: "Why don't you DO something with your life?" It was almost 11pm and I had just popped up from the subway, less than half a block from my apartment. Something about riding the subway at night always leaves me a little jittery, but I reason that the nervousness keeps me safe and on guard. So, in my heightened state of awareness, I was more than a touch shaken by her tone. But she was right. It was good advice. Never mind the fact that I was already doing something with my life, something quite bold and exciting (and that technically, even people who live in cardboard boxes are "doing" something with their lives: asking for change, peeing in empty water bottles). Nonetheless, I had to agree. She had a good point, and her overture illustrates one of the attributes I love about New Yorkers: they tell you what they think of you. Strangers on street corners have become my heroes, after complimenting my outfits. On two separate occasions, I have left my apartment, which has no full-length mirrors, wearing experimental ensembles, which I was unsure about. As though they could sense my insecurity, these kind souls would look me over and send my confidence soaring with a "great outfit!" or an "I love what you're wearing". And I'm not talking about the sleazy, muttered comments that often come from males. These are females who simply dig your look and tell you so. "Great boots"; "I like your hair" … It's an unusual experience for an Australian, but it's nice. However, riding the seesaw of honest remarks doesn't always pitch you skywards. Last weekend marked the third time a manicurist had asked me if I was pregnant. Three different nail artists, three different salons. The first couple times I was embarrassed and mortified, but this time I chided: "You shouldn't ask people that! And no, I'm not!" I mean, I am no Nicole Ritchie, but I eat right, I go to the gym religiously and I am within the normal weight range for my age. I might have a little bit of a tummy, but it is nowhere near the size required for another human being to make a home inside! Each time, my loyal girlfriends have come up with helpful and plausible explanations. "She misunderstood your conversation, she thought you were pointing to your belly" "She was pregnant herself and she recognized your brand of stretchy pants" (Great. So the funky pants I love and purchased in Australia, are now pregnancy pants!?) But my favourite, came as a result of this last transgression. "It's probably because you are glowing. You're the only person who can glow like that in the heat of the city!" "Well, they should try bronzer," came my pouting reply. I was offended. I wondered whether this was nothing more than a inter-cultural misunderstanding. After all, each of the offending women was of Asian background. Perhaps in some Asian cultures, a query of pregnancy was a high compliment, suggesting you are ripe, healthy and bountiful. Or perhaps these women were knowingly rude. But what can I do? As with good friends and family, we have to accept the good with the bad, and on balance, I love New Yorkers for their honesty. Now why don't you shut off your computer, and GO FOR A WALK?!