It’s been
a while since I posted. I will give you the nutshell version of what happened
with the married Ukranian fellow:
He got
real creepy, sent me a picture of my mom in highschool and turned up at my
roommate’s work to bother her after I told him the relationship was
inappropriate. Aside from the fact that I don’t know how he knew who my mom or
roommate were, or where he got their info, that just took it one step too far.
I called NYPD, who said there wasn’t much they could do since he wasn’t really
threatening me (being creepy wasn’t a crime). Luckily, my roommate’s boss took
on a surrogate dad role and ended up calling the guy (who had rather
unfortunately left his business card at my roommate’s office) and read him the
riot act in a scary Brooklyn accent and told him not to bother us again. Then
called the guy’s work to report him to HR and legal.
There have
been no further incidents, and, lest you assume I was kidnapped since I haven’t
been particularly active with communication (since that is the conclusion my
sister immediately jumped to) I am fine. It is actually because I was without a
phone for a week and living in a communication black hole.
That said,
having a phone back is hardly any different. The option now exists to call me,
but almost no one ever does. Or even texts. I am a lone, metaphorical
tumbleweed, rolling across the desert.
 |
| So many bagels... so little time.... |
This
morning I was greeted by a puffy eye and about 10 Facebook status updates about
people getting married, getting engaged, celebrating an anniversary, or the
birth of their child. And all I can think is “I am 25 years old. Why is
everyone finding the love of their lives here except for me? I can’t even go on
a nice date with someone who I have any chemistry with!” MY Facebook status
update that I contributed to the cyber world was somewhat of a short ballad to
my bagel and all the joy and carbohydrates it has brought to my life.
Mostly, I
guess that’s just really sad, but you know what? Screw you, happy people in
functional relationships. My bagel DOES bring me joy. It doesn’t judge me for
dancing haphazardly in my office to my Whitney Houston/ Christmas Pandora
station. It is not jealous when I sometimes get drunk and lazy and gnaw down a
frozen potsticker without heating it up first. (It is patient when I realize, mid- chew,
that a hot, tasty bagel would have been such a better choice). Bagels are may
not contribute much to a relationship, but they seem to follow most of the
requirements of that 1 Corinthians passage that everyone reads when they get
married anyway.
I suppose
until I find my metaphorical man-bagel, I’ll just have to keep eating real ones
like a heifer until I don’t fit into any more bridesmaid dresses.
