Metaphorical Man-Bagels

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.

Confessions of a Married Ukranian

I don’t think I shared this when it happened, but in my epic fail trip to Boston, I met a guy on the bus on the way back. He is a Ukranian guy I’d met when he asked me about how to solve a Rubik’s cube (which I had been solving at the time). Bonding over Rubik’s cube solvage and a discussion about skydiving lead to us sharing emails and going on a bike ride a few weeks ago. 

It was awkward.

A fun ride in the park, of course, but very strange as far as unconfirmed first dates go. It was one of those ambiguous “hanging out” sessions where you just don’t know if it’s supposed to be a date, friendly, or a business connection.

Last night I didn’t really want to get together, but I’m on this new kick where I try to say “yes” to things as much as possible to be open minded (newflash to myself: if your instincts do not immediately say “yes”, do not say “yes”.) I had already said “yes” too many times. Last night was our second “hang out/ date/ wtf.”

I arrived at the Park Slope bar we had agreed to meet in. Some band he wanted to see was there. I was already crabby from being tired and also being lost in Park Slope, but I was trying to be cool. I figure at least I’ll have some wine, listen to good music, and be able to mention in person that I don’t see this continuing and just clear the air about the dating vs friend zone confusion. As soon as I got there, he tells me in broken English:

“So, I need make a confession to you. I am world’s worst liar.”

Me: “Okay. What are you talking about?”

Him: “I am 38 years old. I have marriage for 10 years. I have 8 year old daughter. I did not tell you this on purpose.”

Me: “Um. Yeah. I don’t remember any of this. Why didn’t you tell me?” (Fingers crossed that it’s just an oversight)

My second "date" was comparable to this.

Him: “Well, because from this perspective, it looks like I fall in love with you? I have bad sleep for weeks. I think of you all time. And my marriage I re-valuate. I am at that point in my life.”

Me (in head): What. The. Fuck? I am an accessory to a mid-life crisis.

Me (out loud): “Wow. Um. This is a lot to process.” 

I ended up drinking 2 more glasses of wine. Because, mainly, what ran through my mind was “I can’t wait to blog about this.” So much awkwardness. Sometimes I stay just to see what happens, and this was looking up from a content perspective. 

Him: “Would you like to listen to the band?”

We had come to hear the band. I’d assumed they were having a warm up session, but apparently the show had been going on for a while.

Me: “Sure.”

We went to the back to see the band. It sounded like 7 people throwing brass instruments down a well. Retrospectively, it was Brooklyn and they’re probably playing for free in a bar that is the size of Carrie Bradshaw’s walk in closet. A jam session is about what I should have expected.

Me: “Awesome.” (Apparently, I am actually the world’s worst liar.)

He ended up giving me a ride home since it was dark when we left. Due to a previous discussion we had had about Crème Brulee ice cream on our bike ride, he had bought me some. He had it wrapped up in some cold paper towels to keep it from melting. Just waiting in the car. 

Nothing creepy about any of this. Nothing at all.

Now today I’ll have to let him down in an email, throwing around terms like “inappropriate relationship” and hoping this doesn’t turn into something weird and stalker-y. This guy only knows the area I live in (I had him drop me on the corner) but hopefully he doesn’t wise up to which apartment. 

What immediately comes to mind was when I was in college and I used to get index cards and hair clips left in plastic bags on my car windshield in my apartment parking lot. Usually with cryptic notes like “I love you, Ponytail” on the index card. Never even figured out who left those, but let’s just say I’m very happy that I’ve never been kidnapped and forced into a trunk at knifepoint. Seems like that should have happened to me by now. 

Also, I think I am done with my “Yes Girl” thing.