You Think You Know...(but you have no idea)

In the 3rd floor women’s bathroom of the White Gravenor Building on Georgetown’s Red Square lied a veritable goldmine of information; a list of the most dateable guys at Georgetown, with colorful commentary like “minute man”, “totally full of it” and “total sleaze” next to their names. I relished paying this room a break during my History of Southeast Asia classes and memorizing the wise words on its walls. It was consistently updated and told me everything I needed to know.

How easy we had it then. In New York City, where there are about 4 million men, you have to pick up on little signals to rule people out. Last night at Ulysses for example, having some post client-meeting drinks, a man with a train schedule in hand approached and offered me a drink. In less than a second, I deduced that train schedule = he lives upstate = he is probably married = I am not going to be “that girl”…and I politely declined. It’s like pre-requisite math for girls in this city.

But what of those for whom no alarm tolls?

Ladies, consider this your White Gravenor stall, writ large.

They all started out the same- JR, Mr. Rude, Daniel, and He Who Shall not be Named : reserving corner tables in charming restaurants, opening doors, saying “I miss you” before you’ve even had a chance to remember their last names, and stroking your face whilst wondering aloud how it is that they ever found you. It sounds nauseating, sure, but after 5 Maker’s and Diet’s that’s all foreplay.

These should not have been considered elements of romance, surely; normal men needn’t resort to such cheese to ensure that we continue seeing them. They are, rather simply, signs of Mania. The heightened confidence, unparalleled energy, delusions of love, reckless desires- These are interchangeably symptoms of the disease and things we find “appealing” in a significant other - an indelibly frightening notion of which we should take note.

Alas, after 3 dates, or 3 weeks, or 3 months (bad things do come in threes), the depression sets in. Various accounts render “the other” becoming increasingly tired, antsy, depressive, and anti-sexual. The woman, being the saner of the two, comes to her senses and breaks off the relationship before the disease spreads to her, ever wondering aloud over eggs-benedict and bellinis where exactly it went wrong.

In the last few days I have been privy to a number of these stories. Perhaps far too many to count. Perhaps enough to make me go celibate if that were humanly possible. But perhaps the most excruciating story, and the one that deserves a big needless sharpie picture of a penis next to it, belongs to JR.

JR met a friend of ours, a stunning PR Director, at Tailor last week, and sparks flew immediately. He charmed her over to the next bar, charmed her into dinner, and then another dinner, and another. Things were going swimmingly, and she’d even gotten the combo face stroke/ “finding you” question, which she took seriously because one always wants to. Until this Tuesday’s dinner during which he appeared rather agitated for no reason, pleaded tiredness, and then asked her to pay her half (cardinal sin of sins). He mentioned that he’d be going to Canada the next day for the Easter weekend. And so being ever the lady, she sent him a message later in the evening when she got home, hoping he felt better soon and enjoyed his trip.

She was treated to the following response this morning:

“Yes, thanks, was pretty tired. Not going to Canada going to Jersey instead. (Editor’s note: your choice of vacation destinations is inspired) On another note, I don’t think you and I will work out. It was very nice spending time with you, but I am not feeling I want to explore it further. I am a moody lad I know. Sorry. Take care.”

Let’s try to put aside the fact that his nether regions have receded so far up into his abdomen that he didn’t exhibit the manhood to say as much in person. I take the most issue with him using the fact that he is moody as an excuse.

So here it is, my first (of many) stall entries:

JR, you fucking pissant. You aren’t “moody.” Moody is how I feel when I haven’t eaten in 12 hours, or my mother keeps calling and I don’t feel like answering, or my boss keeps asking me to make revisions on a stupid effing document even though I have to go on a date in like an hour. You, my friend, are BIPOLAR, and if you haven’t noticed, it’s not actually that hard to get pills in this city, so Get it Done, or find a way to stay manic all the time, cuz we sort of like that guy. K? THANKS.

** The actual text sent back to our dear JR…so priceless: “Fine, actually you will not work for me, I am so glad you brought it up first as I was a bit afraid how to broach the subject - have fun in jersey you big piece of shit.”

** Stay tuned, the stories just get better from here.