City Time

Time is such an abstract concept. I'm not the only person to ever think about a specific dynamic related to time, but I have been thinking a lot about it recently. It's been described more precisely and better by others, and I'm not even willing to enter that competition, but the following is how I have reduced time in my head lately.

Sure, the seconds flutter away into minutes. The minutes sweep across the face of a clock into hours. The hours fade into sunrises and sunsets. Time - it's constantly moving, but I take comfort in the regularity of the progress.

In the city people are always racing against time, moving in a choreographed ballet along the sidewalks. They embrace the concept of perpetual motion and appear to be moving in a controlled rush to get somewhere. However, time slows to a snail's pace with regards to relationships. It isn't uncommon to meet a woman in her mid-thirties, who is unwed (read, single) and appears to be content. Maybe she hides it well, but her suburban counterpart is sprinting to the finish line with a husband and children in her minivan to Wal-Mart. One isn't right and the other wrong, they're just different. Funny how living in a city will make you think about time.

Mad Libs

"Men in New York City suck!" Drink a different beer at a different bar - rinse & repeat ad nauseam. I have empathy for your plight. I really do, because people fundamentally want to find a mate (it's instinctual). Unfortunately for you every guy plays some variation of the following Mad Libs game when you expose the reason you aren't worthy of his affection: You're good, but you're not (blank) enough. You're not smart enough, attractive enough, fit enough, wealthy enough, creative enough, active enough, sane enough, holy enough, liberal enough, etc.

It's terrible, but it's true. You're aware of the immense competition that Gotham breeds because you subscribe to Timeout New York and Cosmopolitan, convinced that the answers are scattered within those pages. Think of it as an admissions process to get into Harvard, where the institution has all of the leverage in the situation, because after all it's Harvard. Multiple candidates got 1600 on their SATs, graduated in the top of their high school class with a 4.0, were in student government, and played sports. So how do you set yourself apart? Aside from being a published author at the tender age of 13, it's extremely difficult to distinguish yourself. You are faced with two choices: 1) don't apply to Harvard, or 2) differentiate yourself. Same holds true with men in Manhattan.

Is it really that hard to comprehend that you don't physically match up to the girl next to you at the bar, who gets paid to look the way she does (and often times is half naked in those magazines that you worship)? We call that a model, and they are abound in this city. I take back my previous statement: It's not difficult. It's damn near impossible. It's sickening that you'll never be enough. Perhaps you can individuate yourself by having a positive attitude for a change and refrain from using the opening quote (even if everyone knows it couldn't be more fitting). Then again, there's always Match.com.

Ideological Shift

I was so naive. No, stupid is more accurate. Maybe it's because I'm from a tiny town in Connecticut, where I went to a small high school. I knew everyone in the high school, better yet I knew their siblings and went to church with their families on Sundays. I couldn't "just sleep" with a girl because I feared the consequences, like having to deal with her family or the gossip that is assumed in such a close-knit community. I went to college and abandoned life under the microscope in homogeneous suburbia, but couldn't rid my mind of the consequences that inevitably followed sex. Maybe it's because I took pride in having a certain reputation or not being considered a man-whore, but I still could not separate the physical act from the relationship.

Now I'm 24 years old. I live in the immediate vicinity of more than three million people and I couldn't be further from the concept of community. As a result I can see things clearly. Sometimes sex is just that and completely void of emotion. I am getting used to the idea of sleeping with someone and never bothering to text again. I guess it's the nature of the beast and certainly isn't limited to the male psyche (here at least). There's an unapologetic divorce between the carnal need to be physically quenched versus working towards a sustainably healthy relationship that characterizes NYC. It's refreshing. It's not a rule, but I sense that it's pervasive. Maybe the collective thought is that NYC is just a phase for many (both male and female), not meant to be home or a place to settle and many look to take advantage of the temporary nature of living here. I don't blame them. So every time I relapse and start thinking about feelings, I just drown myself with another beer.

Pseudo-douche observation: being a guy in NYC is great. The term relative is such an advantage. NYC is the land of excesses: wealth, health, looks, materialism, etc. Douches are abound in NYC in excess, and by douches I mean the Hall of Fame of douches. It's such a comforting thought to know that single men have a statistic advantage with attractive NYC women. Beyond that, it's great to know that as much of an asshole as I can be, I know that I couldn't hold a candle to some of the amazing tool bags that this city has to offer (read: relative). I sleep warm at night knowing that at my very worst I can't come close to battling some of these heroes for the famed crown of King of Douches.

I know some of you will read this and struggle to keep the vomit from entering your mouth, but it's the truth. I truly empathize with those that are looking for Mr./Mrs. Right in this city, but statistically the probability of success isn't very favorable for your kind.

Hot Sauce

Recently living in Gotham has been a daily test of humility - shoving mounds of feces in my face, what with rent, bonuses on Wall Street, and this miserable precipitation. Sometimes she puts some Frank's Hot Sauce on it to mask the taste, like when I close the bar at 4AM and go eat at the 24 hour diner, it makes the excrement much more palatable.

Preemptive Penning

Dear Future Ex(es),

It's probably best to start at the beginning. I apologize. I wasn't always like this. If I jog my memory enough I can remember a time when I thought "chivalry" had a definition and wasn't the punchline of a heartbreaking joke. At one point in time I was capable of contributing equally to a healthy relationship, but I fell. Some argue I fell from grace. Wherever the origin, the result is what many PhDs consider an "emotional cripple." I remember when I used to smile a lot and was quick with a joke. Now I excuse my overall demeanor and outlook by naming the city where I reside, hoping people will walk by and overlook me like a homeless beggar in the subway station. I wish I could have introduced you to the 13 year old version of me. Unfortunately for both you and me, that was the best I'll ever be. What can I say? I peaked early and I was still stupid enough to think that there was someone out there for me. Someone like my Mom, but you know, not my Mom. I wish I could look at you and get lost in you for hours, but those visions are tainted by projections of the worst qualities of those before you, which have manifested in my mind. You didn't know this at the time, but you never stood a fighting chance because I'm so jaded and I'm completely neurotic. Maybe living in NYC when I was younger made me callous and in retrospect it probably wasn't a great idea. I know this doesn't excuse me or begin to explain why we didn't work, but fate can be so definite.

Sincerely,
S.A. (24 years old, living in UES)