opening day

I'm sitting in the courtyard outside school, basking in the warm afternoon air, celebrating the first day in I-don't-even-know-how-many-godforsaken-weeks that I've dared to leave the house without a coat. My friend Emma comes marching up and drops her bag dramatically at my feet. "Spring fever is REAL," she announces, without preamble.

"I can't get anything done," she goes on, in response to my lifted eyebrow. "I just want to make out all the time. And I'm always looking around...." She trails off as a guy in a v-neck tee shirt strolls past, nicely defined biceps on display.

I'm still sitting in the same place half an hour later when my friend Vijay walks by. He stops to chat about how nice the weather is, and it isn't more than 60 seconds before he declares happily, "It's Opening Day!"

"It's...what now?"

"Opening Day! The first really warm day of spring, when all the girls overcompensate by wearing booty shorts and...you know." Apparently he's been participating in an email chain with his buddies all morning discussing instances of this very phenomenon. I'm just as happy not knowing specifics.

But this all tallies pretty exactly with my experience last night, when I came home from a sunset run and shouted to my roommate, "Every hot guy in lower Manhattan is out jogging this evening! It is BEAUTIFUL!"

Spring's here at last. My first east coast winter was tough. But maybe it's time to get back in this game.

block

I talked to my grandparents on the phone tonight. My grandma asked me the same question she always asks: "Clare, dear, are you doing any writing?" And I said, as I usually do, "No, not lately. I really should."

"You should!" she answered. "You should be writing down how New York looks to you these days. So you'll remember."

As always, she's right.

But what to say?

a new trick

Some things that have happened to me this year, and my responses, none of which would have been my responses a few years ago:

- A man with whom I have exchanged maybe half an hour of conversation, ever, reached over at a bar one evening and casually smacked my ass.  "You have such a badonkadonk," he informed me.

I said, "I do, but you know, that's really not an invitation to touch it.  Do not do that again.  Excuse me."  And I left.

- A man who I was seeing turned all flaky, like they do when they're about to disappear.  The text messages continued apace, but the actual dates were suddenly in short supply.

I said, "Okay, okay, enough.  I've reached my limit on ambiguous texting.  I can't tell if you're trying to date me, or just hook up with me, or what.  I'm going to need you to clarify what's going on here."  Thus pressed, he said he thought we should stop seeing each other.  And without much angst at all, I wished him godspeed.

- A man who I was dating seriously was not moving to New York when I was.  He said, "I've thought about the possibility of doing long-distance, but I know how little either of us will be able to travel, and I've watched so many friends get badly hurt that way.  I don't think it's a good idea."

I said, "I know.  I've had all the same thoughts.  I agree."  And we cried, and kissed each other goodbye, and parted the way I've always hoped that grownup people do.

Maybe it's a newfound directness; maybe it's only a symptom of self-assurance.  In any case, of all the unlooked-for gifts that my late 20s have brought me so far, this one might be the best.

free lunch

I wrote this on April 7, 2011, and it's been languishing in my drafts ever since then.  It is still true.

This was one of the first things we learned in PR classes in college:  TNSTAAFL.  There's No Such Thing As A Free Lunch.

I begin to be amazed at the number of women out there who seem to be dating solely to get free lunches (and dinners, and drinks, &c &c).  I cannot for the life of me figure out why anyone would do that.  There is no worse way to spend dinner than struggling through a conversation with someone who genuinely doesn't interest you.

I can say, with a totally clear conscience, that I've never gone out with someone solely because I thought he would buy me food.  Give me scrambled eggs on the couch, any day.

mise en scène

Remember this?

Well, I went east.

Three years I'll be here, at a minimum.

Breathe fast: we're backing off the rim.

niche

We're getting ready for bed, and I have my back to the room, pulling the curtains closed.

From behind me, a voice: "Your butt in pajamas might be my favorite thing ever."

I snerk, turning around. From the waist down, I am built along Kardashian lines, in that inescapable genetic way that no diet or exercise will ever change. "I'm glad you think so," I tell him, "because my butt caters to a niche market."

He throws up his hands and announces happily, "I am your niche!"
    

Sometimes it's just that simple, you know?

way to my heart

Him, 2:21 pm:  Just leaving a lunch at the presidents' home.  I'm 
               important.

Him, 2:23 pm:  But not good at grammar.

Forget sexting.  This is the type of text that totally undoes me.