It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of a birthday evenly divisible by 40 is doomed. And so it was that I spent 2014 joyously blind dating.
Catch up at once! Rather than suffering through in real time, as, alas, I must:
We met at a hotel bar. No one really knows where to drink in New York; we all just want to go home. If only somebody loved us there.
It was not the worst line I have heard. It was dead average. He was average height and average looking with a heightened desperation that mirrored my own.
I asked him about his career.
Him: I hate my work.
Such profitable avenues for conversation foreclosed, I retreated to the one safe topic left in America: politics.
The night was young and I was not.
I mulled on the beauty of the evening, how lucky I am to have a glamorous life with an important job in the best city in the stratosphere. I am the rom-com heroine of my soul.
We all have our baggage. Sometimes a first date unpacks it.
Him: My ex was cheating on me, so I hacked into her computer to find out.
Me: You hacked her computer?
Him: Because she was cheating on me.
Me: But then you read her email.
The dating books say let men come to you. So I did.
Him: I really loved For All the Tea in China.
Him: You’re just like Tina Fey without the success.
And then a little more.
Him: You’re very smart.
Me: I am.
Him: What’s it like being so smart?
Me: It’s like getting a massage. Inside my skull.
I was desperate for champagne, nature’s Prozac. I cannot be pathetic on bubbles, I am dazzling and vital and full of shoes.
That made me giggle.
’Tis a pity he’s a zygote.
I was eager to get back to my apartment, alone.
The clock struck 2015. Maybe it will be my year.