Summer In The City
I've told nearly all of this story in bits and pieces throughout this blog. In fact, this story was the one that convinced me I needed to start writing.
I don't believe that the entire world needs to hear what I have to say (though if you are on my Whatsapp broadcast chat you may not believe me.) So then, why write a blog? Why share the personal experiences and my personal lessons from each with anyone with an internet connection?
First of all, some are too strange to be believed. Those I share to help myself to see the humor and to hopefully send a message to whoever is reading that we are in this together.
The others I share because putting them together in a readable format, instead of me going **** this **** in his **** when **** up your **** got that *****************? gives me the opportunity to find the silver lining. You may think from my spectacular writing that I am just full of these lessons and connections. Not so much. It takes sitting down with the intention of sharing my story to hone the humor and the power of what I've been chosen to experience.
But #37, or Seinfeld, was....a doozy.
I was at the airport, picking up my brother who had been on a highly illegal program where boys learned together during July of COVID despite it being July of COVID. My phone kept buzzing in my pocket, and I assumed my mother was calling me to tell me there was traffic on the way home. During July of COVID this would have meant 7 cars over the 20 miles of highway we would cross. You could bike on those highways. But, if you fell off your bike and broke your ankle do not go to the hospital. It's full of COVID patients being looked after by brand new residents who learned how to put on casts on broken ankles via Zoom. Learn how to put on your own cast via YouTube or the new Netflix show "How to do Complex Medical Procedures on Yourself."
My phone is buzzing away and it isn't my mother, it's an unknown number texting me again and again, like a child who has been given coffee which is for grownups. The texts looked something like this:
I found your name on REDACTED and I think you are the girl for my brother!!!!!
He's a lawyer, VERY well off. (Archer: She really texted me that, I'm not making this up)
He learns a lot but also is normal he can quote Seinfeld!!!!
He needs someone normal and smart and pretty just like you!!!!
I'm REDACTED by the way!!!!
Please let me know what you think!
After a long sojourn at home, waiting out the pandemic I decided that the more imminent threat of death came not from disease but from myself murdering my parents and siblings in their sleep or vice versa because they asked me to clean the same area twice when I already said I WOULD DO IT WHEN I FINISHED THIS PUZZLE AND MOVIE FROM 1978.
I returned to New York and agreed to go out with Seinfeld, feeling hopeful that the overenthusiastic sister and I would eventually bond and that she understood my hashkafa.
Seinfeld picked me up and we drove down to the Upper West Side where he was shocked to discover there was no parking. It could be because the last time anyone on the UWS moved their cars was March and now it was August but I was still optimistic and continued to encourage his quest to find parking. After thirty minutes we paid for a lot.
We walked into a restaurant with outdoor seating that did require masks at any point one wasn't sitting down. This was because everywhere required masks at that point, there was still nightly cheering for hospital staff.
But Seinfeld refused to wear one. Once we were seated (the restaurant needed the money more than they needed to stay safe) I asked him why he hadn't brought a mask. He claimed that the pandemic was a hoax.
So there was that.
It was a hoax made up by left wingers to get Trump out of office, according to this guy, which is, you know, a pretty solid hoax that maybe went too far once the first 100K people died.
I asked if we could avoid politics and he helpfully pointed out that there isn't anything other than politics to talk about.
Like in the entire world.
At this point I decided to get a burger instead of a salad because I didn't care if this guy saw me with ketchup and pickles dripping down my chin. I didn't care if he saw me dressed as a guy with a full mustache for my high school play. I did not need him in my life.
He was burnt out and tired of girls and had found shelter with the other angry people of the world in politics and conspiracy theories and suspicion.
I was tired of feeling like a child because I had to run to my parents in the pandemic. I was tired of feeling separated from my life. I had found shelter with puzzles and Tiger King and scrolling liberal twitter.
We didn't connect.
A cab passed us with an ad on it for Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. He asked me if I had seen that show. I explained to him that that show is new testament and I am Jewish. He told me he was dating a girl who really wanted to see it and that he surprised her with tickets and then she dumped him after.
Yikes I feel bad for that girl.
My love language is quality time for a reason. When someone gets me a gift I feel trapped, as if I am now obligated to give them something back. If a guy surprised me with expensive tickets to my dream show (which is NOT Cursed Child) I'd probably have to let him go to third base just to assuage myself of the guilt.
Meanwhile this guy, who CHOSE to get those tickets to show his feelings, is telling this to other first dates months later. So he's worked out his issues.
The last thing he said, as we were turning on to my street, was "Wow, I think I know a girl who hates me in all of these buildings."
I waited for him to break up with me via text and it never came. I reached out to him and said "Hi, I don't think we need to continue this, but I wish you luck!" and he said "Yes."
This didn't wound me as much as it entertained me.
All of this entertained me. I had left New York dating and I came back to find it worse, weirder, less hopeful. Was there nothing I could do about these little slights?
So I began to think about writing down a note here or there about what proper expectations for a date are and why we aren't quite meeting them.
Last week I was typing my exes names into Bed Bath and Beyond's registry to see if any of them had gotten married. And Seinfeld had finally found his girl.
Once I googled her and determined that it wasn't a looks thing I was quite happy for them both. I hope he released some of his anger and found corresponding (insane) political opinions in her. I hope she likes it when he buys her stuff. I hope they can find a building to live where the neighbors don't already hate him.
I'm still here. I'm still writing. When will it be my turn?