I just discovered this ridiculous blog via Vie and trust me this girl knows her blog shit. Please read the story below as I’m sure all the ladies (and probably some fellas can relate. Then, check out their blog and read the entire thing. It’s that good…and that real.
We met at a rooftop party in SoHo during one of the first inclement days of summer. He was tall enough to catch my eye, and young enough that I was sure of my upper hand. We spent the rest of the evening in stereotypical Manhattan behavior- nearly missing each other at each of our following venues.
He unsuccessfully tried to meet me at Provocateur (toughest door in the city), I pity-followed him to Greenhouse, where I walked right in but couldn’t suss him out amongst the sweaty B & T. He valiantly offered to meet me at Rose Bar, but I knew he couldn’t get in and saved him the trouble.
We planned to meet at another rooftop, Highbar, the following week. I accidentally walked right past him. I should’ve left then.
Instead, we spent several weeks together, meeting for dinner and drinks, tanning in Central Park, hitting jazz bars, and lounging around, talking about our lives. After a month of bi-weekly dates, I met him to celebrate my brand new job offer. He toasted me over champagne, and I hinted that the celebration wasn’t over yet.
We tumbled into a cab together after a few too many cucumber martini’s worked their way through my system. (I’m no good at brand-new sex, I always need a pre-coital cocktail to calm my nerves). Once upstairs in his large, modern, FiDi apartment, I stall by taking a call from my best friend, chatting nervously. He finally takes the phone from my hand and puts it down. We begin to kiss and undress…
I wake the next morning to him sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully brushing my hair from my face…such a sweet, unexpected gesture for a budding relationship. I wake slowly and roll over to him. He kisses me hello and tells me to enjoy sleeping in, as he works punishing bankers hours and has to be out by 6 am.
When I rouse myself at 9, I notice that he has quite obviously left his bank statement out on the nightstand with the total number facing up, in big bold letters. Having dated my fair share of bankers, I know this move all too well. Every banker whose house I’ve awoken in has found a way to prominently display his net worth in a completely obvious manner. I call it his “Deal-Sealer”. Men seem to think this is all women need to know.
Of course, the figure doesn’t seal the deal for me, (but it certainly doesn’t hurt).
Over the next few weeks, I notice his work has begun to pick up. Sure, we still see each other, just not with the regularity to which I had become accustomed. He sends me sweet texts daily, so I resolve to be understanding about his work hours. After all, if you want to date a successful man in the city, you have to put up with certain inconveniences.
Then there was the time I went all the way down to his apartment only to find he’d fallen asleep and I was locked out. And the time I gathered my friends to meet him, only to have him be a no-show. And finally, the time I canceled all my Labor Day plans to go to his beach house… but ended up tanning in Central Park, alone, because of a work emergency.
Still, I was somewhat mollified when the beach trip materialized the following weekend. I packed my bikini and Prosecco in the car with him & his friends, and we were off. I was looking forward to his place on the water and a fun night out. When we arrived, I realized I really was dating a 27-year-old boy. The house was obviously a rental and so run down that it felt like a necessity to keep my shoes on at all times, including the shower—especially the shower.
Regardless, I made the best of it, joking with his fratty friends, taking shots of Jager and trying to socialize long enough that it wouldn’t be too awkward when I pulled him into the bedroom. Apparently, I cannot hold my alcohol like a college girl any longer, because I totally blacked out. I woke up next to him in the morning and confessed that I didn’t remember a single detail of the night before. I apologized for what I was sure was my bad behavior but he insisted I had done nothing untoward. Still, it was disconcerting that I didn’t remember we’d had sex four times (according to him).
We spent the afternoon on the beach, throwing the football around with his friends and splashing in the water. He brought Thoreau to the beach and we engaged in a spirited political discussion. I started to think that perhaps there was more to him than I thought. Maybe, he could be great boyfriend material.
He walked me to the train, holding my hand the whole way. He handed me the ticket, tilted my face to his, and held it in his hands. He kissed me deeply and said, “Don’t worry, we have the whole summer”.
I knew immediately that it was over.
The following Wednesday, I stood in head-to-toe Dolce & Gabbana, waiting for him to pick me up at 10. At 9:30, he texted me saying “It looks like it’s going to be 10:30”.
10:30 came and went.
At 11:30, I took off my makeup and hung my clothes, and crawled into the safety of my covers. He wasn’t going to call. He wasn’t going to come over.
I would never see him again.
This, ladies, is the classic New York Fadeout, and there is only one way to survive it. DELETE.
There is no point in playing the what-if game. (What if he lost his phone? What if he was hit by a car? What if he was in a freak accident rendering his thumbs unable to text?)
Let me save you the trouble right now… he’s FINE. Maybe he never really liked you, maybe he just wanted to get laid, maybe he lost interest, maybe he’s afraid because he likes you so much (this one is highly unlikely, but popular amongst the slighted).
The best thing to do is delete him before he can delete you, move on, and vow to never speak of him again.
Welcome to dating in Manhattan
How awesome are these ladies???