Hi, I'm Interesting

One of my tragically un-LA traits is my penchant for walking. Call me crazy, but I would rather spend twenty minutes out in the open air than fifteen in a car, fighting traffic, searching fruitlessly for parking, and spending half my rent on valet.

This can make things a little awkward after a first date. 

Gentlemen generally attempt to insist upon walking me home. Sure, the stroll to my apartment is lovely, but their lonely hike back seems a tad cruel – especially after a somewhat recent occasion when one such manner-mindful lad apparently got a little lost mid-return. Oops.

Then there’s the sort of uncomfortable, I-swear-I’m-not-a-rapist-let-me-drive-you-backexchange. Cue: Louis C.K. monologue on the stupidity of women in this sort of situation. I usually accept. This one at least usually goes pretty smoothly from this point on.

Usually. Last week, things got a little…lumpy:

“Oh, here, let me go give him your valet ticket.”

“Oh, I actually just walked over.”

“Oh, well in that case, may I walk you back?”

(There were a lot of oh’s.)

“You don’t have to do that – it’s not really that close. Like, it’s close for a one-way meander, but I would feel bad making you solo-trek it back.”

(laughs) “Well, can I drive you? I mean, if you – or if you, well, if you would like?”

(I laugh(s)) “Sure, thanks. I mean, as long as you’re not going to like, rape and murder me along the way.”

Stilted laughter. Welp. 

En route, we discuss my preference for walking slash how I like to take that oxygen-infused time as an opportunity to  reply to emails/catch up on calls - scintillating convo material, I know. He drops me off. I safely enter my home. Easy, breezy, beautiful, call me a cover girl, right?

Not exactly. Two minutes later, this text téte-a-téte occurs:

 “I get it now. That was where you lived! I thought you intentionally parked 0.8 miles away so u could walk and right (sic) emails!! Ha. That being ur apt makes much more sense!”

 “Haha! You thought I was just some weirdo who parked blocks away? That’s kind of amazing.” (Probably should’ve gone with a different adjective here.)

 “I wouldn’t say weirdo. I would say oddball! Huge difference! An oddball does things differently but usually in an interesting way…”

Sooo…yes? Yes. Awesome. I would just like to note that this is the second time in a single month a potential new suitor has tagged me as interesting. I’m gonna go ahead and overthink that. 

…

Intriguing.  Interesting.

Editor’s Note: The author has chosen to skip right past the oddball bit for reasons of sanity maintenance. That’s all. 

Rhetoric...al

One Saturday evening, I’m on my way to meet a friend at Indochine for a quick bite. I’m somewhat dressed up, as I may be going to a birthday party later and don’t want to stop home to change. Perhaps it’s a touch early in the East Village for a mink coat, thigh-high stockings, 5 inch heels, and a seriously red lip. Guys feel the need to comment and stare as I concentrate on my BlackBerry whilst traversing the sidewalk at my elevated height of 6’4”.

One of them bids adieu to his friends and scurries to catch up and walk next to me. I hate when guys do that. Particularly because they are generally disgusting. I offer non-commital, sarcastic responses to his attempts at witty repartee, still refusing to look up from my BBM.

He takes off his furry cap and announces that I have to let him walk me where I’m going because (surprise!) it’s his birthday. I look up from my BlackBerry to ensure that he has a stellar view of my serious eye-roll at his lame offense. At this point, I realize that not only is he tall (6’3”) with a charming accent (British) but he is also apparently a good-looking dude. I qualify this statement with apparent for two reasons: 1. He sincerely believes he is. 2. I think I agree, but it is also night-time, and my blurry near-sightedness tends to skew towards the favorable. Regardless, I was suddenly interested and immediately more charming. We have a lovely walk, covering many pertinent topics, such as occupation (finance, obviously), residence (SoHo), poetry (Robert Frost), and the fact that we are both convinced that we have an enjoyable way with words. He is a bit condescending and cocky at times, but, to be fair, I do like a bit of a-hole in my dude, and he does retract all arrogant remarks once they have been countered with my look of death and sardonicism.

He makes several remarks involving the phrase, “next time”,  each time looking at me expectantly, which I choose to gloss over. I’m sorry. Be direct. Don’t make me do your work for you. He also asks what I’m doing that night. “Dinner and a birthday party. Obviously not yours.” I laugh.

He drops me off across the street from the restaurant. Yes, he thinks he’s dropping me off at a date, because, you know, I’m like really popular and super pretty and every guy is in love with me. He gives me a hug. Pause. “Well, it was lovely to meet you.” Pause. “You too, thanks for walking me to dinner.” Laugh. “Yeah. Well, I guess I will see you soon, then?” Pause. Expectant look. “Yeah, sounds good.” Laugh. Kiss on the cheek. Waltz across the street, into Indochine.

W. T. F.

I seriously have a problem. 

Shut up, cats.