Two Truths and A Lie

Reveal At Your Own Risk

Whoever said, “the truth shall set you free,” obviously wasn’t keeping that scandalous a secret in the first place—

Nor was that person dating in Manhattan.

When you live in the “center” of it all, there is an inherent need to know it all—happy hour hotspots, the best pizza place, where to buy the same shoes for less money, and the list goes on. But when it comes to finding a mate in Manhattan, how much do you really want to know, and more so, how much can you afford to tell?

I’m not preaching dishonesty by any means, but if honesty means that one cannot withhold a little information, then perhaps it’s not the best policy after all.

This is especially true when you’re trying to let someone down easy, or worse, when someone is trying to do the same for you. Recently, my friend bemoaned the fact that a guy she had briefly dated still texted her randomly now and then (aka “led her on”), but never had the courage to tell her directly that he didn’t want to have a relationship with her. My friend felt that this guy should have taken the mature route of telling her that he just wanted to be friends. “Well, what if he doesn’t want to be friends with you?” I asked. “What if he really doesn’t want anything to do with you?”

She seemed a bit taken aback, having never considered such a bleak outcome. “I wouldn’t like that,” she said firmly.

And I can’t say that I blame her. Weeks ago, two of my friends had the brilliant (read: harebrained) idea of signing me up for an online dating site because they were both on it and apparently thought it was the best thing since j-date (no comment). They proceeded to make me a profile and then rate my potential matches on a scale of one-five, five being the highest level of attraction. When I received my first e-mail from the Web site (about 10 minutes later), they leapt in front of the computer in excitement, urging me to open it up. I did so, only to find that the Web site was alerting me to a “mutual burn,” which meant that a guy I had rated a “one” had given me a “one” too. Ouch. Wasn’t online dating supposed to be a feel-good, limited disclosure venue for dating in Manhattan? If this less than favorable exchange had taken place in a bar, it would have involved a momentarily glance, if even that, not a written document that eyed me smugly from my inbox!

Of course, when things do actually work out, the stakes get a bit higher, and suddenly, one person asks the other one what their number is—cell phone unrelated. And, if I may be honest for a moment here, it’s usually we ladies that initiate this question. We do this for two reasons: #1 We are curious and #2 We want to “make sure” that we will not be sleeping with a bonafide manwhore (and, if the man in question IS a manwhore, we want to have time to create a seemingly sensible argument for why sleeping with a manwhore is okay and we needn’t be concerned/guilty/worried about STDs. Note: arguments usually come in varying degrees of weakness). In the end though, how much will this information help us? Do we really need to know how many people our partner has been with to make an educated decision about our next course of action? Is this guy even telling the truth?

The ironic thing about telling the truth is that people hear what they want to anyway, regardless of what you tell them, supporting the fact that true communication isn’t what you say, it’s how what you say is received by others.

So go on. Facebook stalk the ex-girlfriends of your current lover. Google that guy in the bar to see if he truly works at a law firm. Reveal your actual number.

But be forewarned, in Manhattan, the truth doesn’t set you free.

It just makes you a bit more neurotic.


Hi fellow blog readers! Apologies that it has taken me so long to post an entry, but thanks for sticking in there and constantly asking me when the next entry would be posted! Also, a promised shout-out to a college friend who has bookmarked my blog and made a point of randomly telling me this at a bar one night—much appreciated. I’m now back to my weekly posting schedule, so stay tuned for more entries! ~Z

Zailyah is Leaving Town! (Just For A Bit)

Hi Fellow Blog Readers,

I know, I know, I was due for an entry this week, and here it is, Thursday night, and I have not yet delivered. My excuse? Italy...

...and I think that it's a pretty good one. I've been very busy preparing for my trip, so while I love all things Manhattan, I do admit that my mind has been drifting off lately to thoughts of cool gelato, small piazzas, peaceful sunsets and beautiful men.

Of course, you know how the old adage goes: You can take the girl out of Manhattan, but you can't---

Or can you?

More updates when I get back :)

Taking A Bite Out Of The Big Apple

Welcome to The Garden of Ego

I dare you—yes, you—to walk up to that guy at the other end of the bar and see if you can get him to buy you a drink. The fact that you already have a beer in your hand is irrelevant. Let’s be honest, it’s not the drink that you’re after.

Then again, it may not be the guy either.

We move to New York City because we want it all—the high-paying job, spacious apartment, and, to complete the package, the trophy guy (who also happens to be compassionate, exciting, loyal and witty—not too much to ask). All of these factors somehow contribute to our happiness. The more that we are able to achieve here, the better we feel about ourselves. To put it bluntly—forget the Big Apple. This is the city of the Big Ego. Period.

But sometimes, the ego isn’t about what you have. Rather, it’s about what you could have—if you really wanted it. Think about it. Aren’t there those times when you flirt with someone not because you want a relationship or even a hook-up, but just because you want to see if that person will be receptive to you on a sexual level? In New York City, flirting is a favorite sport, and once we’ve realized that the (excuse the pun) ball is in our court, we may begin to lose interest in the guy. In our mind, whether or not anything happens may not matter. Just knowing that if we wanted to, we could hook up with that guy, is sometimes all that we need to validate ourselves and boost our ego. And in a city that attracts so many young people similar to ourselves, ego-boosting moments may be more prevalent than we realize.

Case in point: A few months ago I went out with two of my guy friends to a bar in the East Village. My one friend, who likes to espouse his theories on mating and the male-female dynamic, kept telling me that it’s not what a guy says that ropes a girl in, it’s how he says it. Challenging him to put his theories to good use, I dared him to walk across the bar to a group of five girls and actively engage them in conversation. At best, he would get a phone number, and at worst, they would roll their eyes at him in that typical, female “why-do-you-even-bother?" way (yes, I’m guilty of it too). Fortunately, he came out somewhere in between. But in retrospect, even if he had received a phone number, he probably wouldn’t have even called—his ego would have already won.

This behavior is by no means limited to single individuals. I’ve seen people in otherwise strong relationships flirt for “food” (ego-food, that is) many a time. I went out to a bar with a few friends one night, one of whom was dating someone. This friend of mine met a really good-looking guy while she was there and ended up talking to him for the better part of the evening. When we finally left the bar, she was bothered by the fact that he didn’t get her number. “But why?” I asked. “You have a boyfriend and you wouldn’t have even picked up the phone had this guy called.” Nevertheless, even as I was saying this to her, it was obvious that we were both thinking the same thing. The reality was that she didn’t want the guy at the bar. She never wanted him—just to know that he wanted her.

Of course, there are those times when we actually do want something more than a quick ego-boost and may unexpectedly find ourselves engaging with someone who is looking for just that. It’s always a sobering and somewhat disappointing realization when the seemingly steady guy on your “relationship radar” makes it clear that he was just in it for the thrill of the chase (and capture) and didn’t actually intend to follow through with anything. He was just flirting for sport (and as for me, I’ve never been a great athlete).

In the end, I’ve come to realize that the ego doesn’t feed off of any real substance. Instead, it seeks nourishment in the grand ideas of what you as a person “could be” and or “could achieve.” The ego dines on shortcuts, small victories; someone buying you a drink, complimenting your looks, praising your intellect, or even just smiling at you and making you feel noticed.

One might say that the ego feeds off of Manhattan.

Because here, it really doesn’t matter what you do…

Just that, in theory, you could do it.

Table For One

The Art of Being Alone

Table for one, please?

This past weekend I was in DC for business, to help run an event that was supposed to take place on Saturday, 9/6 and Sunday 9/7. I arrived on Thursday, and for the next two days helped set up for the event and ensure that all logistics had been worked through prior to Saturday. However, as a result of hurricane Hanna, the event was consolidated into Sunday, giving me a full day to myself to explore DC. My one co-worker who was there with me was otherwise pre-occupied, and I realized, to my initial dismay, that I do not have any friends (I don’t think?) in DC.

It happens to all of us from time to time, whether we’re in a neighboring city, abroad, or even at home in Manhattan. We find ourselves alone at a point in time when we do not necessarily need or want to be alone. Sometimes it’s unexpected, or even unwelcome. But as single gals in the big city (and even those who are not single), it’s important that we learn the difference between being alone and being lonely. “Alone” is just a physical state of being and does not need to have a negative connotation, whereas “lonely” is a crippling state of mind. Fortunately, the good thing about a “state of mind” is that it doesn’t exist in the physical world. In other words, loneliness is all in our head.

There are, in fact, a lot of benefits to being by yourself every now and then, whether it’s the random conversation that you strike up in a museum with the cute guy beside you, the ability to dine and think only about the taste of your food, to go shopping on your own watch, or to enjoy the small, quiet moments in the day whose existence you had forgotten.

For example, I remember one weekend going solo to the MOMA. About 15 minutes into my visit, I found myself staring at a completely blue canvas that, in my humble opinion, wasn’t deserving of a space on the wall. Apparently, the good-looking gentleman next to me didn’t think so either, and we were soon in a deep conversation on non-art in prominent museums. Granted, he was from some far off place (Alaska, was it? Or do I just have politics on my mind…) and was leaving the next morning for another city, but hey, who says that the next single guy wasn’t just another exhibit away?

There was also the time in Siena, Italy when I took myself out to lunch in the center of the city, or “Piazza del Campo,” and decided to write for the afternoon. Perhaps it was the scenery around me, the Johnny Depp look-alike smoking cigarettes at the next table, or the fact that Italian food is just that good, but all of my senses were just so heightened, and I found myself observing tiny details that I would have otherwise taken for granted—like how the Italians steam their milk before they put it in their coffee, or how people take the time to eat their food as though it deserves their attention, or the incredibly thick hot chocolate that puts the brown liquid in America to shame. (Wait. Am I talking about being alone or why I love Italy? On a side note, I am going back to Italy at the end of the month—it will be the first time since my semester abroad!)

The truth is, the people with whom we associate bring out various qualities in ourselves, so that we may act more artsy-fartsy-tree-hugger with one friend and more conservative and even-keeled with another. But when you’re alone, it’s you for you. In many cases, you’re more open to new experiences and to befriending people you might otherwise overlook. When you’re by yourself, it’s up to you which qualities you want to shine that day/night, and what kinds of people you want to meet (if any at all).

And it’s not like you need to go so far as putting on your shortest dress and highest heels and positioning yourself in a bar to see which guys buy you a drink on Saturday night in DC (which was the advice of one of my friends, who said that it should be a “social experiment” that I discuss in this blog), but I am giving you permission to take yourself out to dinner one night—which I ended up doing Saturday night in Georgetown.

And as I sat eating my candied walnut and strawberry salad at La Madeleine, a charming French café and bakery, looking out at the people walking the streets that night, I felt a profound sense of peace at being by myself…

And being in such good company.

Don’t Cry Over Spilled Beer

The Girl’s Night Out Gone Wrong

In the immortal words of Dane Cook, there are some nights when we gals “just wanna dance.”

Sometimes on these nights, we may also want to meet men, shun men, catch up on one another’s lives, hear the latest gossip, have a full-out venting session, or give some face time to the hot new shoes we purchased—on sale, no less—last week.

All pay homage to the “girl’s night out,” where trips to the bathroom are a group activity and incredibly loud, high-pitched, and completely unnecessary squeals and shrieks are allowed and even encouraged throughout the course of the evening.

Of course, with so many places to go in Manhattan on any given night, it’s easy to become jaded on a girl’s night out, angered over poor service at a restaurant or aggravated by the five dollar cover charge you could swear wasn’t in place last weekend.

So for all of those girls who have been frustrated by a girl’s night out gone wrong, I think that it’s time we take a deep breath [insert breath here] and remind ourselves why we’ve remained loyal followers of this nocturnal occasion for so many years.

#1 The Girl’s Night Out Is Strictly For The Girls
Several months ago, one of my friends and I went out to a bar one night with no real intention of meeting any guys. We just wanted to catch up, grab a few beers and yes, if the music called for it, dance. But instead of leaving us to our secluded conversation, a few guys came over and attempted to dance with us. My friend and I declined simply by saying that it was a "girl’s night out." And suddenly, just like that, those three magical words became the euphemistic replacement for the three words that we really meant and didn’t feel like actually saying at the moment, that is, “I’m not interested.” (Unfortunately, we did have to translate for one or two.)

#2 The Girl’s Night Out Is A Great Time To Meet Guys
On the flip side of things, if you’re out with the girls and there is a guy that interests you, it’s okay to pull away from the larger group to speak with him. What better time to meet a guy than with an army of wing women ready to back you up? The beauty of a girl's night out is that it is endlessly versatile—depending on your intentions for the evening. And, of course, guys can never hold it against a girl if her intentions seem to change from one prospect to the next. (After all, it is called a girl’s night out for a reason. We call the shots—and drink them too.)

#3 Who Needs A Therapist When You Have This?
With drama therapy, art therapy and music therapy carving out significant spaces for themselves in the world of feeling good, why haven’t we ever formally recognized the implicitly therapeutic feel of a girl’s night out. G-NO therapy (read “g-no” not “gyno”) runs rampant all over Manhattan, and while there’s nothing so liberating as shamelessly unloading all of our weekly baggage onto our best girlfriends, it seems as though we have never given credit where credit is due. There’s no shame in therapy, especially this kind—G-NO therapy is the cheapest form of therapy in all of Manhattan.

The truth is, that in spite of those girl’s nights out gone wrong, for many of us, it’s difficult to live without them for too long without really missing them.

So the next time you embark on a girl’s night out, disregard the inebriated tiara-wearing bachelorette who spills her beer on your new shoes, the waiter who insists that you’re wrong, that the salad does not come with your dinner, or the creepy middle-aged man who “just happens” to keep placing himself near you at the bar.

All in all, it’s a small price to pay for an outing with so much potential. And at the end of evening, don’t girls just wanna have fun?

Of course they do.

And in Manhattan, we girls know how to do it best.

The Unwanted Manhattan Roommate

And Other Tests of True Love

When a relationship goes sour, those involved will often say that the qualities they initially loved about the other person are the very things that they now can’t stand. Suddenly, the guy who was “ so laid back, I love it” is now “perpetually lazy,” and the girl who was “really confident, it’s so refreshing” is now “ always so full of herself.” Of course, there are other times when, because we care deeply for a person, we try and overlook the less pleasing aspects of their personality and instead focus on all of the positive things that they have to offer. If the relationship is a healthy one (and sometimes it isn’t), then the good will outweigh the fact that he makes weird sucking sounds with his teeth after meals, or has a habit of shaving his beard over the sink and leaving the evidence for us to find later, or insists on changing his seat/table at least twice at a restaurant before deciding upon his preferred view, as though “facing in” or “facing out” is a decision worthy of this high level of contemplation.

But what about when your significant other is Manhattan?

I admit--I love Manhattan. I’ve always wanted to live here and I’m so happy now that I do. But I’ll also be honest and state that this love has come at an enormous cost (besides my entire hard-earned salary)! From a distance, and as love goes, Manhattan sparkled. Everything about it was superior, glamorous, and well—nearly perfect. But now, living here for over a year, I’ve noticed its less than flattering qualities, and for just a moment, I would like to rant about them in all of their unfortunate glory.

1. The Unwanted Roommate
I’m not talking about that random girl on Craigslist that you decided would be a decent human being with whom to live, and instead morphed overnight into a crazed lunatic that calls you out every time you forget to refill the Brita pitcher. Or the acquaintance/friend from high school or college that you thought would make the transition to Manhattan a bit easier and has now affixed herself to you like the parasite you never knew she was and wish you never knew--period. I’m talking about the huge cockroach that greeted you last night when you came into your apartment slightly intoxicated at 3:00am. Or the mouse that squeaked its way into your living room while your roommate was watching The Hills and made her scream so loud that you thought there had been some exciting twist in today’s plot (nah…I wouldn’t go that far). I mean, let’s be realistic here. If these rodents aren’t paying rent, then I don’t want them here. And if they are paying rent, well, then I have an even more serious problem on my hands—and my floor.

2. The Giant Rat Outside My Apartment
Did you ever leave your apartment building one morning and discover a giant blow-up rat waiting for you right outside the lobby? When most people stage a protest of sorts, signs and banners are usually adequate props to get your point across. So is it really necessary for all of us innocent bystanders to witness such a grotesque creature towering over us on our way to work in the morning? Don’t we see enough of these critters in the subway?

3. I see London, I see France…
I was riding in the elevator up to my apartment one day and happened to step inside at the same time as a man who had a cart filled with laundry. I looked down at the pile of laundry for no real reason at all, and the man gave me a steady nod. “Yup, so much for glamorous Manhattan living,” he said, as a linty argyle sock fell haplessly to the floor. I just smiled and nodded back at him. When he left the elevator, a few floors before my own, I wondered if it degraded him in some way to have me see all of his clothing sitting wrinkled in a pile before me, kind of like when you can see backstage at a show and realize the effort that goes into the product. It’s kind of--well--disappointing at times. But more so, its kind of unnecessary. Do I really want to know that the girl on the eighth floor has "days of the week" underwear? Or that the guy on the fifth floor chooses briefs over boxers? This thought never crossed my mind in college. Back then, seeing someone’s laundry didn’t seem to matter one way or the other. I mean, so what? Who cares? We all wear underwear—what’s the big deal? Then again, these days, you don’t find me walking down the hall in a shower towel.

The list could go on—weird stenches on the subways, crowded subways, “it’s-the-weekend-and-after-25-minutes-I’m-still-waiting-for-a-subway” subways. And of course, there’s always the issue of every single taxi being occupied at the very moment I choose to hail one.

But, after all of the complaints, all the exhausted rants, it’s still Manhattan. It’s still the place where I’ve chosen to be.

Besides, where else can you find a 24-hour Duane Reade on every other block?

Yes, the subways may be packed to the brim with too many people and the strong smell of body odor, but at least I can buy dental floss at 3:00am. Right?

Let me tell you something…that’s love.

Selling The Single Girl

The Undercover Culture of Manhattan Matchmaking

At night, my doorman doubles as a matchmaker.

This became apparent to me last weekend. I came home on Saturday night at around 1:00am, after realizing that I was too tired and too sober to brave a night down in the “Who-needs-personal-space-anyway?” meatpacking district. My doorman, an older, heavyset grandfather type who always makes me feel like my building is truly my home, told me that next Saturday night there would be a party on the floor directly above mine, hosted by a young, Jewish, MIT graduate (which is basically how my doorman phrased it), and that my roommates and I should definitely stop by and check it out. He emphasized that this MIT graduate was a good guy and that a lot of “different types” of people came to his parties.

Was my doorman trying to set me up? It did appear that way.

But it’s not just him. It seems like a favorite pastime of New Yorkers is encouraging us single gals to realize romantic opportunity in virtually everything we do. In a city that is founded upon the possibility to do great things, we are constantly bombarded by the possibility to meet the next guy, or if our appointed matchmaker is feeling really ambitious, “the one.” The old adage says that you meet someone special when you least expect it—at least, that’s the line our mothers like to feed us—but what if the general matchmaking culture in Manhattan conditions you to always expect it.

Think about it. When was the last time someone told you that you should join them at a seemingly random/alternative/maybe that’s “not my thing” event and used the incentive of “you may meet someone” to get you there? If you’re a single gal in Manhattan, people seem to think (and, they may just be onto something here) that the greatest incentive to go out and do something—besides having fun—lies in the possibility that you will happen to meet someone special while you’re out doing it. And I’m not just talking about drinking up in the typical after-hours bar scene. Let’s be honest here: You would have never spent so much time in the fifth avenue Apple Store if your friend hadn’t told you that it’s a haven for hot computer geeks (or if she hadn’t dragged you there herself). And come on, did you really have any desire to take sailing lessons before your mother told you that this was a great way to meet a guy? And what about those Brazilian dancing classes? Your newfound interest in fantasy football? You get the idea.

When I lived at home, the only place where I thought I might be set up with someone was at family occasions. It seemed that everyone, upon learning that I was single (and not really caring if I wasn’t) wanted to set me up with some young, unattached male in their life. Apparently the only pre-requisite needed was that he was Jewish. And I was Jewish. And there it was—magic. (Or so they wanted to think.)

Living in New York, this “selling of the single girl” has taken on new dimensions. Just last week my friend invited me via voicemail on a “Green” boat cruise for individuals focused on improving the environment. My interest was immediately piqued (though I did forget to recycle a large pile of papers in my office yesterday—oops), but just in case, my friend elaborated on the event:

“Well, it’s not really just for the environment, it’s just an opportunity to meet people. You know, it’s just like an event with singles. There will actually be a lot of good-looking singles there. It’s basically just a big singles event on a boat.”

And within seconds, the noble, “save the trees” boat cruise had turned into a veritable meat market.

The urge to play matchmaker seems to be contagious. Just a few weeks ago I was out dancing with a group of people, when a friend of a friend, upon seeing my interest in uh—moving to the music—thought that I would be a perfect match for one of his close friends, because we both “got into the dancing a little bit more than everyone else.” (Should I have been insulted?) While very flattered that he would think of me for his good friend, I was just dancing to music at a bar—like everyone else around me. It seemed almost slightly absurd. The situation made me think about what could potentially come next:

“Hey, do you like the color blue? No way! So does my buddy John. You two really have to meet one another!”

I’m not being cynical—am I?

Of course, if and when we do meet someone—sans set-up—we single gals will never get the chance to take the credit anyway. There will always be that one friend/relative/co-worker who will try and convince us that this fortuitous meeting was completely her doing.

“See?” she will say, “I told you that that was the best place to meet guys.”

Needless to say, you will just nod and smile. Your friend/relative/co-worker will be so thrilled with her matchmaking abilities that she won’t realize the truth: you didn’t follow her advice at all.

She will never notice when you give a thankful wink to your doorman.