Having lived in New York six months now, and having spent four of those six months most unexpectedly single, I am forced to wrestle with the following, deeply philosophical question for the ages (or at least for women, ages 18 - 35); In 2006, is it possible for four girlfriends to gather in the name of a martini, without being asked, "which one of you is Miranda?" (Miranda being the redhead from Sex and the City, for those of you not of this planet. For the record, nobody is ever Miranda. Every woman, everywhere believes herself to be Carrie.)
'SATC' (as it is referred to by the sort of fans who threw final episode parties complete with pitchers of cranberry juice and vodka) without doubt set new standards for dating, fashion and female friendships the world over. But what about in the microchosm of Manhattan itelf, where not only does a single white female explore the same themes, but she has the whole themepark in which to do it.
From my recently acquired position on the inside, I can report that it is, just as they say it is. The same restaurants, clubs, taxis, cupcake shops and unaffordable footware. I can also report that it is a world peopled with characters, and that most of them are indeed only worth a single (dating) episode.
My cast to date includes:
The Actor (Actually 'The Acting Student'... important difference, and not a good idea when you're bound to the same institution for at least the next three years.)
The Director (AKA the 'real New Yorker', in other words, one who has lived here long enough to hate everything. Being from the land of sarcasm this initially had some appeal. The novelty wore off much more quickly than expected.)
The Performance Artist (what exactly that means I'm still not sure, except I know he spends a lot of his time dressed up as a large bear, and sometimes a 'glow puppet', and that neither make particularly good conversationalists.)
The Porter (actually, not so much dating, as 'avoiding his phone calls'... not because he is a porter, but because of a text message received two nights after initial meeting informing me that he 'loves dick'. Can only assume one of his well meaning mates thought it would be amusing to share the happy news, but have cut off all contact so as not to run risk of having to spend time with said mates.)
I am yet to analyse the official demographics, which may shed some light on this strange and frenzied world of dating I find myself in, but if there's not something in the numbers, there's got to be something in the water. Maybe it's just the scale of everything. The compressed space somehow manages to compress time as well - how else would so many dates and introductions be squeezed into those infamous New York Minutes?
If I had to take a guess, I'd suspect it has something to do with the fact that very few people in New York are actually from New York. We all leave families, friends and loved ones to come in search of something bigger and brighter than the world we once knew. To become someone bigger and brighter than the self we once knew.
But no woman is an island, even if she chooses to live on one.
And so we beat on, to door lists at clubs with names like 'Crobar' and 'Bed', and invite lists to exhibition openings at galleries with four white walls and free wine and cheese, and opening nights of plays, and birthday parties at Karaoke bars, and dinner parties at sushi restaurants... and every once in a while when you need to catch your breath, to anywhere that will serve four girlfriends a cosmopolitan without judgement.
And so we beat on, to door lists at clubs with names like 'Crobar' and 'Bed', and invite lists to exhibition openings at galleries with four white walls and free wine and cheese, and opening nights of plays, and birthday parties at Karaoke bars, and dinner parties at sushi restaurants... and every once in a while when you need to catch your breath, to anywhere that will serve four girlfriends a cosmopolitan without judgement.
