Back home in New York City, the winter had not been so magical, featuring dates with the likes of the Freelance Artist, who at 41 still shared a 2-bedroom in the East Village with 3 roommates because he “doesn’t like to live alone” (translation: “I’m an unemployed codependent”), and the Lumberjack. While quite sexy with his plaid flannel shirt and facial hair (I came of age during the era of grunge, what can I say?), the Lumberjack’s dating skills hadn’t evolved since the death of Kurt Cobain.
Over the winter, I’d also experienced a bizarre emotional hit and run by an ancient history boyfriend. I’ve known Tad ever since we dated for a few months in college. On the night in question, I’d dragged good sport Sandrine to a party he was having at his apartment on the Upper West Side. It started out innocently enough, with Tad and I waxing nostalgic about our past with various party guests. As the night went on, however, the nostalgia express jumped the track. I’d been chatting with Sandrine and random others when Tad suddenly joined our group, and, severely intoxicated, began ranting about the “hot Italian boyfriend” I’d started dating after our break up. As the other guests we’d been speaking with awkwardly dispersed, I confirmed with Sandrine, “You just heard that right?” Sandrine replied, always the psychologist, “Looks like someone’s been harboring some feelings for a very long time.” I should note that Tad had broken up with me and I hadn’t started dating Mario until almost a year after the Tad split. Mario had been super hot though. Tad did get that bit right.
After a short-lived early spring fling, I’d found myself nursing a bit of a broken heart by midsummer. My heart wasn’t broken because I’d been so desperately in love; it was more in the way Michael Corleone’s heart was broken by Fredo’s betrayal in The Godfather II. It had come at the hands of one of my dearest guy friends. Josh and I had been super close since meeting through work five years ago. We spoke the same language and shared a love of Eddie Izzard, pub grub and Scotch. Through the years, Josh had always lobbied for more, but I’d always been concerned about our age difference (he was five years younger than I) and potentially upsetting one of my closest friendships.
Then one night in May, Josh passionately declared his feelings on a rainy and foggy 59th Street and sent me reeling with an amazing kiss. I could no longer deny our connection, and given the chemistry of that kiss, I didn’t want to. I’d realized that I’d been keeping this great guy at bay out of fear. Weeks of dates and drams had followed. I’d even opened and shared the Crested Ten I’d carried back from Dublin the previous summer (you know that you rate if I actually share my stash). And then at that crucial six-week mark, just as it started to get serious, Josh flipped out. I knew it was because he was afraid, but I also knew that I couldn’t continue to date someone who scares so easily. I needed that man who’d so boldly told me how he’d felt and kissed me that night on the street. I had no choice but to cut and run, ending our relationship and our friendship.
In the aftermath, I kept wondering why it happened. Why did something so seemingly great come crashing down into a million awful pieces? Had this just been a practice drill for when the real thing comes along? “This is a test of the emergency relationship system. This is only a test.” Followed by a beeping tone the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. Had this been proof for myself that I could take a chance on love, that I could go out on a limb, that I could fall, and that I could get back up again? But I already knew the answers to these questions was yes.
Post pushing my broken heart aside and filling my fall with dating, my year now ends with this: kissing my drunken friend Ned in the back of a taxi. While it felt very nice and comfortable, I felt fairly certain that this wasn’t fate or true love, and that the next day we’d recant this backseat interlude. Dropping Ned off at his Midtown hotel, I thought about the specter of boyfriends past, present and future. Maybe the lesson of Ned and Josh was that I didn’t have to go 3,000 miles to Arctic Norway for a perfect kiss. A perfect kiss could be found with my most familiar friends and in my well-traveled paths.
As the taxi dashed toward the Upper East Side, I couldn’t help feeling that regardless of the ups and downs that the New Year would surely bring, I was racing toward another year filled with magic, surprise and possibility.
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