On any given day on the isle of Manhattan, the possibilities alone can be enough to level me.
My commute this morning? No less than four.
Crossing the street this afternoon, on my way to grab a cup of tea? Two.
A week ago, while standing on the corner of Bleecker and Broadway? There were at least fourteen, and just in the time that it took for the light to change.
As for what it is that brings these on, these possibilities? It might be nothing, but that’s all it really takes. Chalk it up to a wayward glance, followed by a smile, or to the way that someone will continually, absentmindedly tug loose the hem upon her sweater. Maybe it’s a kind gesture, one slight and seemingly unnoticed, that she makes when she thinks no one else is watching. Honestly, it could just be that she drinks beer from the bottle.
The point is, not a day goes by that I don’t run across someone who, from my brief and fleeting vantage point, would seem to be the kind of girl that I might like to meet. Someone, by chance, who might be you. (There it is again: Possibilities.)
Of course, these things are seldom as simple as they seem. I can’t possibly ask after every girl who I might find attractive, but let’s suppose for a moment that I saw you standing there, and that instantly I knew; I wouldn’t be able to walk away without asking your name. Never mind that I’d be nervous, or completely uncertain as to how to proceed. Prior to taking a step forward, long before the words began to form inside my mouth, my heart would make the first move. It would take the shape and form of a simple, unspoken plea.
Don’t be married.
It’s not asking much, really. Just keep a safe distance from walking down the aisle, from secret betrothals, from seeing someone else. Keep that heart of yours open to the possibility that the boy you were meant to meet is out there, still.
I just need for you not to be wearing a ring upon that all-important finger.
It is the first thing I look for, you know. From the moment that I see you across the way, once your eyes catch mine, I am casting a long, hard look in the direction of your left hand. So maybe you can help my cause, and think before putting your hand in your pocket. As for the gloves that might be warming that same delicate hand, perhaps you can find an excuse to remove them—if nothing more, then while indoors. If all else fails, might I ask that you run your left hand through your hair, if only so that I’m certain to see it?
(Besides, I’m going to like that anyway.)
While I might not be advocating the wearing of rings, at present, it’s not that I have an aversion to them, or to diamonds, for that matter. On the contrary, I adore all it is for which rings stand, and don’t even get me started on the Four C’s. I just don’t want to see a diamond, a ruby, or any precious stone in place on your ring finger—not yet, anyway, and not until I have something to say about it.
So then, I’ll ask you again, just one more time.
Don’t be married.
It will dash what possibilities we may have had.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
DEFINITELY (MAYBE)
The other day, my cousin wrote to say that she had watched the movie Definitely Maybe, and that the actor in the film had reminded her of me (apparently, in the best of ways).
It was odd that she would think so. Several years ago, I dated a woman who, at some point prior, had dated the actor Ryan Reynolds.
As for what that mere coincidence might say about Ryan Reynolds or me, I can only speculate. It’s fair to assume that at certain points in time, we both took a liking to the same girl. Beyond that, I don’t know. He’s moved on to six-pack abs and a wife named Scarlett Johansson, while I’m still mastering the art of being single.
Someday. Somewhere. Someone.
I was in Texas yesterday, waiting by my gate at the Dallas-Fort Worth airport. A Starbucks wasn’t far away, and so I walked over to grab a cup of tea. It was still the early morning, and I thought that cup might make the perfect companion for the book that I had tucked under my arm.
Ages were spent nursing that Earl Grey. Chapters passed before the cup was finally empty, and only then did I think to remove the little cozy that was meant to keep the cup from burning my hand. I wanted to read from the feature they’ve been printing, the series titled, “The Way I See It.”
I don’t go to Starbucks often. In fact, I kind of make it a point not to, but you can imagine that “The Way I See It” would be the type of thing I’d just adore. (It is.) My cup featured words from Augusten Burroughs, the writer of the memoir Running With Scissors. I haven’t read his book or even seen the movie, but I’m aware of the guy’s name. I know that he writes for a living, and that he used to work in advertising.
In any case, I have been living in New York for the past several years, and have been struggling of late with this nagging feeling. Never mind that I always have something to do, or that within a mile, I can stumble upon an entire gaggle of those I know—friends and family alike. Even in a city of eight million people, it’s all too easy to feel alone.
That thought lingering in the back of my mind, all the while staring at the side of this Starbucks cup, I began to read the words that Burroughs had put forward. He was talking about how he used to feel the very same way, so alone while living in the city. The man didn’t know how to meet new people, or how to make a personal connection. He struggled with the prospects until he finally realized, until he just decided, that all it takes is to say, “Hello.”
That is how it starts.
The way he put it, the person might think that you’re totally crazy, or they might end up being the person you marry. Chances are, he reasoned, the possibilities were worth that single word.
I loved the notion—so much so, that I decided then and there to steal a page from Burroughs' playbook, and see what I could do about adopting the practice.
So far, at least three girls at the grocery store think I'm completely insane. (Oh, and did I mention that I’m mastering the art of being single?)
No matter, for today is a new day, and with the morning comes more in the way of opportunity. Besides, I might walk up to someone this afternoon and decide to say, “Hello."
Who knows? You might think to smile in return, and maybe take a chance.
I like the thought of that.
It was odd that she would think so. Several years ago, I dated a woman who, at some point prior, had dated the actor Ryan Reynolds.
As for what that mere coincidence might say about Ryan Reynolds or me, I can only speculate. It’s fair to assume that at certain points in time, we both took a liking to the same girl. Beyond that, I don’t know. He’s moved on to six-pack abs and a wife named Scarlett Johansson, while I’m still mastering the art of being single.
Someday. Somewhere. Someone.
I was in Texas yesterday, waiting by my gate at the Dallas-Fort Worth airport. A Starbucks wasn’t far away, and so I walked over to grab a cup of tea. It was still the early morning, and I thought that cup might make the perfect companion for the book that I had tucked under my arm.
Ages were spent nursing that Earl Grey. Chapters passed before the cup was finally empty, and only then did I think to remove the little cozy that was meant to keep the cup from burning my hand. I wanted to read from the feature they’ve been printing, the series titled, “The Way I See It.”
I don’t go to Starbucks often. In fact, I kind of make it a point not to, but you can imagine that “The Way I See It” would be the type of thing I’d just adore. (It is.) My cup featured words from Augusten Burroughs, the writer of the memoir Running With Scissors. I haven’t read his book or even seen the movie, but I’m aware of the guy’s name. I know that he writes for a living, and that he used to work in advertising.
In any case, I have been living in New York for the past several years, and have been struggling of late with this nagging feeling. Never mind that I always have something to do, or that within a mile, I can stumble upon an entire gaggle of those I know—friends and family alike. Even in a city of eight million people, it’s all too easy to feel alone.
That thought lingering in the back of my mind, all the while staring at the side of this Starbucks cup, I began to read the words that Burroughs had put forward. He was talking about how he used to feel the very same way, so alone while living in the city. The man didn’t know how to meet new people, or how to make a personal connection. He struggled with the prospects until he finally realized, until he just decided, that all it takes is to say, “Hello.”
That is how it starts.
The way he put it, the person might think that you’re totally crazy, or they might end up being the person you marry. Chances are, he reasoned, the possibilities were worth that single word.
I loved the notion—so much so, that I decided then and there to steal a page from Burroughs' playbook, and see what I could do about adopting the practice.
So far, at least three girls at the grocery store think I'm completely insane. (Oh, and did I mention that I’m mastering the art of being single?)
No matter, for today is a new day, and with the morning comes more in the way of opportunity. Besides, I might walk up to someone this afternoon and decide to say, “Hello."
Who knows? You might think to smile in return, and maybe take a chance.
I like the thought of that.
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