Subway Learnin'- Part 2: Fit

Refer here to Subway Learnin' - Part 1 for background.



No matter how independent I like to say that I am, I really REALLY prefer some traditional themes in dating. I can easily take control of the reins and steer you towards fun, but if it begins this way, that isn't a good sign for me. It just gets highly annoying. To the point -  I like when a man, is a man. When he sets up a time, has an idea of where to take me, and can show me he can lead. Don't get me wrong, I don't want someone that doesn't want to hear my desires, prefers a power struggle or  needs to take control. If he lets me take over from the start, I see it as him showing me that either A) I can walk all over him, or B) He is a lazy mofo. Over the years, this has been proven countless times.

After our first conversation with what I thought was a confident young man, I realized he was good for the pick-up, but not so much with the follow through. It took 15 minutes for us to make a decision where to meet, forget what to do after, and it was I that decided that we were going to meet in front of the Barnes and Noble at Union Square (that's always a good fall back in my experience in the NY dating scene).

Arriving 20 minutes late, and all sweaty, he greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a blank stare when I asked where we were headed. Great. In the first few minutes I decided it was highly unlikely he was for me, but tried to keep an open mind.I suggested good ole Republic a block away. Not the most intimate setting, as it is communal seating and can get noisy, but I intuitively didn't care for intimate because I already knew the conversation would get tiresome. Especially when he told me he has never had Thai (I don't think I have met anyone that grew up in NYC that has never had Thai, wtf?).

And, yes, it was exhausting to get him to speak. I even did the pause where I hoped he would say a few words to close the gap in the silence between us. No such luck.

The bill arrived, and dude began to sweat. Rivulets dribbling down his cleanly shaven skull and running the side of his cheek. He began to stammer.  As he shakily held the receipts in his hand, the top white one, and the copy of the yellow behind, I asked him if he was alright. It took me another minute or so, and some awkward mumbling on his part, to realize that he thought that he had to add up the value of both to get the final total. I did not think I would need to educate a 30 year old man on how to read a bill, but that's what I did.  It wasn't $64, but $32. The sweating stopped, he pulled out his wallet and seemed relaxed. And no, I didn't offer to help. Traditional like that, and he WAS the one to approach me in the first place. *Shrug*

After dinner, I suggested a drink as he did seem nice (friend maybe?), and I wasn't ready to go home yet, it was Friday. Again, the sweater (which is how he will now be referred to - as my good friend dubbed him after this date), had no idea where to go. I suggested a small cozy bar a few blocks away on 9th Street. Perhaps he did better in less crowded settings?

We arrived, and I ordered my then-customary gin and tonic. He began to stammer and finally blurted out, Heineken. We drank, he loosened up, I threw him a few lines to try and help him out - but still, didn't know what to do with himself. Two drinks in, and I was done. I insisted on going Dutch, I wasn't in to this one, at all. No matter how I attempted to be open-minded, it wasn't going to go anywhere romantically. Nuh. Uh.

Since we both had the same train, at least for a part of the journey, he decided he was going to head back home as well and joined me. Sitting on the train, we spoke for a bit. I noticed a kind faced older woman sitting a few seats away, and she smiled at me. I returned her smile.  Sweater and I continued to speak, and she continued to glance in our direction. Then, out of nowhere, he became brave... he put his arm around me. As quickly as he did that, I abruptly shrugged it off with the words (accompanied by a firm look) - "You're not there." I have never been able to fake it when I am not in to someone, and I refuse to feel uncomfortable. Out of fairness, I didn't want to mislead him anymore than I possibly may have and have him think that I was "feeling" him like that, either. He stammered, again, and apologized for trying to take liberties. I don't him no worries, but not to do it again. (Yes, I did say that). The train pulled in to his transfer stop, and he leaned in for a kiss, and got the cheek, and a thank you.

The kind faced woman begin to speak to me after that. In a thick Eastern European accent, Czech perhaps, she gently questioned, "Is that your boyfriend?". I shook my head vehemently and replied with an elongated "Nooooo.....". She laughed slightly and said, "Yes, he didn't look like he fit you." I agreed and we spoke a bit, and then she reached in to her plastic shopping bag, pulled out a plump juicy peach, and handed it to me. I took it and thanked her. She rose as we were nearing her stop, and wish me luck, and left.



For the remainder of my ride, I held the peach in my hand and stared out of the subway window watching the dark tunnels whizz by, catching an occasional glimpse of light. Sweater drifted out of my mind, signaling that was the end of that. Holding the peach and wondering if I should wait and wash it before I bit in to it was the more pressing issue.

He didn't fit, no. Not the right puzzle piece.These are lines that I think of now, and although I did not realize the depth and profound nature of them at the time, they have come back to me throughout the years out of others people's mouths referring to other relationships. Although I didn't learn the significance at that moment, it has now become a question that I ask now, years later. I think I have learned, and internalized, that very important lesson.

Subway Learnin' - Part 1

I grew up riding the subway. The last stop on the 7, Flushing, Main Street, was home. I remember taking long treks with my Babushka and her best friend so they could shop for the finest bargain goods na Delan-see. My sister and I would dart to the seats nearest the window, then kneel and press our little hands and faces against the glass. We would spend the entire ride gazing at the scenes of Roosevelt Ave, Queens Blvd and dark tunnels as they whizzed by. Baba would warn us not to touch our face to the pane, or we would contract a monstrously violent illness.

There are many memories of my mother packing up my sister and I to go to a museum, a Broadway play, or to watch her get an ear cuff and bohemiam gear in the Lower East Side. On the ride home, she taught us about the finer things, how to discuss art and appreciate a good musical. If we were returning from a day of shopping, my mother would pull her wares out of her bag to examine them. I gained a deep appreciation for clothing that complemented my collar bone, a love of funky jewelery, and an understanding of the importance of color coordination.

From 8th to 10th grades, I'd cut school with friends (or my sister) and head to 8th Street in the Village to play pool and shoe shop. Sometimes, we'd make our way to Steinway Street in Astoria, Queens to check out boys I was too terrified to speak to. There and back, lessons entailed how to not attract suspicion when we got home, and how cute, and stupid, boys were.

When I graduated from college and moved to Brooklyn, I was teaching in Harlem. The commute always felt endless. After a 9 hours in a classroom with 8 year-old children, I'd go into what my friends lovingly dubbed "Marianne World" and zone off, often almost missing my transfer stops. One late pre-iPod era winter afternoon, looking off into space and trying not to blatantly stare at fellow subway-farers, my body suddenly snapped to attention. I felt someone blatantly staring at me, and when I looked up, I learned that he was pret-ty damn ... fine.

We locked eyes. He mouthed Hello. My first instinct told me that this was ridiculously corny. Mouthing across a subway car? Seriously? However, having no lesson for this moment, I decided to play along and whispered, "Hello" back. "How are you?", again, silently. I smiled, and stood up as I was approaching my transfer stop. Glancing back at him, I grinned again and then lifted my hand and slightly waved my fingers in a good-bye, then turned my head to face the doors. The train pulled into the Atlantic Avenue stop, and as I stepped off, he was at my side.

Stepping onto the platform, the conversation was brief and to the point. This wasn't his stop, but he informed me that he needed to talk to me. We exchanged introductions and contact information. I noticed he has a light West Indian accent. Digging his confidence, I got to the point. We set a date to meet during the week.

Click here for Subway Learnin' - Part 2: Fit