Sunday, February 04, 2007
Superbowl Sunday doesn't seem to be a good day for me.
Years ago, I got dumped by a woman on this, the biggest day in football, and today I got stood up by another one. It could be a coincidence, but I think for the next Superbowl I'm going to hide in my attic.
I'm not broken up about today's washout--honestly. I arranged to have this woman meet me at a Moroccan in my neighborhood that I've been meeting to try for over a year.
So it was a short walk to the place and when she didn't show, I treated myself to a delicious meal. Then I went home and looked at the game for a while. I usually watch the game for the ads, and they pretty much sucked this year.
When Prince (say,what?) started his half-time show, complete with the Aunt Jemima head scarf, I knew it was time to turn off the tube.
When I got up this morning, I had a feeling I should call this woman to confirm the dinner. I just had a feeling she'd blow me off.
But I didn't want to call. It sounds desperate--oh, please, do you still want to see me?--and I don't think adults need to be told more than once that something is going to happen. If you can't keep a simple appointment then I don't want to date you.
I was the only customer in the place, so I felt like royalty. The waiter told me that people from Bay Ridge rarely come to this place, preferring to eat at the pizza parlors in the neighborhood.
People come up from Park Slope, he told me, Manhattan--Yoko Ono ate there during the holidays--and Japan, because the place is listed in a guide for Japanese tourists.
I waited 20 minutes before calling this woman and she gave me a line of crap about not having my number (check the cell phone, honey), not having time to send me an e-mail, (is your house on fire?) and ending up with the old my-car-broke-down routine, which is the adult version of the dog ate my homework.
"Can we do this next week?" she asked.
"Sure," I said, lying like a rug. "I'll give you a call..."
...when hell freezes over. Which is close to happening, given the temperatures in New York recently.
The restaurant's TV was playing a benefit concert for Montserrat, which apparently suffered some kind of volcanic disturbance. There a lot of heavyweights there, including Sting, Phil Collins, and Eric Clapton.
Eric sang his acoustic version of "Layla" and the line "make the best of a bad situation" jumped out at me. Taking that as a sign, I ordered myself some dinner.
The only reason I didn't throw away this jerk's card was because another woman's number is on the back.
I had met this one at the Brooklyn Museum's First Saturday shindig last night. It was tango night and I had a blast, asking five women to dance and getting four dances and one phone number. Not a bad night.
I tell you, the lack of fear was even more pleasurable than actually meeting a potential girlfriend. So many times I'd go to dances and haunt the sidelines while everybody was out on the dance floor having a great time.
That almost happened last night, but I remembered my vow to make '07 the year without fear, so I marched out to that dance floor and just started asking woman to tango with me.
The Forbidden Dance of Love
The first woman I danced with was from Rumania, but now lives in Queens. We had fun dancing, but I could tell by the body lanuage--she didn't want to interlock fingers--that it wasn't going to happen.
I also recognized this woman's friend. I was racking my brains while I tangoed, which ain't easy, by the way, until I remembered that I had met the friend about a year ago at another First Saturday. (I think that was a tango night, too.)
This was the boob who had danced with me, engaged in a great conversation for a half-hour, gave me her phone number, and then told me she had a boyfriend when I called.
I was going to let it go, but I reminded her who I was and engaged in some chit-chat. No wisecracks, but certainly no attempt at further contact. Fool me once and then bite me.
I danced with another woman from Hungary--what's with the Eastern European dames?--who could barely speak English. She suggest we get pointers from this nearby elderly couple who clearly had the tango down.
They were reluctant at first, but then they started making some suggestions, stressing that both dancers have to work together, to feel the movement. We thanked them, danced a little more, and then the Hungarian and I went out separate ways.
By this time, I was feeling so confident, I walked up to one woman and threw out my arms.
"Now's your chance to dance with me!" I said.
Obnoxious, I know, but she went for it and we started to dance. She told me her name was Sasha--what's going on here?--and that she had to leave soon. No problem, kid. A few more turns and we were history.
I was making my last loop around the floor when I made contact with a mature lady with glasses sitting on the sidelines. I smiled and beckoned her out to the floor and we cut a rug.
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"Bethlehem, Pa." She said.
That ain't exactly Cobble Hill. She told me her daughter lives in Park Slope and that she was in for a visit. I told her that I once lived in Stroudsburg, and, small freaking world, she had lived there, too. She told me she takes the bus to New York a couple of times a month.
"So you can have dinner with me some night?" I asked, though I really wasn't asking.
"Yes, I can," she said.
So she wrote her number on Miss Stand-Up's Card. She said she was one of the few people in the world without a cell phone, and I assured her that this was fine with me. We hugged and she left with her daughter.
I don't like the distance factor, but I'll probably give her a call. I'm betting she'll be able to come in from two states away and not stand me up, unlike another twit I could mention.
So I overcame my fear last night and that felt very good indeed. And that's why today's Superbowl washout doesn't bother me too much. There are plenty of eligible receivers out there.