Summer subway commuting is the worst. I’ve never been stranded in the desert, but I imagine it’s not much worse than waiting for the F train at 8:30 in the morning.
By mid-July, I’d given up any hope of looking decent on the subway. So imagine my surprise when after a normal, sweaty evening commute a young gentleman begins chatting me up as we walk out of the station. He gets my digits, we make brunch plans, and thus begins the brief story of Mr. Bananagrams.
For our first date, we got brunch, which was amazing. But honestly I could have eaten eggs benedict with a frog and still been in heaven. Things were going well, and after a mimosa or three, I decided to invite him to a barbeque my roommates and I were having that afternoon. During the barbeque, he and I began to have issues.
First, he brought up the ex girlfriend. Like a lot. Apparently they’d been together for ever and had only just broken up like 3 weeks before. Ew.
Then, after the party was clearly over, he wouldn’t leave. CLINGER. And it was clear he was trying to make a move or something, so I suggested—“Let’s play Bananagrams!”
Hint to anyone foolish enough to crush on me: Bananagrams is my go-to cock block move.
So we played like 15 rounds of bananagrams before homeboy got the message that there was no make out session in store.
I kind of ignored him after that. But in a moment of stupidity, I agreed to meet him for dinner after a dance class like a week later.
Now when someone asks me to dinner, I expect to eat.
Apparently the same is not true for Mr. Bananagrams. We sit down at the restaurant, and I am famished after an embarrassing dance class where I was completely shown up by a fabulous man in yellow shorts. I ask my date what he’s getting, and he says one of my least favorite phrases in the world:
“Um, I’m not really hungry. Just getting a beer.”
Why in the hell would you ask a girl to dinner and not want to eat?!
I proceed to order an enormous burger and eat the whole thing by myself while Bananagrams sips his beer like an asshole.
Afterward, he awkwardly invites himself back to my apartment where I again suggest—“Bananagrams?!”
We only get through 5 rounds of Bananagrams this time before homeboy gives up and decides to leave. I walk him to the door, and like a polite Southern girl I say, “I’ll text you later, and we can grab drinks soon.”
“You and I both know that’s not going to happen,” says Mr. Bananagrams.
Now that it’s insanely cold out (seriously, snow in October?!) I’m dealing with the fact that summer is really over. My first summer as an NYC resident was stressful, sweaty, and tons of fun. There was good food, rooftop parties, money troubles—oh and a few awkward boys here and there.
Yes, this was the summer of romantic fails. Here is part one in the series.
The Macon Fling
During our final weeks in college, my dear Eliza and I were boozing it up in downtown Macon, Georgia at 3:00 in the afternoon. Exams were finished, graduation was fast approaching, and we had just finished a semi-fabulous photo shoot. Drunk on cheap beer and the prospect of getting the hell out of Macon, I decided that I had a crush on our cute (but hopelessly simple-minded) waiter.
The crush turned into a two-week fling, which was relatively harmless. The guy was a little sketch though. For example he weirdly didn’t have a phone, his dog ate my shoe, and he may or may not have been a hoarder.
But then he went insane.
It was like two days before graduation, and we were all hanging out in my apartment. The guy randomly vanished from the party, so I went to bed. When I awoke, I found a magnolia blossom on my desk covered in ants. Next to this treasure was a note. When I showed my roommates this misspelled, incoherent, rambling letter, they nearly died laughing.
Apparently, hours after I’d gone to bed, the guy burst back into our apartment—which is creepy because 1) he didn’t have a key, and 2) he had lost his shirt and shoes along the way. He frantically began asking my roommates where I was. When they told him I was asleep, he quickly found a pen and paper and began to write me a farewell letter.
He spent about an hour writing this two-page gem:
Some of my favorite bits include:
“Good Mourning, Sara” That is not how you spell morning, nor is it how I spell my name.
The —> at the bottom of the page indicating that I should read on.
“I hope you don’t forget me but it’s ok if you do.” Why thank you for understanding! But after this letter and my desk covered in ants and rotting flowers, it’ll be hard to forget you, dear.
“Stay away from hipsters I hear they’re trouble.” Says the boy running around shirtless and half-crazed in my apartment.
Needless to say, that was the last I heard from ol Macon boy. But he certainly set the tone for my first months of dating in NYC.
Stay tuned for reflections on my other summer dating misadventures, including Bobble Head Boy, Wall Street Creeper, and more!