June 6, 2011
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There are two reasons that any self-respecting New Yorker rides a bike about town. One is to keep their body tanned and fit and the other is to cruise the tanned and fit bodies walking around.
As a girl who routinely rides her bike through the city, I learned that there is no better place to see delicious man meat than Chelsea.
Riding to the Chelsea Markets my eyes often veer to the sidewalks to see the well-muscled men, stylishly dressed walking their dogs or eating at the restaurants. While this doesn’t lend itself to bike safety, it certainly fills the protein portion on the food pyramid.
One day, I was feeling particularly cute dressed in a skirt and heels, big hair flowing in the wind as I pedaled furiously to my friend’s get-together. I came to a light and spotted a Ken Barbie looking my way. I immediately began preening. Feeling his eyes in my direction, I pretended not to notice his gaze. As the light turned green, I slowly peddled forward when I noticed Ken Barbie was waving in my direction.
Flattered (what girl doesn’t like attention) but in a relationship, I only allowed myself to coyly wave in his direction.
He looked back at me confused.
I looked at him equally as confused, then he looked past me with a puzzled look on his face. I turned to see what he was looking at and saw another handsome stranger with his hand in the same waving position mine was in.
At that point, I swerved to avoid hitting a dog and noted that in Chelsea…
Ken + Ken equals happily ever after while Barbie rides around single, wondering where all the good men are.
May 23, 2011
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Considering my life’s goal was to marry someone famous and live the high life off of fame and fortune, you would think that I would be one of those girls who dressed to impress everywhere I go. While plans have changed… I still walk around my prominent neighborhood looking like a panhandler.
Perhaps I should change that.
After all, Sandra Bullock does live directly (literally) across the street from me. The paparazzi continually posted up at her door could have a roving lens and snap a picture of me leading to instant a la Justin Bieber-like luck-of-the-draw meteoric rise to fame.
Or with Justin Timberlake on the next block and Kanye a 5 minute walk away, I could find that husband I am looking for (just joking… I am not looking).
Then again, perhaps I do run into the man of my very shallow dreams (I am talking about you Lenny Kravitz), will I curl into my shell and blabber incoherently?
History says… probably so.
Take the time my friend and I met Chris Noth. I was walking my dog. Luckily I had a date later that night (with someone who would turn out to be dubbed the sunglasses stealer) and I was dressed in my non-dog walking gear. Considering that i usually walk my dog in sweats, glasses, and sneakers, the little dress I had on made it seem like fate when I heard a familiar voice.
“Well that’s an interesting dog.”
I didn’t look up because I recognized the voice and I knew if I looked up I might pass out.
After a embarrassingly long moment of looking at my shoes, I realized the familiar stranger was still looking at me.
Peering into his face, my gaze confirmed what I guessed when I first heard the voice. A man every woman around the world had grown up loving yet hating was talking to me.
It was Mr. Big.
“I’m Chris”, he handed me his hand.
I tried to act cool like I didn’t know.
“Thanks, I’m Dara.”
At that moment his friend walked out of the corner store and the two of them attempted to engage blabbering me in conversation.
“So you live around here?” Mr. Big, I mean Chris said. “I mean, that’s why you have the dog right?”
Honestly, I would get into all of the juicy details but I can’t remember much of our 20 minute conversation. He told me he lived in the East Village and then I politely tried to excuse myself from the conversation.
Although I wanted to bask in the light of someone who had been so close to Sarah Jessica Parker, I feared my words weren’t making sense. As soon as they walked away, I called my friend (shout out to Joan Caven) to come outside so we could swoon.
Of course not being very subtle we were screaming and fanning ourselves on the corner when Mr. Big exited the bar next to us making another uncomfortable scene.
Engaging in conversation again for another 10 minutes they invited us to dinner. We turned down the invitation (I kick myself now) and we went home to watch Sex and the City.
Now that story should illustrate the point that at all times I do need to be dressed to kill.
But I still haven’t learned my lesson. I just stepped out of my house in sweats, a dress shirt, and mismatched socks locking like a suburban mom running late to pick up her 5 children from school.
I guess you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.