New York, I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me Down (or what triggered this boredom to begin with)

There are many things I’ve done that I’m not proud of…watched Lifetime, listened to the Fray (more than once), enjoyed Applebee’s (eating good in the neighborhood!), made a guy go down on me without reciprocating…

“Ok,” he says, head up, looking all proud of himself. “It’s my turn.”

“I don’t think so,” I say, putting on my tights.

“What do you mean? I did you, so now you have to do me.”

“Nope. No, I don’t.”

“You’re making me feel inadequate,” he says.

“Well, you are.” Door slam, exit me.

But for the last couple years, I’ve been cleaning house—seeing a therapist, cutting out the bad stuff (i.e. drugs, not drinking as much, etc.), reading a lot of the Deepak Chopra to get in touch with my Up Guru, or the little woman inside me who knows what she really wants to do.

She still doesn’t know what she wants to do.

But after two and half years of this, I’ve been thinking, while this has been nice and all, there will always be a part of me that enjoys being bad. And it doesn’t take a whole lot to push me back into the self-destructive zone.

I met this guy. He seems like a nice-enough, funny, cool guy who lives in my neighborhood, perfect for a few beers from time to time. But he has a girlfriend, which is no problem for me. I have no impure intentions here.

Anyway, I meet guy at the diviest bar in my neighborhood—the Boat. The Boat is where you go when you want to get rip-roaring drunk, laid, do cocaine in the bathrooms—or all of the above in the bathrooms at Boat. In short, it is a wonderfully disgusting place with a great jukebox that features the Clash, Cash and Salt ’n Pepa.

“So, all that talk about blow,” he says later in the evening as we’re walking home. “Are you interested? ’Cause I have some.”

Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh. Shit.

My gut reaction is no. It’s been over two years since I’ve touched that shit. And, after recently sitting on a jury panel, I learned that in New York, the dealers tend to cut it with rat poison.

But then I thought fuck it. “Just do one line,” he suggests. So he cuts it up on my little star of David coaster I got for Xmas one year, rolls up a $20, and up it goes.

Of course, this is just precursor to the post-bar 2 a.m. hit job. Lure ’em in with the coke, keep ’em around for the dicking. I basically tell him no way it’s going to happen, and he’s on his way out the door. But sitting there, not feeling too terrible about that albeit only one line I just did, I’m thinking…going out for drinks with dudes with girlfriends? Lines, really? Again? What the fuck?

Because life’s too short…and I ain’t going out like that.

Last night I did something I swore I’d never do again. In fact, I did a couple things I swore years ago that I’d never do again. And I kinda liked it.

It got me thinking. I could fall into the 30-something chick cliché of freaking out, going on the proposed man-hunt to parlay into the dreaded am-I-planning-to-procreate-or-not countdown to 40, all the while contemplating Botox and going on more intolerable dates with dudes I’m not really attracted to just so I won’t end up a lonely 43-year-old in a fifth-floor walk-up studio…That would just be sad.

Let’s face it. It’s still a man’s world and buying into that bullshit is like sitting down at the poker table saddled with twos and threes. You’re behind anyway, and there’s no way you’re gonna win that game—no matter how thin, attractive and awesome you are.

Then it hit me. There’s a book on my desk about the Mayan calendar and the world ending in 2012. Living in New York and quitting smoking, I’ve always considered that my last thought in a terrorist attack would be, “Why in the fuck did I quit smoking? I could’ve been smoking away, enjoying sweet, sweet nicotine this entire while?” Well, what if we all die in 2012? Am I really gonna spend the, admittedly possible, last two years of my life worrying about shit like this?

So instead of trying to work on my so-called career, build a nice little family, or save for a condo, I’m just going to do exactly what I want when I want—things stupid, meaningless and fun. As long as I can fuck 20-somethings and 40-somethings, go out all night and not feel like total shit the next day, bike through crazy mountains high, eat an entire bag of Doritos in one sitting, I’ll take adventure over the future.

Now the adventures will vary…Stuff I’ve always wanted to do. Stuff I’ve never wanted to do, but am putting in that “try it, you might like it” category. Stuff that just pops up randomly. And stuff that I get dared to do…by you, gentle reader.

Because 2012, if the crazies are right, is just two years away.