I had drinks yesterday with friends–one of whom chose the Cosmopolitan bar on Spear. I can’t remember the last time I went to happy hour. If I choose a venue for apres-work drinks, it’s a quiet wine bar where I’m guaranteed a seat. I can whisper in the back and the sommelier working in the front will know exactly what I’m saying. That’s the kind of life I now lead.
Entering the bar yesterday was like stepping back in time for me. The place was packed with Financial District professionals in their suits. Come on, people. I work for a conservative bank and I even wear jeans on casual Friday. Whaddup with the starched pants? There was an energetic buzz of sexuality in the air. The highly-bronzed women. The men flashing their money clips. I’m not a makeup person, but a year ago, I at least wore lip gloss. Today, making myself up means a sloppy swab of Burt’s Bees.
I gushed, “Wow, it’s so weird to be here among all these single people. This was my life a year ago.”
Back then, I ate men up for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There were the weekends in Tiburon, the cross-country dalliance in New York, the overnight date on a boat. There was the stalker who dropped chocolates off at my office. I asked the security guard to keep an eye out for a brown-haired, brown-eyed boy carrying a box of See’s Candies. “Whatever he says, don’t let him in, but make sure he leaves the sweets. Alright? I’ll come down later and we can split ’em.”
Oh, the oysters, foie gras, and Kobe steaks I heartily consumed. Dancing at the Top of the Mark. Accompanying someone to a work party as his date, then covertly accepting a business card his coworker handed me. I was independent, responsible only to myself, and having the time of my life. There definitely was an allure to the transitory relationships because once you’d had enough of one person, it was easy to move on to the next piece of meat.
To all the singletons out there, enjoy, live it up, and ‘chow.’