I Accidentally Made Out with a Closeted Married Man, and Now I’m a Hot Mess

First and foremost, I feel the need to assure you that the events I’m about to recount actually took place. Like, in real life. Which you’ll soon realize is insane because one) I have already written extensively on the subject of falling in love with hot suited strangers during my daily commute on the Metro-North train, two) I once even blogged about a fantasy sequence in which I made out with one of them but he ended up being married, and three) that is somehow EXACTLY what happened to me last Friday night, in real life. IR-fucking-L.

There’s a lot to discuss here, so let’s just start from the beginning.

It was the end of a long week, so naturally I went out for post-work Sangria in the city with one of my best girlfriends. One pitcher turned into two, and before I knew it I was a little tipsy on a late-night train back to Connecticut. The train was delightfully empty, so I got cozy in a four-seater all by myself and prepared for the fifty-minute ride home.

Then he showed up. Hot businessman guy. He was wearing a grey pinstripe suit, fancy watch, and (according to my tipsy-goggles, at least) was ruggedly handsome – kind of like Brandon Walsh from 90210. Except manlier. And thirty-something. And, again, in a suit.

I took about five seconds to observe and appreciate his hotness, texted my friend something like “OMG, this man on the train is my everything,” glanced his way again, and then went back to staring at my phone (lest he catch me looking at him and interpret my stalkerish gazes as reason to desert me and switch to another train car that wasn’t crawling with predatory gay bloggers).

As we pulled out of Grand Central, the conductor came on the intercom and was all, “Please make all seats available,” and then the hot businessman opened up a roadie Coors Light, took a swig, and responded (to everyone and no one), “Uh, the train is empty!”

In my mind: He totally just opened the floor for conversation!!! Should I respond? I should definitely respond. No. That’d be weird. Wait, but he was weird first to even make the empty train remark to begin with. OK I’m doing it! No. YES. NO. Yes.

Out loud: “I know, right? The train is so empty!”

To my surprise, he looked my way and smiled warmly as I mentally congratulated myself for being capable of putting words together quickly enough to respond to his declaration. (Even though, let’s be honest, all I did was say exactly what he said except with a “so” in front of it.)

From there, we engaged in a bout of small talk about our commutes (we live in the same town, turns out!) and jobs (we work in the same part of the city, turns out!) and interests (we both watch football, turns out!).

While all of this was going on, I started developing the hopeful feeling that this guy was maybe gay, maybe into me, and maybe meant to be my husband. I mean, why else would he be so friendly? But then I told myself, “No. Calm yourself down, Nic. This dude probably thinks he’s just having a man-to-man discussion about Eli Manning and meanwhile you’ve let your mind go to that ‘ohmiGod is he gay and in love with me?!’ place in not even five minutes. GET A GRIP.”

After a few moments, we reached a lull in conversation. And then some random ass creepy guy in a black trench coat showed up out of nowhere and took one of the seats directly in front of me in my four-seater, despite the fact that there was a whole train car of empty seats available to him! James (the hot businessman guy — fake name, FYI) and I immediately exchanged glances to acknowledge how bizarre this was.

The creepy guy must have realized that James and I were telepathically discussing his weirdness (or maybe he just had to pee), because he abruptly got up and went to the bathroom, leaving me alone to wait for him to return and maim me take his seat back.

But then.

Like a knight in SHINING fucking ARMOR, James got up, swooped over into my four-seater and asked, “Would you like me to sit here instead?”

And so of course I said, “Yes!” and officially moved on from the “ohmiGod is he gay and in love with me?!” place into the more confident “My life is a romantic comedy and James and I SHALL BE MARRIED AND THIS SHALL BE THE STORY WE TELL OUR ADOPTED CHILDREN’S CHILDREN!” place.

For the remainder of the ride home, James and I talked. About our educations, occupations, hometowns, hobbies, and dreams. At one point I told him how I was working toward becoming a full-time writer and he responded with, “That makes sense; you give off a crazy-creative vibe,” and I had to pinch myself to ensure that I wasn’t just train-hallucinating this whole situation.

When we got to our stop, we walked off the train together.

“Alright,” I said as we approached the escalator, “I guess I should get on my way. Got a bit of a walk home.”

Then James was like, “Do you want a ride?” and I was like, “Yes!” (Because an exclamation-pointed “Yes!” had clearly become my go-to answer to any and all of James’ questions that night.)

I know what you may be thinking: Nic just accepted a ride from a stranger? Is he fucking nuts?!

Yes, I did. And yes, I am. And this is why hot people are dangerous. Because had this dude been gross looking or even just average, there’s no way I’d have said anything other than, “No, thanks.”

Still, as we walked to his car, there was a small voice inside of me that was like, “Uh, Christian Bale in American Psycho, Nic. He was hot. He wore a suit. And he killed bitches!” But I was able to quiet it down by asking James flat-out, “You’re not a crazy American psycho, are you?”

He just laughed adorably and said, “No! Trust me, you’re in good hands. I never do this. At all. Is this weird? This is weird. But I feel comfortable with you.”

And so we hopped into the car and continued talking for the duration of the ride to my apartment while our hands almost touched on the center armrest and I realized that I still didn’t have any conclusive evidence of his gay or straightness. There was a part of me that truly wondered if James was just a really nice straight man doing me a favor… but then there was another part of me that wanted to believe we had been flirting all night long.

Either way, when we finally got to the front of my building, I didn’t want to say goodnight. I considered inviting him up to my apartment, but then I was like, “WHO ARE YOU?” (to myself, not him) and instead settled for exchanging cell phone numbers with the intention of hanging out on purpose sometime soon.

And then.

I thanked him for the ride and reached out to shake his hand goodbye.


He leaned over and went in for a kiss!

And so before I knew it, I was living in a dream and we were making out. And y’all — it was good. This man clearly knew what he was doing. Which is why it was so jarring to me when he abruptly stopped mid-make-out, said, “I don’t know what I’m doing!” and freaked the fuck out.

“What?” I asked, acting as if everything about this whole situation wasn’t bizarre enough to begin with.

“I don’t do stuff like this,” he nervously responded. “I’m married.”

So then my heart kind of casually just stopped, no big deal, and I said, “Wait. You’re married?” [Dramatic pause.] “To a human?”

“A human, Nic?” he replied. “Yes. I’m married to a woman.”

Jaaames!!!” I whined. “WHY?”

And then I punched him. (Playfully and on the chest, but still.)

He proceeded to apologize for not telling me about his wife before kissing me, and then he got this really sad look on his face, and for a second my heart felt incredibly heavy for him. Because I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to be trapped in a straight life and married to a woman and have to deal with inner demons and family pressures and tempting little hot pieces of ass like me just occupying four-seaters on trains on Friday nights.

But then I felt more bad for his wife, because I’m friends with quite a few women and I know for a fact that none of them want their husbands to be repressed gay men.

But then (and maybe I should be ashamed of this?) I felt mostly bad for me. Because seriously, WTF? I meet this perfect-in-every-way man — the old-fashioned, technology-free, just-like-in-the-movies way, even! — and we hit it off tremendously, and he’s the most passionate kisser in the history of the world, and then he’s somebody’s husband? How did I forget to check his left hand for a ring? How did he think it was okay to pursue me in the first place? Do any quality, available men even exist anymore? WHERE HAVE ALL THE COWBOYS GONE?

After about thirty awkwardly silent seconds of sitting in James’ car post-wife-confession, I decided to just start making out with him again. This was desperate and not okay, I know. But again: his kiss. It was delicious. Delicious and forbidden and sexual and hot. And I knew that he was a very dangerous person to even think about getting involved with, but I wanted to pretend for just the shortest moment that he was good and genuine and mine.

And so we kept making out in his car for about ten more blissful seconds, but then — and I think this may have been my conscience resurrecting itself from the low-self-esteem-y grave I’d just dug for it — I started wondering what his wife’s name was and what she must be doing and what she might think he was doing and what her Pinterest might look like. And so I finally mustered up the strength to say, “Dude. This is fucked up. We can’t do this.”

“You’re right,” he replied, not fighting me at all. “I understand if you want to just lose my number. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I sighed. “It’s fine.”

Then I got out of his car, walked up to my apartment, and aggressively slammed my bag against the floor in a fit of rage. I ran to my window to see if his car was still on my street, but he had already driven off. Regardless of all the reasons not to, I wanted to call him right then and there to ask him to come back so we could try and recapture whatever the hell it was we had both just discovered and lost, all within the past hour.

But then I walked into my bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror, and realized that I really, really needed to take his advice — and just lose his number.

2014 UPDATE: We ran into each other at Dunkin’ Donuts and it was weird.



Proven: Hurt People Hurt People

Once upon a time, an ex-boyfriend of mine told me that he loved me with all of his heart. Then he told me that no matter how much I loved him back, it would never be enough to constitute a truly healthy relationship. Because I’m just not me without my chronic discontent towards love – whether in or out of it.

I know, right?

To be fair, this happened during a fight. And I believe his actual words were, “Love is wasted on you because you’ll never let yourself be happy,” but I like mine more.

I had all but forgotten about this statement since we broke up almost three years ago – but over the past few weeks it has returned to the surface of my consciousness. And my actions keep giving it credence. And it’s pissing me off because it took me this long to realize that maybe he was right.

It would explain:

  1. why Keychanges is at its best when I’m complaining about how much it sucks being a single gay man searching for true love, but only encountering noncommittal jerks who’d prefer our relationship exist only in the bedroom; and
  2. why I broke up with a near-perfect guy last week after three months of him being the single gay man searching for true love, and me being the noncommittal jerk who’d prefer our relationship exist only in the bedroom.

I can already hear my best friends saying, “You just always want what you can’t have,” and I can already hear a therapist saying, “You have to love yourself first before you can truly love someone else,” – but dammit, it is so frustrating to know that all of my complex emotional issues can be boiled down into cliché phrases directed at issues that millions of people have already struggled with.

Why do I have to consciously love myself? Can’t I just take an alternate route to happiness? Such as finding that one man that’s going to make all of my problems go away?

That would be ideal.

But no, I have to be one of those people that can’t just let life happen without overanalyzing every errant thought and emotion of mine until I’ve effectively killed whatever magic had once existed between myself and any man I’ve ever been with. Or until they end up thinking I’m crazy and/or a waste of love.

Or, as with Awesome Guy, until I end up hurting them.

It’s never a winning scenario.

Prior to breaking up with Awesome Guy, I spent a Saturday with the above-referenced ex-boyfriend of mine – purely because I couldn’t get his three-year-old words out of my head and I wanted to confront them head on.

Sadly though, I couldn’t find the right time to bring it up. Because really, when you’re catching up with an ex, there is no right time to casually interject with, “So, remember that night back in January of 2010 when we were fighting in your Ford Explorer and you said that love is wasted on me because I’ll never let myself be happy?”

I’m sure he doesn’t remember anyways – those words were just casually flung my way in the midst of a single fight in the vast array of epic battles that defined our yearlong relationship.

Although we didn’t address the statement in question, seeing my ex again did make me remember all kinds of details from our time together that I had mostly forgotten about — such as how I picked fights all the time, made the entire relationship revolve around me rather than us, and overall, just didn’t know how to be a truly great boyfriend.

As I was leaving his house, he told me, “I want you to know that no matter what’s happened between us, a part of me will still always love you.”

And all I could think to myself was: What a waste.

And that’s when I knew I had to break things off with Mr. Awesome.

P.S. This post was a little too heavy and lugubrious (and/or I-will-probably-think-it-was-insanely-melodramatic-and-unnecessary-in-about-twelve-hours) for my liking. I apologize. But I feel like I really hurt an awesome guy’s feelings last week, and I wanted to explain myself (to the world, apparently). Because I really cared about him and I still feel bad.

P.P.S. I am slowly working on my issues. And it’s going pretty well. Except for those times when I want to jump in the faces of happily married couples and scream, “Did you both examine all of your emotional baggage and deep-rooted insecurities before getting married? NO? Then why the hell do I have to?! IT’S NOT FAIR AND PLEASE LET ME TRADE LIVES WITH YOU!”

I’m hoping those occasions become rarer with time. And therapy.


I Finally Met an Awesome Guy, and He Doesn’t Call Me Fat

Remember that time a guy named Lou called me fat and it left me scarred for life but I survived?

Well, I recently ran into him at Target while I was busy drooling over nutritionally evaluating a loaf of cinnamon swirl bread (because of course I’d have a loaf of sugary-basically-a-muffin-bread in my hand when running into the guy who called me fat) and it was awkward yet liberating.

Seeing Lou in real life for the first time since August made me extremely happy about the fact that I have been ignoring his requests to hang out for the past two months — because we really have nothing in common. And he is kind of a horrible person. Because you just don’t call someone fat. Especially when they’re NOT FAT – a fact that I had somehow let slip away from me on account of my existing body image issues and a single unsolicited opinion from a vapid gym addict who clearly has lower self-esteem than even I did during this whole debacle.

Looking back, I think I tried to excuse him at the time because one of my straight guy friends was all like, “Dude, what’s the big deal? I call people fat all the time… and so do you. Didn’t you call me fat last week?”

  • To which I responded, “You’re right, and I’m crazy,”
  • but should have instead responded, “Yes, but that’s all in good fun and I’m not trying to marry and/or raise children with you. If I were, I would never call you fat, and you calling me fat would certainly be out of the question… Don’t you have any gay friends?!”
  • To which he would have responded, “…,”

to which I would have responded, “Oh.”

I write all of the above after having spent much of the past month with a pretty awesome guy whom I have embarrassed myself in front of multiple times and who still somehow thinks I’m as awesome as he is.

Case in point:

A few weeks ago, he made some vaguely fat-related comments (including the jocular phrase “no one likes a fatty”) via text message that were rendered difficult to analyze by my low self-esteem and ridiculous neuroses. After reading them over about a hundred times like a crazy person, I considered all of the following possibilities:

  • He thinks I’m fat and was trying to make me get the hint that he’s not interested in seeing me anymore.
  • He thinks I’m fat and was trying to subliminally inspire me to go to the gym before we commit to seeing each other again.
  • He thinks I’m fat but not fat enough for him to not sleep with me. (In other words, he is Lou 2.0 and God hates me.)
  • He genuinely doesn’t like fat people and thought that I may also share in that prejudice. (The silver lining of this possible scenario was that it carried the implication that he doesn’t think I’m fat, which I found momentarily comforting.)
  • It’s not about me at all, as he was facetiously commenting on the three cheeseburgers he ate over the weekend and how mitigating the damage at the gym on Monday morning might not be a bad idea. (In retrospect, this is clearly what he actually meant.)

Because all of the above started to make my head hurt, I decided to just lay it all out on the line by saying this: “I should be frank… If a few extra pounds would be a deal-breaker for you, then this will not work out. I love beer too much.” (Go me, right?)

Then he called me skinny and said that even if I were fat, he wouldn’t care because I excel so much in the personality department. (GO HIM, right?)

His response made me contemplate whether or not replying to him with a straight-up marriage proposal would be considered apropos, but I ultimately decided against it because he’s currently in law school and probably wouldn’t have the time to go into full wedding-preparation mode without neglecting his studies, and I’m supportive of his career goals – so I just responded with, “Phew.”


P.S. I think the best thing about this whole saga is that my body dysmorphia had intensified so much that I actually not only came to believe I was truly fat, but had moved beyond my discontent with the situation and into the full-out acceptance stage – to the point where I went all “I’m fat and you can take it or leave it!” on a guy.

P.P.S. I think the actual best thing about this whole saga is that if things work out between [Awesome Guy Who Still Needs a Proper Fake Blog-Name] and me, I have documented proof that he won’t leave me when I gain those inevitable ten pounds this holiday season.

P.P.P.S. Did I mention that I’m crazy-smitten with him and he’s friends with Tom Brady? Well, okay, they’re not friends – but they totally went to college together. Fine. That’s pretty much a lie too. They did not technically go to college together. But they did go to the same school – just not at the same time. Still, it’s entirely possible that [Awesome Guy Who Still Needs a Proper Fake Blog-Name] once sat on a chair that was once sat on by Tom Brady – which is definitely something that friends do.

P.P.P.P.S.– I think these P.S.’s were longer than the actual post. Is that normal? Also, is a P.S. with four P’s even a thing?

P.P.P.P.P.S. I totally bought that loaf of cinnamon swirl bread.

        I dare you to toast a slice of this bread and not get aroused from the aroma.


How Not to Impress a Guy on a First Date

This list is comprised purely of things that I actually did on a date last week:

1. Admit to not having ever traveled outside of North America.

2. Order a burger with a yolky fried egg on top of it.

3. Have the following conversation:

  • Date: How do you not have a passport?
  • Nic: I know, it’s crazy! But I’m working on it, I swear. Moving on… Burgers with fried eggs on them are the FREAKIN’ BEST. Have you ever had one?
  • Date: No.
  • Nic: Oh! So I’ve never traveled overseas, but you‘ve never had a burger with a fried egg on it. When it comes to that whole lack-of-culture-and-world-perspective thing, we’re obviously totally even.
  • Date: I don’t agree…

4. Attempt to eat a french fry and miss your mouth entirely, thereby dropping the fry on the table in a highly embarrassing and supremely awkward fashion. (Yes, that happened, and I actually lived to tell. I’m still trying to figure out what kind of award I deserve for going through such a traumatic experience — I’m thinking it should have the words “hero” and/or “survivor” in its title.)

Later that night, I gave my date a ride back to his apartment. As he began to emerge from my vehicle, I felt compelled to reach into my backseat and pull from a bag of free samples of Tide® Pods that I obtained from a generous friend who clearly has some valuable connections. I then went into full grandma-mode and said something to the effect of, “Take some Tide® home with you for your laundry. These fancy new Pods — they’re an innovation!”

I must have really liked him, because my brain was so cloudy at the time that I actually considered this behavior to be both normal and appealing.

In retrospect, I realize that I sent my date home with laundry detergent.

“I won’t put out on the first date, but I WILL send you home with some household cleaning products!”

Alternate titles for this post: “This is Why I’m Single,” “How to Channel Your Inner Grandmother While Trying to Not Scare Off a Potential Suitor on a First Date and Totally Failing,” or “I Dropped a French Fry on a Date — and I Survived.”

P.S. But seriously, have you tried Pods yet? They’re freakin’ amazing — a stain remover, detergent, and brightener all in ONE!

P.P.S. The saddest part about this post is that I am not affiliated with or working for Tide® and/or any branch of Procter & Gamble in any way. This is all purely my own doing.


Purposeless Dating: A Big Waste of Time

When it comes to how I feel about dating, my nineties television soul mate — Ally McBeal — says it best:

“The truth is, I don’t actually date. Not for the fun of it, anyways. I more like audition potential husbands. And if I don’t see any potential, I don’t waste my time.”

This woman. She gets me.

This is why I’ve had approximately thirty-nine and a half first dates this summer that ultimately went nowhere. Because if we’re on a date and I learn that you are:

  • closeted,
  • of an unkempt appearance,
  • humorless,
  • a Jets fan,
  • shorter than advertised on OkCupid,
  • averse to beer-drinking, or
  • incapable of having a conversation about anything other than the gym,

then I will not waste my — or your — time.

I kind of have a non-existent biological clock that requires my husband and I to adopt our first potentially international baby when I’m between the ages of thirty and thirty-five, and I’d like for us to have been happily gay-married for a good five years before that happens. So, according to these calculations, I have a maximum of six years in which to find Mr. Right.

While I realize 2018 isn’t the most immediate deadline, I have no desire to spend the rest of my twenties reliving my slutty college years months (I was monogamously coupled for ninety-percent of my undergraduate experience).

In short, I hate wasting time.

Unfortunately, because the universe clearly hates me, the majority of this summer’s guys that I did see husband-potential with seem to love wasting time. This is evidenced by the fact that they waited until the second, third, and even fifth dates to tell me that they “aren’t looking for anything too serious,” but “still want to hang out” — and then had the nerve to suggest we still sleep together.

Pardon my naïveté, but it truly blows my mind that men can effectively say, I’m afraid of commitment but I do kind of enjoy your company, so let’s just have no-strings-attached sex, and expect it to be received with a glowing air of understanding acceptance.

I’m sorry, but the whole reason I went on those multiple dates and took the time to get to know you as a person was because I ultimately want those effing strings (maybe not with you, but if things were to work out, then, yeah — strings would be the end goal). And frankly, I’m pretty damn sick of feeling like I’m some kind of crazy person because of it.

Maybe I do need therapy.

But honestly, when did wanting a relationship go from being an obvious implication of participation in the dating scene to being some kind of rare psychological disease that signifies my desperation, neediness, and obesity?

After days of contemplation, I’ve yet to figure that one out.

I have concluded, though, that perhaps the above-mentioned men of my summer aren’t all being honest. Maybe the ones who “don’t want anything serious” are liars who may or may not just think I’m fat. Or maybe they are being truthful. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for my future that I keep meeting men who could be described in either of the following two ways:

  1. They honestly aren’t looking for relationships, and are therefore douche bags — douche bags who all deserve to be stuck on trains with burrito bowls and no forks — for allowing chemistry to develop between us over the course of several dates, and then telling me that they’re commitment-phobic.
  2. They’re lying sons o’ bitches. They actually are looking for relationships, and the “don’t want anything serious” line is their seemingly-less-damaging way of telling me that somewhere along the way in our sequence of dates I scared them off by saying that I “truly believe Taylor Swift is the Joni Mitchell of our time… except deeper.”

To the number ones: Grow a pair, and learn to keep it real. And to the number twos:

…Grow a pair, and learn to keep it real.

With this in mind, I’d like to proclaim the following to all potential suitors:

Be aware that I’m looking for something serious. Who the hell knows yet if I’m looking for something serious with you, but if I agree to multiple dates, then it should be interpreted as me acknowledging that I at least see potential with us. If I eventually decide that we may not be a good fit, then I will tell you that — probably by saying that I see us more as friends (who never hang out).

Please reciprocate.

Don’t waste my time; don’t waste your time.



Don Draper Guy and Nicolas: An Imaginary Love Story

Remember last summer when I arrived five years late to the Heroes party and watched the entire series on DVD in the course of about a week?

Well, that’s happening again. Except this time it’s with the superior drama Mad Men.

What do I love most about Mad Men? Probably the fact that it’s about chauvinistic male advertising executives being hot. It turns out that I have a real soft spot for pompous manly men with archaic values and a tendency to demean women. I want one to demean me! Preferably while we’re making love after I’ve cooked him dinner. (Of course.)

You can imagine my excitement when, this morning on the train, I encountered a man who was the absolute embodiment of Mad Men heartthrob Don Draper. (The Metro-North is of course filled with hot, suited businessmen on any given day, but this guy was exceptionally Draper-esque.)

As I sat across from Don Draper Guy, I couldn’t help but notice that he was wearing a wedding band. I then couldn’t help but imagine the following love story in my head (written in italics so as to aid the reader in distinguishing glorious fantasy from depressing reality):

Don Draper Guy and I share in intense eye contact for approximately thirty seconds. He then makes a weird half-kiss, half-bite gesture with his lips that I correctly interpret as a declaration of his love for me. He slips me a note with his cell phone number on it. We immediately begin a soft-core sexting session right there on the train amidst the oblivious commuters who may or may not happen to notice that Don Draper Guy and I are digitally consummating our relationship before their eyes, but choose not to acknowledge it because, like all commuters in the New York metropolitan area before 10:00am, they’re miserable.

After several minutes of continued sexting action, Don Draper Guy ups the ante by suggesting that we both get off the train at the next stop, go back to Connecticut (via his private car service that he decided not to use that morning in an effort to be more down to earth) and look for houses with his realtor.

“What about your wife?” I say, and he shrugs. I correctly interpret his shrug as, “Oh, is this ring still on? My ex-wife and I have been divorced since this morning, and I’m now totally available and gay and in love with you! Will you marry me?”

I say yes, we buy a house, and I quit my job to take care of the children from his previous marriage while he keeps doing important business-y things in New York.

I start crossing paths with Don Draper Guy’s ex-wife while picking up the kids from soccer practice. Though our relationship starts off acrimoniously, we slowly bond and eventually become besties who meet for tea and talk about everything — including Don Draper Guy’s bedroom prowess. Alex and Sandy (my step-kids) love the fact that their mom and gay step-dad are able to be in the same room together without going all Madonna-and-Elton on each other every five minutes.

Our whole unconvential family arrangement troubles some of our more conservative neighbors, but I don’t care because we own enough acreage for our neighbors’ opinions to be non-factors. Also, Don Draper Guy loves and adores me and comes home from work every night to tell me how perfect and not fat I am.

We obviously live happily ever after.

It takes a very special type of desperate gay man to be able to dream up the above scenario, so I hope you’re impressed.

Here’s what actually happened between myself and Don Draper Guy:

He compulsively checked his BlackBerry while I stared creepily in his direction and possibly drooled a little. At one point, he crossed his legs at the knee — a daring train-move that exposed his argyle sock-covered left ankle. I briefly visualized him sitting at the edge of his bed sexily putting the sock on earlier that morning. Then a weird bug/fly thing started buzzing around us and he heroically shooed it away, which I construed as him caring about my well-being. Then we got to Grand Central and he disappeared immediately into the sea of emerging commuters walking toward the main terminal.

I proceeded to power-walk my way to work while wishing I could have just stayed home and watched Mad Men all day.


I’ve Found Love in a Hopeless Place

It’s official. The perfect relationship exists, and I’m in it.

Are you jealous?

Don’t be, because my significant other is a commercial chain of burrito restaurants. That’s right.

You may have heard of my boyfriend — his name is Chipotle?

I know that in my epic last post, the happy burrito bowl ending was really just a way of saying that eating your feelings can be all it takes to recover from a self-esteem-demolishing, non-air conditioned train ride home next to a hot guy who has rejected you via the Interweb (because who doesn’t that happen to?) — but it has now grown into a full-blown relationship that is two-sided and very real.

How did this happen? Well, Chipotle read the post and has clearly decided that I’m husband material.

                                         Basically a marriage proposal.

Take that, Hot Guy Who Rejected Me.

I don’t know who Joe is, but it’s very likely that I’d be willing to bear his children if the opportunity presented itself.

                                               Definitely a marriage proposal.

Many happy returns. If a guy I slept with ever said that to me after sex, I’d legitimately think it was romantic.

And this might be why I need therapy.

(But I’ll probably just keep eating burrito bowls instead.)

The Burrito Bowl, the Hot Guy Who Rejected Me, and the Fork: A Tragicomedy

The other day I was looking back at some old posts. Specifically, the one about the time I saw my hot would-be husband (affectionately named Lenovo Guy) on the Metro-North train twice in one week but couldn’t bring myself to talk to him because Lenovo computers are the devil and for some reason hot would-be husbands always render me mute. It made me think to myself, wow, if only something mildly interesting like that would happen to me again, maybe I’d have something better to write about than my recent desperation (not that my recent desperation hasn’t resulted in some lovely material, as Not OK, Cupid can clearly attest).

Inexplicably, my wish for a blog-worthy debacle has been granted. And it happened on the Metro-North. Again.

It all went down last Thursday night when I had to work past my usual dinnertime. By the time I left the office, I was hungry enough to eat a manila folder with a side of paper clips, so I knew that picking up some food pre-train would be essential. I stopped at Chipotle for a to-go burrito bowl and hauled ass to Grand Central just in time to snag a cozy three-seater all to myself.

As I settled in and prepared for a glorious moment of burrito bowl-mastication, I reached into the Chipotle bag to discover that there was no fucking fork. (Do you love the alliteration?)

It took a moment for the reality to set in that I was on a train about to depart for forty minutes of express transit to Connecticut with absolutely no fork-acquiring opportunities in sight, but once it did, I panicked. I felt like growing a loaded pistol for a hand, holding the entire train hostage, and maybe shooting bullets at the ceiling to scare people — all while sob-screaming at the top of my lungs like a crazy subway platform person about how life is unfair, the government is trying to exterminate giraffes, and anyone in possession of a fork must relinquish it to me NOW and no one will get hurt.

One might say that hunger makes me mentally unstable.

My inner tantrum came to a relieving halt when I got distracted by a hot guy who jumped into the train right as the doors were closing. As I creepily watched him scan the rows for an empty seat, I noticed that he looked very familiar — like I had known him in a past life. Or was it a dream?

Then it hit me. It wasn’t a past life or a dream — it was Ok-fucking-Cupid. I had sent this guy a message three weeks ago.

His response? The dreaded blue.

Yup. I had chosen this dumbass as one of the few OkCupid users actually worth me risking rejection (which we all know I handle about as well as a toddler) for, and he shot me down. And I had no fork.

(My ability to not cry at this point should be applauded.)

Then he sat next to me. Of course.

I decided to bury myself in a book, hoping that Hot Guy Who Rejected Me wouldn’t take a second look in my direction. Then I totally caught him glancing at me four times. (Not that I was keeping a running tally on my BlackBerry or anything. But I might have been.)

I started thinking oh, my God he recognizes me, how humiliating; and I really hope the view from the corner of his eye doesn’t involve me having a double chin.

Then the train broke down. And the lights went out. And so did the air conditioning.


The loss of A/C made me sweat profusely while Hot Guy Who Rejected Me, from what I could ascertain from the corner of my eye, stayed magically dry and gorgeous. Prick.

Meanwhile, my burrito bowl was slowly dying and it kind of smelled.

Thankfully, the train was back up and running within twenty minutes. But as luck would have it, our car remained void of A/C. The conductor made an announcement that it was not coming back for us and we could walk up to other, cooler cars if not soaking in one’s own perspiration was a personal priority.

Hot Guy Who Rejected Me stayed put in spite of the heat, and for a moment it made me wonder if maybe he wasn’t repulsed by me after all. I longed to ask him so many questions. Questions about the reasoning behind his choice to ignore my message, how fat he thought I was on a scale of one to ten, and — perhaps most importantly — whether or not he happened to have a fork on him.

I remained silent instead, determining that he was probably only staying seated not because he wants to marry me but because he’s not human and doesn’t sweat.

When I got home later that night, I was mortified to look in the mirror and discover that there was major pit-stainage on my shirt that Hot Guy Who Rejected Me definitely saw and probably judged me for.

But then I got over it as I opened my kitchen drawer and pulled out a fork in excited preparation to eat the burrito bowl that was now sweaty, mangled, and of an awkward temperature. The burrito bowl that was still delicious anyways. The burrito bowl that had patiently stuck with me throughout this entire ordeal, and never decided that I wasn’t good enough.

Whoever said “food isn’t love” has clearly never been to Chipotle.


%d bloggers like this: