Getting Lucky

His name was Harrison.  He was an investment banker from Southern California and I didn’t even hate him.  I didn’t like him either.  He was just there the way the rickety red metal chairs were there at the tables outside the sidewalk café where we sat on a Sunday in the East Village.  It was what would be a first and last date but really it was less than that. 

Within the first couple minutes of our hour and a half together, Harrison told me he had never had sex sober.  I had not asked.   And I was not drunk and I was glad I wasn’t. 

He added, “I’ve probably been slapped by more women than most men.”  I wondered if most men have ever been slapped and I asked him if he had ever read Emily Post.  He had not.

I should have known from his earlier text messages that this would not go well.  He had used phrases like, “def” and “da bros.”  However, my friends had insisted that a date would be a good idea for me and I had figured it couldn’t be as bad as the last date that I had thought would be a good idea.  And it was not as bad.  It was worse.

He was neither funny nor interesting and I was not sure he was entirely human.  He didn’t like sad things or sad people and he didn’t believe it was possible to be mean or selfish – that’s what he said at great inarticulate lengths.  He also said vague, empty things like, “People are just people, man.  Ya know?”  Then he called Breaking Bad his worldview.  I wasn’t sure how a TV show could be anyone’s worldview but I didn’t care to ask.  He, however, cared to go on and say that he disagreed with Woody Allen’s “Whole worldview, man.  He’s so depressed, it’s just like sad.”  I chose this moment to quote from Annie Hall, “I feel that life is divided into two categories: the horrible and the miserable.  The horrible are the terminal cases, the blind, the crippled.  And the miserable is everyone else.” I was paraphrasing.  Then I added, “I feel lucky to be miserable.”  And I was miserable, but I was also lucky. 

My two best friends met me after my date and we went to a dive bar down the street where the beer was cheap and the shots were all doubles and the jukebox was all ours.  And then I wasn’t miserable at all.  I was happy with my friends, my beer, and my favorite Sonny and Cher song.  And I have been happy in love before.  I have been miserable in love before too.  And until I’m miserably happy in love again, I don’t need a date.  I need a drink, a dance, and good friends.  And I need to remember that even when I’m miserable, I’m still pretty damn lucky.