Putting the I in TMI

Putting the I in TMI

Last week, I went to a magazine party at this lounge that - to my delight - was just a few blocks away from my new apartment. Dressed in an over-sized man-shirt, cinched at the waist with a black belt over some pencil jeans and patent leather peep-toe stilettos, I gave myself a once over in the mirror. Not bad. I spritzed on my signature scent and headed out so I could make it within that "fashionably late" gap.

Now I usually don't waste people's time to describe my outfit in a blog, but let's just say that I haven't really been orchestrating my ensembles lately - just throwing things on - and it felt nice to actually look nice. It's that time of the year in New York where it's supposed to be getting warm, but it's not and frankly, I'm really desperate for spring. Spring weather, spring clothes, spring fever...basically anything I can get.

So on that brisk evening, I trotted on over to the party and fought my way up to the bar. While awaiting my cranberry vodka (not my usual libation of choice, but when the Belvedere is free, I can improv), I bumped into a colleague of mine from a music magazine I used to work at. He was notorious for bringing his girlfriend to industry events and then fighting with her outside towards the end. Seriously, people are so immature sometimes. Do your routine fighting behind closed doors, or at least someplace your boss won’t spot you. Nevertheless, he was a nice guy - and super cute, which is irrelevant, but still.

"Where's wifey at tonight?" I asked, surprised that she wasn't latched on his arm as usual.

“Wifey? Oh hell no. We broke up a while ago. I’m very single.” He said, taking another swig of his beer.

“Ooh yes, single is a beautiful thing right now,” I concurred. “I just moved out to this neighborhood, so I’m not focused on anything right now but working and finding new restaurants. No one knows me here. I might even put on an accent.”

Sometimes I wonder if I’m one of those TMI people I always complain about.

He grinned. “Try a Jamaican accent. That could be fun. Wait, you’re single too?”

I nodded.

“Nice.” He moved in a little closer.

Uh oh. I don’t want to be the next girl this dude fights with outside of parties. Quick, change the subject.

“Umm, in fact, I write a blog every week about my single adventures. It’s fun – you should check it out,” I said, only to mentally slap myself upside the head a moment later.

I have this terrible habit of telling random men in my life about my blog. And then they Google my name, look at it and then conveniently view my most vulnerable stories and gut confessions.

“Oh really? I’m definitely going to check it out. Then I can see what I’m up against when you and I go out on a date.”

Oh lordy lord. It’s begun. Quick, I need damage control. Abort mission! It was too late.

I nervously laughed and then pretend waved to my pretend friend I was meeting across the room.

“Okay, hehe…gotta go! Nice seeing you!” And I scurried away in no particular direction.

This is my constant struggle. I mean I love this blog and I solemnly swear to keep it real with my readers (all six of you) but people I’d like to professionally network with don’t necessarily need to know about my commitment issues and my quest to get some action.

Why couldn’t the cute bartender with the Marley-esque locks hit on me? Why not the hottie in a suit on the subway? Don’t you feel like being single is like playing Bingo sometimes? Like you’re at the senior center, you need a G4, and they're calling out every other possibility?

I really hope that guy isn’t reading this.