Larger Than Life Crushes

Yesterday, I fell in love.

I don't know his real name, and well, we've never spoken, but these are just minor details. From the moment, I started reading about him in this week's New York Times Magazine, I knew that he was the guy for me.

He's 28 and brilliant. He does most of his work under the cloak of darkness. Landing in a slum or shantytown , he installs his supersized photographs and disappears before his presence is ever known. The fact that he goes by his initials and will only be photographed while wearing sunglasses and a hat just adds to the mystery.

Have I mentioned that this man is no stranger to danger?

Finishing up the article, I sighed to myself. How come I never meet men like JR? Artistic, brazen, sexy, socially-conscious lovers of travel.

The answer is clear. Maybe I do. Let's be honest, if I met JR five years ago, before the fame and the larger than life Times profile, I would have never gone for him. Between his Williamsburg-style clothing and his mile-long rap sheet, I would have been halfway out the door before he could say "street art."

Oops.

Well, at least I can still appreciate work created by the One Who Got Away.

Possible/Not possible

I've noticed that singletons around my age like to lump every invite, event or outing into one of two categories: possible to meet someone or not possible to meet someone.

For example:
30th birthday parties, weddings, pub crawls, gallery openings, fitness centers. Possible.

1st birthday parties, bridal showers, afternoon tea, elementary school plays, nail salons. Not possible.

And these categories matter. They dictate clothing choices, make-up choices, and whether or not note cards of clever remarks and charming anecdotes needs to be prepared.

The problem comes in when you have had as long of a dry spell as I have. Suddenly more and more things fall into the possible category. Supermarket (Possible!). Laundromat (Possible!). Public bus (Definitely possible!). Recently I had second thoughts about wearing my sweats to take out the garbage (hey, you have no idea who you can pass by on the way to the dumpster...).

Which brings me to tonight, when I found myself shimmying into a short black dress and sliding on knee-high boots for a charity event at a suburban women's club.You see, I'm a glass-is-half-full type of girl, and I thought some mother would drag her son, some sister her brother, some businesswoman her colleague. And, more importantly, the type of guy who would allow himself to be dragged to such an event would be the sensitive yet secure type that would be perfect for me. Right?

Wrong. Fast forward three hours. I'm sitting in what feels like an old high school gym-cum-auditorium as a gaggle of 50-somethings convulse on the dance floor and sing along to a greying cover band's version of _Brown-Eyed Girl_.

I scan the room before reaching for my third dessert of the night.

Yup. Not possible.

Enemy of love

This is not my first blog.
Not my first entry.
Not my first over share. 

But yet, this is still a big first for me.

I told myself that I would never write about love.
Not about dating.
Not about sex.
Not about first kisses or flirtatious glances.

It's not because I hate love (although sometimes it feels like we're enemies).  It's because I never thought anyone would be interested in my love life. I'm barely interested in my love life.

But today I reached a turning point. I realized that I was tired - tired of watching movies or reading articles  that showed a single life that did not in anyway speak to the one I'm living. Sure, I get  how it stinks for the Sex & The City gals to go on dates with a parade of unworthy guys. But given that the only man who has touched me in the last six months is my yoga teacher,I know for a fact that there are far worse fates.

So here I am. Starting today. Prepared to tell the honest, ugly, sometimes hilarious, sometimes humiliating truth about looking for (and occasionally dodging) love.