Please Love if Found

One time when I lived in New York, I was walking to El Quijote- the most fun, red boothed, Spanish restaurant next door to the Chelsea Hotel. (Sadly closed.) It had been there since the 1930s with very few changes: stained glass, gold  lacquered chandeliers, Don Quijote murals, dust, and perfectly warm bread rolls. I think there is a story in Just Kids about Janis Joplin eating there with Patti Smith and saying something to the extent of “You are what you settle for.”

I got off the subway that day to meet a man there who I wanted to be my boyfriend, but who would never be my boyfriend. Just a pleasant, dining, conversation and sex friend who I would become obsessed with simply because why the hell not? In the late afternoon, we were planning on having steak bites and lobster chunks, one of the best appetizers at El Quijote. They would give you sweet little forks and a cute little dish of hot butter and simply tell you to go at it.

I got off the subway and started walking while I’m sure I was listening to the band of the man I was seeing. I was in love in a dangerous 20 year old way; eyes closed, mouth open. Eager to give myself away and hand whoever the object of my affection was a leash and collar with my name engraved “Bridey July 27, 1990. Please Love If Found”’

While orgasming in my brain to this mans music, I noticed someone pick up walking behind me in a semi abrupt way like they had spotted me. I quickly buried the observation and continued down busy 7th Avenue where surely nothing could happen with all these people around.

It was a muggy day and I was wearing some cargo pants and wedged sandals. The pants hugged my rather flat ass in a way that made it rounder. I always felt like more of a woman wearing them. The wedge sandals? I can’t really account for. I think there is a moment in everyone’s life where you decide whether you are someone who wears healed espadrille’s or not. I was still figuring this one out, but I have concluded the answer is a resounding “no.” At this age, I did feel always on display or rather that I should be. I loved dressing for my part in NYC which at that point was some sort of manic pixie, vintage baby doll dressed video clerk sex kitten who wasn’t really into The Replacements, but could be if it meant you would like me.  Looking back at these years, I see a blindfolded young woman stumbling around NYC, colliding into various private parts and spending all cash immediately at Urban Outfitters.

While stopped at a crosswalk, with a Swedish family, consisting of a few tall, blonde teenagers and  a mom and dad scratching their heads wondering where the Empire State Building was, I felt a hard push into the street. I didn’t know how to register it at first, but I was almost knocked down and stopped myself from face planting into the pavement. I had been kicked on my ass. I turned around and saw a short man with curly hair and a cute blue backpack  bolting diagonally across the street away from me and the blonde family, who seemed completely bored by what had just occurred. The walk sign turned on and the family trotted away, while I stood frozen on the corner unsure of what to do.

I guess my ass really pissed this guy off, perhaps he fell for the illusion I was hoping for- that it was curvier, juicier than in reality. Maybe as we stopped on the corner, his beliefs were shattered as he realized my ass wasn’t THAT robust and this angered him. Though, I love entertaining the different, wonderful  possibilities of what was going on inside his head, the fact remained my ass had been kicked and the tourist family did not care. I wish they could have found humor in it at least, I would have taken part in a shocked chuckle. BUT JUST NOTHIN’. Tough crowd.

I walked with the air knocked out of me the rest of the way to Quijote’s where I explained what had happened.  We sat at the bar. He had ordered me a drink. As I was telling the story, I began to cry quite hard and uncontrollably. My friend understood and he sat quietly as I burst open, the scared little girl in me coming forward. The violence of the act though very tame and somewhat very funny, hit me. In that moment, all the ways in which I was hurting myself flooded forward. The pain of living on the edge of yourself; perceiving your body as an object, and the life around you as some sort of dom that you had to sneak around and submit to at any turn began to nauseate me.

This is not an analogy for living in NY or something. It was just my developing brain’s way of  navigating the world and attempting living. I sipped my drink, the dead-endness to my current decision-making, began unspooling. I thanked the man for the kick in the butt. And a decade later, I’m ready to thank the silent blonde family too. “You are what you settle for.”