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The Man Who Scratched Too Much

27 May

To Scratch or to Scratch Harder – That is the Question.

I respect men.  I could never walk around with a log hanging between my legs every day.  (Yes, I’m being generous.)  Talk about discomfort.  And, if I did have one, I’m sure I, like most woman, would be obnoxious and feel the need to accessorize it.  Then, J.Crew would come out with jeweled sac covers in light pink and orange, and life as we know it would be over.

The world really would be a disaster if women were the ones toting around a second brain instead of men.  After all, if men didn’t have a penis, what would they think with for half the day?  (Kidding…kind of…)  A man’s world would be turned upside down if he lost his mini-me, but for one man – a particular man at my gym, I believe that life would be oh, so much better.

It’s not that I reject the concept of chaiffage.  I just choose to ignore it.  This, however, is relatively impossible when this man at my gym spends the first thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds of his treadmill workout scratching and adjusting and wiggling and scratching again.  Don’t worry; I timed him while my jaw dropped as I worked out on the stair climber.

Perhaps this is just the woman in me talking, but at how is it that he, at no point, thought to mosey on into the bathroom and take care of this “situation” in the privacy of his own stall?  Is this act truly acceptable in Man Town?  If it is, please let me know now because I’d like to prepare myself for future episodes.

I digress.

Though I chalked his initial “adjustments” up to discomfort, I couldn’t help but get worried around minute eight when he still hadn’t stopped. I was legitimately concerned.  What if killer ants had invaded his short-shorts?  Would I have to step in and perform some kind of rescue mission?

Pass.

At this point, I did what most people would do in my situation – I looked around for another witness.  If my retinas were going to be burning with this image, I wanted someone else to go down with me.  There was no one – nobody was seeing what I was seeing!  All I needed was one person to non-verbally sympathize with my inner struggle to finish a workout and not barf, yet I was a lone wolf.

It’s funny how people always look at you in the gym when you’re sweaty and gross, but when you’re about to fall off a machine because a man across the room just put his hands down his pants, there’s nobody in sight.  Oh yes, both hands were inserted into his pants in hopes of fulfilling a journey to solve whatever problem was occurring in Sacville around minute eleven.  They failed.  He was back to external scratching a mere seventeen seconds after their removal.

I finished my workout around the same time Scratch McNasty finished, what I’ll call, his warm-up.  I walked quietly into the locker room and gathered my belongings, scarred.  I knew, at that moment, that I’d never be able to mount that particular treadmill again or forget the site of a seventy-three year old man with his hands down his pants.

Perhaps I would have written this incident off as some kind of a daydream had the man been attractive, but that’s just not my luck.

Overchicked

20 May

Does the new term have men’s self-esteem running for cover?

I live in a model casting call.  Apparently, all the five foot-eleven inch, size two women in the world set up shop within a three-block radius of my apartment.  It’s ridiculous and threatening.  I try…passionately, but I can’t compete with the Heidi Klums of New York City.  They appear flawless with their Chopard diamonds, Weitzman shoes, and Chanel bags.  These women know how to accessorize; yet, when it comes to the most important accessory of all – a boyfriend – they select men that don’t necessarily complement their shoes, if you know what I mean.

Have you ever walked down the street and seen a smokin’ hot girl with a mediocre man and thought “mismatch?”  I have, and whether you want to admit it or not, you have too.  It’s natural; go with it.  When you see such a couple, you’re likely to think the man must be bringing something non-physical to the table like money, charm, or a Will Ferrelesqe sense of humor.  You think, “How else could he have landed this woman?”  Well, you’re not the only one noticing these couples, and the streets of NYC have spoken.

To those men who find themselves having romantic dinners with women towering over them on the attraction scale, I have one thing to say – you’re overchicked.  That’s right, you’ve been labeled.  This new term describes a man paired with a more attractive woman and directly brings attention to the attractiveness discrepancy.  Although women are bound to find the term complementary, men are likely to be torn – uncomfortable about their inferiority and proud of their conquest.

The emergence of the term, “overchicked,” has me wondering why there isn’t a comparable term for women dating hotter men.  It’s not that I’d ever want to be “overdicked,” but what the hell, don’t women get a word?  Then it hit me, women would only need a word if attractive men dated less attractive women.  Be honest, how many men do you know that date down?  I can think of…um…none.

Although I’m a big supporter of the new term – I’ve been using it for a few days now to describe my friend’s relationship with her new man – I’m slightly disappointed that there’s no need for a female oriented word.  I guess I’ll have to wait until men are no longer driven by physical appearances.  Don’t worry – I’m not holding my breath.

She’s on Fire

17 May

What New York women seemingly need to put out their flames is a firehouse in the flesh.

This weekend was gorgeous – or so I saw through the window.  While I was stuck inside doing work during daylight hours, most New Yorkers were gallivanting in the city streets, tanning in the park, or running alongside the West Side Highway.  Though many of you think I suffered inside for thirty-six hours, God decided to reward the dedication I have towards finishing my book and sent me a gift.  Sixteen gifts to be exact.

As I sat in the local sandwich shop, silently cursing the nauseating couple next to me, a beacon of light walked through the door.  One after the other, members of the NYFD walked through the opening and into my academic oasis.  Sixteen suited firemen – the opening scene of a woman’s fantasy.

Apparently, it was the opening scene of a lot of New Yorkers’ fantasies.

As the fire department filled the room, women flocked inside the previously empty space.  Tall women and short women and old women and young women followed their noses leading them to the men like Toucan Sam to his Fruit Loops.  It was as if none of these women had ever seen a fireman before; it was as if firemen existed only as photos or a figments of their imaginations, but on this special day, each woman was allowed to see greatness in person.

I must say though, I was disappointed.  Having been forced to view New York’s finest every day for a year when I walked into my kitchen and saw my sister’s NYFD calendar, I can’t say these men measured up.  Okay, some of them did.  One in particular…woah.

Being a warm-blooded female, I didn’t miss my opportunity to silently watch the men as they filed in, but I kept my observations under wraps and denied eye contact.  (I really did have to get work done.)  I can’t say the same for one woman – a woman who looked as if she was on her way to the park that morning but found herself distracted by and drawn to the massive display of rubber, yellow pants and navy shirts.

It was no act of fate that brought her into the restaurant that day.  I saw it all go down.

First, I witnessed the woman walking by the place and casually peer in through the glass window.  Then I saw her backtrack and walk by in the opposite direction and in through the door.  It took eight seconds for her brain to register the savior mob as a midtown treasure and put herself in contact with firemen  – lots and lots of firemen who would be able to put out the fire that’s been burning in her pants.

It was clear that she came in for no other reason than to watch – to stare.  Having purchased nothing, this woman sat at a table and pretended to watch the news.  She wasn’t watching the news.  Even out of the corner of my eye, I could see her scanning the firemen from a distance and mentally tracking their every move.

For twenty-five minutes, this woman sat at the table, straining her neck as she watched each man exit with their sandwich.  It wasn’t until the last one left that she collected her belongings and left to go back on her merry way.  Or, maybe she continued following them.  It wouldn’t surprise me.

PDA and the MTA

10 May

Deep in the trenches of subway moles and rats, couples that feel the need to mouthily attach each other are taking public displays of affection to a new level.

Perhaps I’m too traditional for New York City.  I’ve always been the type of girl who’d rather be asked on dates than groped in the back of some bar by a guy I just met.  I guess you can say I’ve always believed in romance and courtship over a hot fling or public make-out session.  Based on this, I’m sure you can imagine my utter sadness when I witnessed the day the romance died last week.

As I stood on the subway platform, having just been rejuvenated by yoga and a weekly trip to my favorite restaurant, I took a gander at my surroundings and laid eyes on a man and woman going at it on the subway stairs.  What began as an innocent kiss quickly turned into an all out fondling session.  In the midst of passionate lip locking, Mr. Lovemetender’s hand traveled down south before settling in mystery woman’s grand canyons.  (Insert jaw dropping facial reaction here.)

Everyone was watching.  How could we not?  How could anyone possibly focus on something besides the couple recreating a scene from Driving Into Miss Daisy right before our very eyes?

I didn’t get it.  Since when is a subway station considered an aphrodisiac?  Aren’t there hotels, apartments, bars, and random alleys for this type of behavior?  Clearly, I’m missing something because rats and Whitney Houston impersonators don’t put me in the mood to touch someone let alone partake in a love-fest in front of complete strangers.

I mean, a subway station reeking of pee and stale air?  Really?  That’s what can arouse this woman to the point of no kissing return?  You have to be kidding me.

In my mind, this is the end of romance.

How can any woman expect to be swept off her feet if the D Train excites certain people as much as a weekend getaway?  Who can compete with that?  Nobody.

Men should be happy to know that, as it seems, they don’t have to buy a woman expensive dinners or flowers to get her to “put out,” so to speak.  Screw long walks on the beach and jewelry.  All a New York man apparently needs to do to get a woman in the mood is bring her to the West 4th subway station and seduce her with turnstiles, mystery liquids, and the wafting aroma of something that died in 1987.

A Walk By Pick-Up

6 May

A woman is never safe from a man on the prowl.

I’ve always been amused by confidence.  Some of the hottest, nicest, funniest guys I know have none of it, yet men who walk the New York City streets seem to have confidence oozing out of their tight jeans and designer sunglasses.

Well, at least this guy did.

I think that wearing headphones is code for two things: I like music and don’t talk to me.  Maybe not for everyone, but that’s what it means when I’m wearing headphones.  So, you could imagine my surprise when a man walked up behind me on 8th Avenue and tapped me on the shoulder.

Note: Sneaking up behind a woman in NYC and touching her, in any capacity, is never a good idea.

Sadly, when I turned left, all I could see was Mr. Smooth with aviators shading his eyes, wearing a cream t-shirt with large silver writing all over it.  Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t unattractive, and the t-shirt did show off his bulging biceps, but did his first, second, third and forth comments have to be about my legs?  The one day I wear shorts!

I felt like the woman in the old sexual harassment commercials, getting smaller and smaller by the block, until I was practically miniscule when we hit Columbus Circle. Perhaps I shouldn’t have engaged in conversation at all, but when you’re walking next to someone and they keep talking to you, what’s a girl to do?  I thought about pretending to be foreign, but his Italian accent didn’t seem like it came from Little Italy, and I didn’t want us to “bond” over being foreigners living in the city.

So, I did what I think most women would do – pretended to be late and started walking faster.  On cue, he asked if he could talk to me again.  I said sure and kept walking, hoping he wouldn’t realize that he had no way of contacting me.  No dice.

He asked if he could text me.  Not that I had any intention of speaking to him again, but I definitely wouldn’t put up with a guy who texts instead of calls…again.  I explained that my cell phone didn’t have text messaging.  I lied.  I gave him my landline number (just as an experiment to see if he would call) and said it was the best way to reach me.  I lied again.

I told him to call the next night after seven.  He called at 7:15.   I decided to let the machine get it, but he didn’t even stay on the line long enough for the machine to pick up!  Who calls but doesn’t leave a message?

I had no right to be, since I didn’t even like him, but I was annoyed.  Maybe he wasn’t so confident after all – at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

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