THE HIATUS
After last episode’s epic cliffhanger, I suppose you are expecting some sort of explanation. "What exactly is this Hiatus that you speak of?" "Did you seriously not have sex for nine months?" "Why does this broad keep talking about The Lord of the Rings?" Well, yes, I made an active decision not to engage in sexual activity with men (or women, no scissoring allowed) for nine months. And let me be the first to tell you: Readers, you don’t know from horny. Oh, and to reiterate, I maintain that I do the finest Smigel impression in town, and those who beg to differ can contact me directly to settle matters once and for all (you know who you are). I suppose the biggest question of all is simply, "Why?" Well, as my current state of [love] affairs is rather favorable, I have been struggling to pinpoint the precise motivating factor for The Hiatus; to return to the mindset I had when taking on this beast of burden. But upon perusing Merriam-Webster’s website, I stumbled across the etymological definition for Hiatus,"Latin, from hiare, to yawn." Then it happened. My cliché "Eureka!" moment. I was bored.
Now, despite only having three columns prior to The Hiatus, there actually were a number of other potential, yet short-lived suitors: The Tattoo Artist, The Bartender, The Investment Banker, The Barista, The Lawyer, The Writer, et al. In other words: too old, eye candy, no personality, you make coffee (?), wayyy too old and tortured soul—my ass! Boring, boring, boring!!! If I were to, say, write a memoir a la D.F. Wallace (RIP), I would entitle it Brief (But Not Brief Enough) Interviews with Vapid Men. These perpetual disappointments eventually drove me to a state of sheer indifference, if not borderline disdain, towards the male folk. Why was it that I was surrounded by a bevy of fantastic women, all of whom went out each weekend with the aim of "meeting a guy," only to come home feeling that much worse about themselves when that fratty i-banker with a pocket full of GHB talked to the other blonde at the bar? Admittedly, I was, at one point, one of these women—except I’ll see your i-banker and raise you a malnourished hipster who looks like walking VD any day of the week. Rather than sitting lame-duck and waiting for the next boring bachelor to waste a week of my life, I decided to take control of the figurative wheel, grab the bull by its phallic horns, etc. By mentally cutting off the possibility of sex, I was no longer a victim of this hapless dating pool; you could say that I pitied the fool in this dating pool. And, for the record, I can honestly say that these nine months were some of, if not the best times of my then 22 year-old life.
I am aware that this whole thing reeks of "defense mechanism" like last night’s empanadas in my stairwell, however, I discovered that my newfound chastity was a surprising source of confidence. I found that once I eliminated the possibility of boning some asshat on a Saturday night, I started honing all of my [sexual] energy into different creative outlets of my life, and thus generating new sources for pleasure (no, I didn't take up baking, knitting, or lesbian porn). To quote my friend dear Eddie, "I don’t know many women with hobbies. I often find that when I call or text a woman I am dating, it seems as though she has been sitting around, twiddling her thumbs and waiting for me to plan something to get her out of the house." The problem is that a lot of people, blurg, okay... don’t hate me, but, a lot of women are on the constant relationship prowl because they are unable to identify other sources of happiness in their lives. Sorry, but we all know it’s true. They seek out, enter into, and oftentimes stay in unhealthy relationships for fear of being alone, and subsequently rely on their significant other to be the source of happiness in their lives. But I had every reason in the world to be happy with my life and recent accomplishments. I landed an incredible new job in fashion, I enrolled in classes at NYU, I returned to my yoga regimen, and I was making tons of great friends; I mean, who wouldn’t want a permanent wing-woman to see through your PBR goggles at Union Pool when you think that snaggletooth uggo from Google may be "the one?" Having spent my first summer here pining after some Big Shot—who, after last night’s 4 AM text, gets an A+ in Predictability 101—I began to explore this amazing city with people who didn’t have drug problems! And, at the risk of sounding like an enormous cheese ball, I can tell you that New York is a truly sensational place to be single.
Let us review, for a moment, the types of activities a single woman can (and did) enjoy in this fine city: going to the Brooklyn Museum’s Murakami exhibit and donning head-to-toe American Apparel for Studio B’s Down & Derby roller disco with Lorna; heading downtown to the Romanian Festival for mititei and watching MGMT and The Ting Tings at McCarren Pool in the pouring rain with Sandra; dancing like crazy to James Murphy’s P.S.1 performance, spending a day at Sandy Hook beach and seeing Broken Social Scene headline the Siren Festival in Coney Island (pre-destruction) with Eddie; singing karaoke at Winnie’s and watching some shows around the Burg from my hottie neighbor’s darling band; knocking down some pins at the Gutter and grooving to Hercules and Love Affair with Rachel; and enjoying other live shows from the Kills, Yelle, the Teenagers, New Kids on the Block (wtf!?), the Virgins, the Gossip, the Pierces (too many times to count), Robyn, George Michael (seriously, wtf!?), and the unforgettable Radiohead performance at All Points West. Leah and Michelle a.k.a Typhoon 2008 popped into town with one-way tickets, and during their three week stint in the Burg, we managed to go on tour with the Beach Boys—and sing "Barbara Ann" onstage with Mike Love, twice—spend many late nights at Beatrice Inn, have drunch ("drunk brunch," yes, you can use it) at the Roebling Tea Room, take many long walks across the Williamsburg Bridge, and enjoy countless bottles of rosé au terrace at Diner. All things considered (doin’ the nasty not being one of those things), I could have done worse.
It wasn’t until halfway through this hedonistic voyage into single-dom—somewhere between blindly boogieing to disco beats at P.S.1 and riding the Beach Boys’ tour bus to Atlantic City—did I begin to comprehend the effects of this temporary experiment-turned-lifestyle choice. I realized that for the first time in a very long time, I felt genuine Happiness. This is not meant to negate any other moments of bliss in my life, but this time, I was doing it on my own terms; no one to answer to, no strings attached, and no relying on a significant other for satisfaction. Even my sister approved of my decisions, which you know (if you have read my previous columns) is a feat nothing short of Herculean.
Yup, I sure was a happy camper. And then, what some might dub a snap decision changed it all: I started dating again. My nine-month sabbatical was abruptly halted and I was reintroduced to the seemingly wonderful world of New York men. This next wooer had some unprecedented tricks up his sleeve, and, in an attempt to euphemize his sweet-talking, debonair persona, we’ll call him The Jackass.
NEXT: What do sunrise motorcycle rides, blueberry pancakes and sweet nothings have to do with romance? Well, as it turns out, not a damn thing.
