I recently returned from New York and am currently experiencing serious withdrawals, causing me to tear up during Project Runway zoom-ins of the Manhattan skyline. I suppose that deciphering the city’s male inhabitants is my attempt to feel closer in spirit.
Going back to New York, I occasionally question what it is that made me move to Paris in the first place. Suddenly, I’m in a legitimate first world city, with excellent customer service and people who don’t consider complaining to be a national sport! Fueled by super foods and Soul Cycle, my energy levels rise to turbo-speed, and I begin accomplishing more in one day than I do in weeks in Paris.
The men, who suddenly come in all shapes and colors and sizes, provide a refreshing contrast to the monotonous Frenchies, in both their attitude and demeanor.
However, a few days into it, my acai-kale-hemp-fueled-high (what exactly is hemp, anyway?) begins to lift and I start seeing things from a slightly more sober perspective. Perhaps, the green juice really is always greener on the other side. Lets take a look.
Things I Desperately Miss about NY Men
The testosterone. I got to stay at a friend’s place in Battery Park, which meant that I was in close proximity to the two major NY testosterone hubs – Wall Street and the West Side highway. At every jet-lagged crack of dawn, I would crawl out of the house to discover the city bustling with energy, with myriads of cute, sleep-deprived bankers rushing to face the daily hustle of the Stock Exchange.
Every evening, I would observe these same guys training on the West Side at a pace normally attribute to professional athletes. Are these people on drugs? Can they ship some across the ocean?!
The traces of chivalry. On my first night back home, I invited my sporadic New York hookup buddy to join us for drinks at Standard East.. Imagine my surprise when the guy, who owes me absolutely nothing, picked up the entire tab! While I knew that he could technically afford it (ergo the finance jobs, ref #1), this Grand Gesture left me in a state of shock. Part of me felt like I should be in love, the other part felt like I owed him my firstborn. Yes, France has ruined me.
The balls. In ten days in New York, I got approached twice on the street, which is something that never happens in France, mainly because the men here are terrified of getting clocked in the head by a crazy French chick. In New York, there is no stigma about coming up to a woman, which suddenly makes every venture outside a fun, unpredictable journey.
The entrepreneurial spirit. You write a blog called Dbag Dating? No problem honey, as long as you plan on getting something out of it. Not a single person so much as tried to address the moral implications of divulging my personal life on the Internet, a refreshing change from the Frenchies, who make me search deep in my soul for the true meaning of my bullshit. New Yorker doesn’t mind if I sell my soul to the devil as long as there’s a West Village brownstone waiting in the end.
The economy may be down the shitter and 30-year-olds are still living with roommates, but that doesn’t stop everybody from thinking bigger and better and trying to latch on to any opportunity they may have to make it as the new Steve Jobs. The only people I heard complaining that whole trip were my underpaid and visa-challenged French friends.
Things I Don’t Miss about NY Men
The bullshit. When you get down to it, about 80% of anything anyone says is bullshit. The same hookup buddy who paid for all my friends? Well, he also promised to take us all to his native Peru next year (a promise my friends actually intend to hold him to).
Later, at a club, he turned to me and told me, verbatim, “You are a princess. And you should be treated like a princess.” Which was kind of awesome. Unfortunately, he made zero effort to see his princess for the rest of the week.
The volume. This is a personal pet peeve, but why do Americans have to be so loud? Sometimes, it seems like everybody is just trying to deafen each other rather than have a conversation.
And since most of what they are saying is mostly self-promoting bullshit, at some point it all just starts sounding like noise. And not pretty Repossi white noise either. (Now there’s a terrible fashion pun nobody will get!)
The self-absorption. During my trip, I attended a friend’s wedding, where I was seated next to a very hot douchebag who appeared far more interested in his Instagram than he was in conversing with people around him. In an effort to give us at least one reference point, I suggested we follow each other… As soon as I had located his account, he grabbed my phone out of my hands to check how many likes he had gotten on his recent selfie.
Of course, I couldn’t hold it in and decided to tell him that conducting his social media analytics on my device was ill-mannered and rude. To which he responded that I was just upset that he was more into his Instagram than he was into me.
The female enablers. If the men are conceited, this is partially because the women allow them to be. One night, my girlfriend and I were sitting at a bar in Soho next to two guys and two girls. They didn’t seem to be together, and so my friend and I began lightly chatting with the guys.
A second later, one of the girls appeared next to us, wrapping herself around the dude like an anaconda, as if I were about to jump her middle-aged pot-bellied dreamboat of a fiancé. The sickest thing was that the man seemed to be enjoying ever second of it. On the contrary, French women keep their men permanently feeling like shit, which prevents such obnoxious behavior.