Wait.. That's Not Normal

I consider him my very first stalker, now that's what dreams are made of. I almost don't know where to start it's all just so bizarre. It was a sunny summer day, the streets sweet with the smell of cooking garbage and sweat. I had just signed the lease for my very first apartment in NYC with my college roommate and was officially a very new barely established Florida transplant, and I desperately needed a drink. In fact my knees, and apparently my judgement, were a little shaky that afternoon.


It's funny how things seem to go in full circle. The bar of choice just happened to be that particular local haunt in the Upper East that I've had a love/hate relationship with from before I became an official resident. He was a regular (you can always tell the regulars, or the resident alcoholics as I like to call them by the amount of bills they have piled on the bar in front of them) donned in his suit of choice- baseball hat, t-shirt, and running shorts. We talked, we laughed, we joked, we exchanged numbers. Warning! I've officially entered the dangerous waters territorial to men in their late 30s/40s that are allergic to women in their 30s because they think they're desperate, completely oblivious to their own desperation. The type that has magic mirrors at home with magic reflections and magic affirmations of how amazing they are. He would only date blond women under the age of 25. I think back at the situation and often wonder- wasn't the first warning sign enough? Or maybe, I had to learn a few.


First date- nice dinner and drinks, first text to make sure I got home okay- nice and considerate, the *mwah*?!?! What 40 year old grown man texts *mwah* to a woman he's known for 2 days after a first date. One week later I officially moved to NYC with my life in the back of a UHaul. Picture it, my dad, my brother, and the man I just met moving me into my apartment. Strange indeed, apparently seeing me sweaty, in sneakers and work out clothes, and working next to my brother and father makes this man all hot and bothered. What happened in the next week officially goes down as a romantic evening gone wrong.

Philharmonic in the park is one of those wonderful things NYC has to offer that everyone talks about wanting to experience, but after a long day at work never really has the energy to commit. I was unemployed at the time- I consider moving to New York without a job my most fearless experience as of yet, or incredibly rash and stupid I haven't decided. Either way I met him at his apartment and the 5 of us headed to Central Park. The third being the ENORMOUS wicker picnic basket bought especially for the occasion, and the fourth and fifth being the two bottles of wine (see above, resident alcoholic, just sayin) considered necessary for a relaxing evening. The blanket was set, and for those who haven't experienced this musical experience, you are basically blanket to blanket with everyone else crowded on the great lawn. I could probably reach over and touch my neighbor if I wanted to reach out and touch someone. Oh, but no worries, there would be no infringement on our personal space during the evening's activities because we ended up being the entertainment, no one could miss us. Our picnic basket which was the mother board transformer of all picnic baskets opened up to two tables on opposite sides. Then came the glassware, silverware, gourmet meal and... candles! We had candles in a crowded event on our blanket in Central Park. I may have finished off a bottle of wine by myself that night, enough said.

He was a very nice man, but it all was so very overwhelming with a little bit of disturbing. He brought up the 3 date rule- the one where you sleep with a man after 3 dates, he freely declared that my roommate had to 'share' me with him, and he was already planning our first vacation and possible engagement, while scrubbing that imaginary red wine stain on his white carpet that he convinced was still there, all in 3 weeks. Not to mention the day I decided to snoop in his bathroom. Now I've never been a snooper, always felt too guilty and assumed I would get caught. But I did and I found old make up (lipstick, foundation, compact) and tampons. In a single man's home. Who doesn't have sisters. And lives alone. Oh but apparently that wasn't enough for me to leave, it was the text that I got one morning that I realized he was watching me, keeping tabs on me, and basically stalking me. I ran, and I ran far but could never really escape until recently when the emails that I never responded to finally stopped. I saw him one day recently, I was out to dinner with a friend and decided to check out a local restaurant (forgot to mention- he lives 10 blocks away from me but he still hasn't realized it, phew) and remembered he was a local there. I scanned the bar just in case and there he was with his pile of bills chatting away. "Go! go! go!" I yelled as I practically pushed my friend into oncoming traffic making my getaway before being spotted.

If a man is 40 years old, successful, AND desperately wanting to make a 25 year old his wife, it's not normal and likely that he has issues. What's normal is 40 years old, successful, and wanting to play with a 25 year old with their left hand in their pocket concealing the "I'm just going through a separation with my wife wedding ring". Now that's considered normal in this wonderful city. New Yorkers are special.