Static.
Circular.
Awaiting clearance.
I’m in a holding pattern.
There are worse things, trust me, I know. Long, leisurely mornings w. coffee and the Times, noontime walks around Gramercy, Juilliard concerts in late afternoon, dinner and a bottle of Cabernet w. the neighbors on my terrace. I’m enjoying the details of fall in the city that most New Yorkers are too busy to notice. Halloween Day I was able to stroll around the city—“un flaneur” the French would call me—with no destination in mind. My sole purpose was to take in the costumes, the smells, collect autumn leaves (the virgin leaves—the ones yet to be trampled by excited, sugar-crazed eight year-olds)…
But, I’m ready for the next challenge. I want this period of wait to be over, to hear the good and the bad news and then move on w. my life. Make your decision—swift and decisive!—and let’s move forward. This plane needs to land at La Guardia so I can check all that baggage and make a new life for myself in the city.
I am a Southerner in the City, an aging debutante, a small town girl cursed with big city aspirations. My grandfather says that I’m at the cusp of feminine failure—I’m as old as a bottle of prime Tennessee whiskey (aged 25 years) and still single. I need to “get on home” and find a nice Southern boy—a doctor, maybe an insurance salesman. At this, I dig in my heels and set out to date every inappropriate man in Manhattan…
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