Letters to Mediocrity (and Other Such Men)

To New York

Dear New York,
So. This is how it ends.

You slowly stop replying, slowly show less and less interest until I get the message. The coward's way out of what could have been a beautiful beginning.

Surprising you'd choose to end it this way, and this quickly.

But, oh well. You did.

We met through tinder. I should have known it was destined to end based on that alone, but I, unfortunately, kept giving the app endless chances. Maybe it's because I'm a romantic. Maybe it's because I need the emotional validation. Whatever the reason, I met you there, and I messaged you first.

"You're cute. Let's meet up."

You liked that I was so straightforward. I told you that you looked like a man straight out of the fifties. You appreciated the compliment, and were swift to inform me that you were a classic type of man.

I liked your Ray Bans sunglasses, and the way you looked smoking a cigar. So I gave you my phone number.

We texted, briefly, until I quickly moved on and forgot our exchange had ever occurred. I was in the mix of closing up my second semester of college, running through hook ups with random men more quickly than I could keep up with and simultaneously attempting to turn assignments in on time.

You were forgotten, until you sent me that message.

"I don't know if I'm crazy or what, but since we first texted I haven't been able to stop thinking about you."

I swooned. I hadn't been courted in so long—since my last breakup, one night stands had been my preferred medium of choice when it came to the opposite sex. That message that you sent me introduced a crack in the fortress I'd built to guard my heart from emotional attachment.

I don't know why you did it, considering you dropped me rather quickly soon after, but in the meantime I was hooked. You presented yourself as my Atticus Finch dream man, and I ate your little show up eagerly.

We quickly agreed to meet up, enraptured by the possibility that we could be each other's soulmate. I was booked up for the weekend, so I scheduled you for a Saturday afternoon. In case things didn't work out, I could always ditch and meet up with another tinder prince.

A girl's gotta set herself up for success, right?

The first day I met you, I had just gotten back from one of my most scandalous affairs. Mr. Miami, here's looking at you. Your letter's coming later—just wait.

Needless to say, after the night I'd had, I didn't expect much from our meeting but a good story.

At first glance, you were small. An almost petite sort of man: not too short, just skinny and cute. You were wearing those glasses I so loved, the ones that first attracted me to your profile. A watch on your slender arm reminded me of the nerdy kids in middle school whose mothers packed their lunch.

"Hey!" you exclaimed, and I embraced you in a quick hug. Your eyes were shining. I could tell you thought I was pretty. Me, I hadn't made a decision yet. My hopes weren't too high, but your chances were looking good from the way you smiled.

I wondered if you expected me to be quiet.

I am not a quiet girl. I am loud and full of energy. Bright, even on my darkest days, full of this organic sort of heat that fills a room and knows how to make a group of people laugh out loud. I wonder if my personality intimidated you.

We spoke briefly of many things as we walked around the lake. I talked about my issues with my father, you made a joke about how you like to play devil's advocate too. I told you about my college's tradition of marriage after three lake walks, you told me it was too soon to tell if that was a good idea.