Long Time No Blog...

I originally started this blog to examine my observed differences between life in Michigan vs. New York City. For a couple of weeks, I was on a roll. Then I stopped writing. Why, you ask? My official answer is I became engaged and singularly obsessed with reception sites, calla lilies and tulle. But that’s not the truth. In actuality, it got too damn cold.

With the exception of traveling to and from work I have not left the house in weeks. WEEKS. The temperature hovers at 10 degrees. It’s icy, snowy, sleety, slippery. At night wind chills dip dangerously low. As I’ve struggled to come up with a topic to write about, I realized I haven’t done anything blogworthy since the Great Kitchen Reconstruction Project. And I’m certainly not going to blog about the pivotal decision of straps vs. strapless wedding dresses.

I did, however, manage a dinner date with a girlfriend last week. I bundled up in my big, fluffy, purple coat and headed out into the cold. We met at Outback Steakhouse (which, you snooty New Yorkers, is actually quite scrumptious – I recommend the coconut shrimp, but I digress.) We exchanged pleasantries, chatted about work, discussed the aforementioned strapped/strapless conundrum and then we got into the (pardon the Outback pun) meat of the conversation.

My friend went on a first date with a guy she really likes. He took her out to dinner on a Saturday night and they really hit it off. She continued to talk to me about their blooming relationship, but I couldn’t focus. First Date on a Saturday night? A whole dinner? What is he, crazy?

Back in my pre-betrothed dating days in NY, Saturday nights were precious. They were reserved for my good friends. We went to nice restaurants (not Outback), saw plays, had birthday parties, and generally had a grand old time. First Dates are random. They are in fact, not a guaranteed good time and no Saturday night would ever be granted for a first date.

First Dates occur on Tuesday, usually over one drink in a heavily populated bar, where escape from both physical harm or social atrocity is easily accessed. If things went well, a second or third date would occur on a Saturday night. The First Date thus became the pre-Saturday night screening process.

But what if the New Yorkers are the crazy ones? During the work week, we’re distracted and short on time. Are we really giving the nice, sweet man who’s paying for the martini a real chance if we squeeze him in on Wednesday in between the gym and LOST? And, as much as we don’t like to admit it, when us girls go out on Saturday night, looking our finest, aren’t we really looking for someone new and interesting? Wouldn’t that time be better served sitting across a dinner table from someone whose attention is focused wholly on us, rather than the scantily clad chick at the bar?

New Yorkers are risk averse daters. They return emails after a several hour delay regardless of the beeping Blackberry on their desk. They impose 2-day moratoriums on returned phone calls. They withhold Saturday nights from first time suitors. Some people might call this “playing games.” I call it dating protection. However the real risk for New Yorkers is not taking any risk at all. As someone who has taken the biggest risk of all – I left New York and followed my heart to Detroit – I know that the net only appears once you jump.