THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF ANKLE SOCKS GO I

I squirmed uncomfortably in my metal folding chair at a flamenco performance at Prospect Park last night, wondering why I'd suggested it as a night activity to the Colombian. Then I remembered. She likes flamenco dancing, and I like her. It was one of those compromise things that people do when they're in actual relationships - something I'd forgotten about while dating the tired, poor, wretched refuse that comprises the NYC dating pool. I tried my best to get into it, but watching other people dance doesn't do it for me. If only napping with your eyes open were possible, I could have soldiered through with ease. Instead, I decided to focus on the bright colors of the dancer's costume while forcing a head bobbing smile. I kept telling myself to think happy thoughts. First, I remembered that the concert was free, and that kept me smirking for about twenty seconds. When the cheap Jew in me could no longer sustain my feelings of joy, I recalled a conversation I had with my seven-year-old niece about the death of Gary Coleman. "Gary Coleman died?" she asked, surprised. "Oh my god! Grandma has his grill." That one got me through another minute and a half.

But between the beating my ass was taking from wiggling around on some cheap NYC Parks Department issued chair, and the fact that the temperature was in the nineties, I couldn't get into a comfort zone. "You're bored?" the Colombian asked, slightly irritated that I wasn't enjoying the performance. "No. Not at all," I answered, irritated that she was irritated. If not for me, she wouldn't even have been there. I was the one that found out about the performance after a good thirty seconds of online research. How could she be so ungrateful? I started to feel like maybe I wanted to be there alone. While dating NYC's unwashed masses, I'd forgotten about the other thing people do when they're in actual relationships - get on each other's nerves.

I looked around at some of the people in the audience who were there by themselves, wondering if they were happier being alone. To my right sat a woman in her late forties who spent ten minutes before the show telling me how the government was responsible for the economic collapse. "Sure," I told her. "Because they deregulated Wall Street." "NO!" she shouted. "Because they send subliminal messages through magazines." Her solitude was clearly involuntary. I searched for another example of happy isolation , and caught a glimpse of a shirtless, tattoo-ridden man in his fifties, sitting alone, with his face in his hands, his head shaking as if he was in mourning. Ah, but these people are nothing like me, I thought. I'll never wind up like them. I could be alone and be perfectly normal and happy. And then I saw the old man above.*

There he sat, as uninterested in the performance as I was with no one sitting next to him. I pictured him being there because it was cooler than sitting in his non-air conditioned $300 a month rent controlled apartment. A man who had no wife or significant other, who went everywhere alone, carrying a newspaper and every pen he owns in the front pocket of a blue blazer. With a few exceptions, we were dressed a lot alike. I was in shorts, a t-shirt and sneakers, and I wondered if this man decided long ago that he'd just rather be alone. For a brief moment I envied his ability to openly display his boredom, and I thought maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I turned into him in thirty years. But then I realized that I could never pull off the knee socks look, so I put my arm around the Colombian and told her how happy I was to be there with her.

(My apologies for the poor formatting. Apparently, blogger doesn't react well to pictures of old men in camo shorts).
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