A strange phenomenon has been occurring in my life, involving friendly drunk girls seeking relationship advice from me in bathrooms. Well, it's happened twice in two weeks. Is twice a pattern? The girls are strangers, the romantic situations they've gotten themselves into are kind of Sex and the City-esque (or even a little Lauren-circa-2008).
My first client, we'll call her "Maria" (I was at a Cuban restaurant) Was loudly lamenting her romantic dilemma on her cell phone in the stall next to mine. "I just wish you were still heeerrreee," she slurred. "I know I shouldn't do it, but like, I feel like I'm gonna do it." After a urination's-worth stretch of her friend trying to convince her NOT to do this thing, Maria hung up and we exited our respective stalls together. I gave her kind of a friendly, knowing look ("hey girlfriend, we do like, sisterhood! or something!"), which she took to mean, tell me what you were talking about with your friend.
Long story short, this woman (this WOMAN!!) was trying not to sleep with her married coworker whose wife just had a baby? I was all, girl. And she grasped my arms and begged me to stay and help her (decide?). I had half a mind to roll up my sleeves and tell this woman a thing or two about life as I know it (not that she wasn't a capable, intelligent individual; "I have a PhDEEEEEE!" she lamented), but then, thankfully, the waitress who had been serving her table (and seemed to be remarkably familiar with the circumstances) came in and took over. I had to go, I told them, and said she should probably call her friend back. She'd know what to say.
"Oh, that wasn't my friend," she said. "I met her in the bathroom half an hour ago." True story!
Last night at happy hour with Tiffany, I was in the bathroom, you know, reapplying my glosses or something similarly dainty, and a woman came out of a stall, put one hand on her hip, and asked "Say, where are you from?" "Milwaukee, Wisconsin!" I replied happily, because who doesn't get a little happy when they think of America's Heartland? I'm not sure why she wanted to know where I was from, because the next thing she said was that she was visiting a friend, but not the friend she meant to visit.
This girl, this poor damn girl (oh, her name is....Matilda, I don't know), had flown to New York City from California to see A Dude. He knew she was coming, he agreed to pick her up at the airport, and he didn't fucking come. Just didn't show up. Didn't call, didn't email. She took a cab to a friend's apartment and told him she had come to New York to surprise him.
I'm not going to turn this into a feminist rant or anything, nor will I relate it to any of my own dating mishaps, none of which were as cruel to the heart as this one. I just hope for this dude's sake that he fell into a coma, or...is dead. Those are the only acceptable excuses. Poor Matilda.
Regardless, something about me (my midwestern charm? my approachable good looks? do I look extra smart, or nice?) is causing strangers to seek my relationship advice in NYC public restrooms. What do you guys think? Should I start an advice column? For tipsy gals with horrible dating luck?
