Variation on a Common Theme
I don’t know why I do this to myself. I’m currently sipping an extremely spicy Bloody Mary in an undisclosed Brooklyn restaurant/tea house. My stated goal was to do a little writing and enjoy a much-needed drink, but I should have known that I would spend every other sentence obsessing over my waitress, who I’m in love with.
I’m going to try to describe her without staring more than usual. She is relatively tall, or at least not short. She has longish, straight black hair. Her face reminds me of Anne Hathaway from Devil Wears and Prada, with a slightly more prominent nose. She has slim hips, which is a big deal to me. I don’t know how large her breasts are, which is not such a big deal to me, and I’m also petrified of being caught looking. OK, I just looked. They’re not very big. Which is fine.
Most important, she has an excellent sense of style. OK, maybe not “most important” – I could never be seriously interested in a well-dressed ugly girl (or someone with a shitty personality – just indulge my superficiality for a minute, alright?). And “well-dressed” encompasses a wide range of styles, from preppy to punk. Originality is good. A little skin is great. A hat is awesome, and high-top sneakers are fucking unreal. The girl in question definitely fits the sartorial stereotype of the Williamsburg gamine: 80s inspired, with dashes of 70s indulgence and 60s whimsicality (I can’t believe I just wrote that, but upon serious reflection I’m standing by it). Today she’s wearing denim wedge heels, mid-length khaki shorts, a paisleyish top, and a long gold rope with nautical medallions. It sounds contrived, but she’s so friendly and genuine that it totally works.
Thing is, this girl’s style is part of the problem – it makes me feel hopelessly square. Whenever I go to her restaurant, I take pains to wear my most daring outfits. And it’s not like I have nothing to work with – we’re talking about a wardrobe that includes a seersucker suit and patent leather Jordans. But this diligence is part the problem, because I bet that she’s the type of girl who is attracted to guys who wear 10 year-old Levis, bathe weekly, and play second bass in a struggling post-punk outfit. My neurotic need for stability and distaste for black denim means that I’ll never be this guy, although I do have the requisite shitty apartment.
My relative conventionality is only one reason why the only desires I will ever express to the young lady in question are my abiding passion for vodka and tomato juice and my need for the check. Another problem is that I don’t want to be just another asshole whose unwelcome oglings she has to deal with because I’m a paying customer. This girl is perfect crush material – impossibly cute with a pungent whiff of sexiness, approachable enough to encourage even the wariest suitor, and seemingly unaware of her formidable powers. She has undoubtedly been fending off poor schlubs like me since first grade Couples Skate. And maybe that’s the appeal – she’s one of the first girls I’ve admired from afar for a long time. Back in elementary and high school, I would spend years dreaming about the same unsuspecting girls across classrooms, hallways, and lunchrooms, often for years at a time. Since college, however, the magical powers of alcohol have afforded me the courage necessary to approach appealing girls, with decidedly mixed results. But I’m only around them for a few beers at most, so any rejection is easily forgotten.
I’ve fantasized about seeing this girl at a bar, after a few drinks. It would be much easier to talk to her, not only because I’d be drunk, but also because I wouldn’t have to break through the waitress/diner barrier. Odds are I’d open with a self-consciously clever observation about the clientele, follow with a poorly received attempt at witty banter, and conclude with a pathetically self-deprecating farewell. My faith in true love would be irreparably damaged, and I would never go back to her restaurant. So maybe I should continue to stifle those fleeting urges to engage her in actual conversation. That way I’ll continue to relive the unrequited longing that was such an important part of my formative years, and she’ll continue to pocket outlandish tips.
I’m going to try to describe her without staring more than usual. She is relatively tall, or at least not short. She has longish, straight black hair. Her face reminds me of Anne Hathaway from Devil Wears and Prada, with a slightly more prominent nose. She has slim hips, which is a big deal to me. I don’t know how large her breasts are, which is not such a big deal to me, and I’m also petrified of being caught looking. OK, I just looked. They’re not very big. Which is fine.
Most important, she has an excellent sense of style. OK, maybe not “most important” – I could never be seriously interested in a well-dressed ugly girl (or someone with a shitty personality – just indulge my superficiality for a minute, alright?). And “well-dressed” encompasses a wide range of styles, from preppy to punk. Originality is good. A little skin is great. A hat is awesome, and high-top sneakers are fucking unreal. The girl in question definitely fits the sartorial stereotype of the Williamsburg gamine: 80s inspired, with dashes of 70s indulgence and 60s whimsicality (I can’t believe I just wrote that, but upon serious reflection I’m standing by it). Today she’s wearing denim wedge heels, mid-length khaki shorts, a paisleyish top, and a long gold rope with nautical medallions. It sounds contrived, but she’s so friendly and genuine that it totally works.
Thing is, this girl’s style is part of the problem – it makes me feel hopelessly square. Whenever I go to her restaurant, I take pains to wear my most daring outfits. And it’s not like I have nothing to work with – we’re talking about a wardrobe that includes a seersucker suit and patent leather Jordans. But this diligence is part the problem, because I bet that she’s the type of girl who is attracted to guys who wear 10 year-old Levis, bathe weekly, and play second bass in a struggling post-punk outfit. My neurotic need for stability and distaste for black denim means that I’ll never be this guy, although I do have the requisite shitty apartment.
My relative conventionality is only one reason why the only desires I will ever express to the young lady in question are my abiding passion for vodka and tomato juice and my need for the check. Another problem is that I don’t want to be just another asshole whose unwelcome oglings she has to deal with because I’m a paying customer. This girl is perfect crush material – impossibly cute with a pungent whiff of sexiness, approachable enough to encourage even the wariest suitor, and seemingly unaware of her formidable powers. She has undoubtedly been fending off poor schlubs like me since first grade Couples Skate. And maybe that’s the appeal – she’s one of the first girls I’ve admired from afar for a long time. Back in elementary and high school, I would spend years dreaming about the same unsuspecting girls across classrooms, hallways, and lunchrooms, often for years at a time. Since college, however, the magical powers of alcohol have afforded me the courage necessary to approach appealing girls, with decidedly mixed results. But I’m only around them for a few beers at most, so any rejection is easily forgotten.
I’ve fantasized about seeing this girl at a bar, after a few drinks. It would be much easier to talk to her, not only because I’d be drunk, but also because I wouldn’t have to break through the waitress/diner barrier. Odds are I’d open with a self-consciously clever observation about the clientele, follow with a poorly received attempt at witty banter, and conclude with a pathetically self-deprecating farewell. My faith in true love would be irreparably damaged, and I would never go back to her restaurant. So maybe I should continue to stifle those fleeting urges to engage her in actual conversation. That way I’ll continue to relive the unrequited longing that was such an important part of my formative years, and she’ll continue to pocket outlandish tips.
posted by rd at 5:09 PM
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