Dating a banker in nyc Bodybuilderchat
My years of New York City dating—if you’re counting, there have been 12—have involved a lot of guys, short- and long- and mid-term. My shortest—minus the one-off hookups that we all know aren’t “dates” at all—was somewhere in the range of two weeks.There have been certifiable crazies, like the Eastern European fellow who broke my bedroom window in a fit of rage and told me not to complain that he’d broken my “fucking window.” There was the Jersey boy who worked in women’s handbags; fond memories involve him drunk-puking at the Hilton, then giggling hysterically, running, and “hiding” our soiled comforter in front of someone else’s door down the hall. There was the dashing Argentinean only in town for a week; the Ronkonkoma deli worker barely old enough to drink; the beleaguered i-banker who came over regularly just to pass out on my couch.That’s why when a girl says, ‘Oh, sure, we can hook up and I won’t be weird about it,’ they end up yelling at you a week later.” For every loser I’ve screamed at, there have been nice, normal single guys with perfectly acceptable ZIP codes and ages and jobs and habits who never did a thing wrong but for some reason were chucked after the first or second, or maybe even third, date for being boring, predictable, too nice, too normal, not successful enough, or . We want the tippy-top of what we can get—why shouldn’t we? It’s not because we wanted our lives charted out before we lived them.
The ex has a little boy, a dog, and a wife now; I don’t even own a cat. As a married friend mused, “Holding out for everything we want—maybe it’s a delusional expectation.If they think, ‘This girl’s not giving me what I want, or pushing things too quickly,’ they find someone else.