So I’m on the 149 listening to alittle Bronski Beat minding my own business when I catch eyes with an adorable man, all hot and lumberjack like.
I’m thinking YAH if we date we’d live near each other. I’m noticing he has pretty eyes and he made the effort to smile at me even though I’ve transitioned from curvy to chubby over the holiday season. I’m fantasizing we’d walk through Clissold Park holding hands on summer days. I’m day dreaming of us laying in bed arguing over whether we should watch Arrested Development or Modern Family.
I’ve basically laid out our lives together for the next 6 months when I notice his hands.
His tiny little hands.
It’s like my mind won’t let me be happy even in my fantasies. I’m obviously not going to interact with this man as that would require moving my fat ass so why couldn’t I just continue to throw flirty smiles and ignore his smaller than average hands.
I tried to rationalize the whole situation with some good old fashioned logic, I’m not perfect so why should he be but really he should be! I spent 2o minutes on the bus home imagining our lives together, if I wanted imperfection I’d actually talk to him and ruin the fantasy immediately.
I feel bad for being shallow but I’d like to defend myself. I’m only shallow in my fantasies.
In real life I’m picky about personalities and mostly I date quirky looking guys. I’m all for personality and cute smiles. I hate muscular bodies as they’re hard and I bruise like a peach. I must admit I have a thing for good hair and big noses but they have to come with an amazing personality and a love of Mushroom Dr Oetker Ristorante pizza.
If I knew a guy and liked him I’d find his small hands endearing and kiss them constantly but on the bus home I like to relax so if a guy goes out of his way to catch my eye he’d better have average sized hands or be wearing gloves because I don’t need to stress of self hating because of my shallow fantasies.
So I took my slightly single ways to New York for some spending therapy and general tom foolery.
1 week in NYC= 850 quid = OUCH = baked beans for the rest of the month
I had a great time, although my dreams of hot men finding my foreign accent sexy crashed completely.
In general any boy hunting failed completely but I enjoyed sight seeing too much to be offended. What did offend me was how people were weirdly cliquey in Williamsburg (supposedly the Dalston of NYC).
I felt very clean and pretty darn excluded from bars in Williamsburg. The regulars were like the characters from The League Of Gentlemen. Tattooed woman grumpily murmuring ‘You’re not local’ in my ear was a little too much for my vacation. I wanted to like Williamsburg because I live in Dalston, but there definite moments were I doubted the comparison between the two.
One- Dalston is a judge free zone, I’ve been at Jazz bar at 5am in the morning dancing with bankers to Will Smith and Jazzy Jeffs Summertime and had a smashingly good time. Two – people in London regardless of musical taste dress WAY better than New Yorkers and don’t judge others need to express themselves through colour . Three – People are familiar with cultural diversity and embrace fun to be had in many languages.
The most fun I had in NYC was in the Lower East Side – people were friendly and not offended by my colour coordinated to the max outfits.
I think the comparisons between Dalston and Williamsburg need to stop as they’re misleading. Maybe Dalston should be compared to the Lower East side since I’m now its biggest fan and thinking of designing a new T-Shirt range cleverly including I heart Lower East side in one T-shirt, not to be confused with I heart Les Paul or I heart Lesbians (although I think both Les and lesbians are pretty darn rocking) x