On Being The Single Guy During The First Dance
Just got off the phone with my father who, per usual, talked me down from the ledge regarding moving to L.A. He likes to use this battleship metaphor: when you wanna’ turn a battleship around, you do it slow and steady over many miles. So that’s his suggestion to me. And as much as I’d like to pack my bags tonight, have some wild adventures driving cross country, and make myself a new home by the beach in Santa Monica, I’m gonna’ take a more tempered approach. Dad’s always right (dammit).
So, anyway. You wanna’ know lonesome? Try being the only non-coupled off person at a wedding during the first dance. Wow, that sucks. My friend Brian got married in the wilds of New Jersey this morning, and I was that guy. Oh well, the song ended eventually. Everything does.
So I got home around 7 and, despite my Absolute afternoon hangover, rode up the river to the GWB again. The path is desolate most of the year, but folks have found it, and it’s teeming with every oblivious Rollerblader and daydreaming rider in the city. I just tried to slow down and have laugh about it. That is, until I came inches, nay, centimeters, from taking some guy’s head off as he chased his soccer ball. His friend goes, “Those are some good brakes you have there.”
But with the setting sun on the sparkling Hudson, some rolling hills, and Counting Crows cranked in my headphones, it really was pretty exhilarating, and filled me with gratitude.