Spooning (46 page)

A
fter some sips, slices, some great conversation, and a quick clean up (because he was all about keeping the park eco- friendly), Dan led me across the road and over to the famous
Boathouse. He sidled up to the boat master and slipped him a ten. At that moment, the boat master stepped back to reveal a dilapidated rowboat. Chipped blue paint covered the hull. Inside, two different-sized oars rested on weathered green boards. With an outstretched hand, Dan helped me into the waiting rowboat. I was going to be rowed! What a New York experience! As we pushed out onto the pond, the city fell strangely silent. I could see the pathway masseuses waving and calling to the runners, the drinkers reveling and laughing on the Boathouse porch, camera-happy tourists clicking and saying “cheese” by the fountain … but all I could hear were the pigeons cooing, the crickets singing, and our paddles dipping into the green waters as we pushed off.

At first we careened around in a circle. Dan blamed his overthrown college pitching arm for the uneven distribution of power. I dragged my finger lazily through the still waters until visions of mutant creatures lurking below the opaque surface got the better of me.

The water was a particularly odd shade of green. It wasn't the aquamarine color of the Caribbean or the sublime dark green of the East Coast's Atlantic. No, it was Emerald City green. Bright, strong, and unnatural. Unnatural yet fantastic! It was just so pretty, especially in those photos lined up along the sidewalk for tourists. I leaned to the side hoping that the green would reflect softly in my eyes. Everything around us seemed to pop in contrast.

And did I mention? I was being rowed! The butterflies in my stomach were on some ecstasy spree. Did I mention? I was being rowed! Was I supposed to lounge, recline, offer to grab an oar? I could hear Tara's sexually charged suggestion: “Stroke, stroke, stroke, and stroke!”

“Oh, I almost forgot—” He let the oars idle at his sides.

“There's more?”

“Yep.” He bent down and reached inside his backpack, which was now seeming reminiscent of Mary Poppins's magic carpetbag, and pulled out an awkward object sheathed in plastic. Inside was a small delicate plant. And on one branch was perched a beautiful, solitairy, perfect gardenia bloom.

“Oh, my …” I said, holding my hand over my mouth in complete shock. Could someone please pinch me? Not only was he holding J. Lo's favorite flower, but it was mine as well. How the heck did he know?

“Is it too much for a first date?” he asked shyly. “Too cheesy? God, I don't want to be cheesy. But I got you a whole plant, pot and all, because I thought it would last longer than a bunch of flowers.” I couldn't help but smile.

“I seem to ruin everything though,” I murmured, not even sure of what I was saying. Was I referring to our tortured house- plants or to some deep-seated insecurity about relationships?

“Then I'll help you take care of it when I see you. Easier than a pet! You're going to love the scent. These things can last forever!” All I had caught out of his last few sentences were the words, “First date … last longer … help you … care … easier … love … forever.”

It was too good to be true, but I wasn't going to question it. And before he could say another word, I leaned in closer to him. Little did he know that the gardenia was more than just a flower, it was a sign. It was a sign from up above, from the Goddess J. Lo herself.

I had come a long way over the past year and now another chapter in my life was waiting to be penned. New York City could have eaten me alive. I had lived in an apartment the size
of my big toe and eaten nothing but canned soup until my paycheck went through. We had all cried over the boy that got away, the job that made us feel stupid, the cab driver who took us to the wrong part of town. We had all stood at the bar pretending to wait for someone or be someone. Yet, we, the Dirty Half-Dozen, had decided to combine all that drama with a splash of happiness and resourcefulness to turn the tables and serve it up with a cherry on top. And look at me now! I was being rowed, I had been given a nonpedestrian flower, I had received a promotion at work, I had come to admit that black was indeed a color (not the mere absence of), and I now knew how many ounces were in a quart. I looked up at the dusky sky and sighed.
New York
magazine was full of ideas just for me, a New Yorker; the
New York Times
Metro section was just for me, a New Yorker; the T-shirts and sweatshirts emblazoned with the city's fine name were just for me … and all the other 13,999,999 urbanites. I didn't just love NY, I was NY!

I am NY
! I wanted to scream from the top of my lungs in the middle of Central Park. Instead I just let the high-wattage happiness beam from my smile.

The sun began to set as Dan the Man rowed, not showing any sign of slowing down. Even as the natural light escaped the city's skyline, I felt a warm glow radiate all around me. I felt bathed in sunshine despite the evening sky above us.

So ladies all around the world, listen up! We've all encountered burnt meals, wicked exes, bitchy bosses, and bad hangovers. But really, life is a dish to be savored. And no matter what your own personal recipe entails, you can't lose if you include three simple ingredients: good friends, sunshine, and orgasms.

Bon appétit
!