The Men

Ohhhh the men.

The awful thing about being a woman in NYC is that there are four million other women here. And, Ravi says, New York has the world's most beautiful women. I disagree with this, but there certainly are so many of us that it's hard to be special. Particularly when everyone here dresses to impress. Being a graphic tee (or the old staple wife beater), sneakers and glasses kind of girl myself, I feel like a total schmuck about 90% of the time. The worst is waiting in line for bars/clubs, when other girls are wearing sequined ass-length "dresses" and 4-inch stilettos, and I had felt pretty cute back in my apartment with my denim mini and pink Chucks. Luckily, the bouncers don't seem to care as long as you've got the goods (no, I'm not dumb enough to try this look at a trendy club. Not willing to pay for a trendy club either, or spend my time in the company of trendy club-going douschebags. So no big there). What I'm saying is, walking down the street, a little white girl (even a gorgey one like myself) tends to get lost in the masses.

That, my friends, is one of the many reasons I love Harlem. Call it narcissistic, but there it is. In a mostly Dominican neighborhood, an average-sized, brunette (with a tint of red that I pay a lot for), pale Jew girl like myself is consistently called "bonita" in the streets. On Sunday I was running a couple errands in my p.j.s, because it was Sunday and that's what you do. I was absentmindedly staring up at an awesome-looking sneaker store, and I accidentally got in this dude's way on the sidewalk. If we were in the Financial District near my work, he would a.) walk right into me, or b.) side-step me at the last second while muttering under his breath and checking his Blackberry.

But no, this is Harlem. This adorable man actually apologized to ME. "I'm so sorry, miss." Let's analyze this apology, shall we? (You have no choice, readers.) Firsties, he apologized to me. As if I weren't the bumbling sidewalk etiquette-less idiot. This served the dual purpose of taking away my embarrassment, and also making me fall a little bit in love with him. Secondsies, he wasn't just sorry. He was SO sorry. If it were just a mumbled, "Sorry," I wouldn't have believed him. But he was so sorry. For reals. Thirdsies, he called me "miss." I love that. It's polite, but also a little bit scandalous. It admits, "I'm trying to be appropriate, but I've noticed that you're an attractive young woman. You're not some old crone. I see you."

And you know what, Mr. Blameless Apologizer? I see you, too.