Ms. Cynthia
“Be careful who you spend your time with. You can fall in love with anyone.”
My childhood best friend’s mother, Ms. Cynthia, was the queen of such axioms. She uttered them in an unapologetic Alabama lilt and I believed her every word. During our carpools from ballet class to tennis lessons to Sunfish regattas and back again, I would drape my long, straight 12 year-old body over the center console of her Nissan station wagon and listen intently to her romantic wisdom, imagining the day I could actually put her advice to good use. I never thought I would lose my way. In between picking the perfect gentleman suitor—“not you or you, oh yes, you’ll do just fine” (choosing a boyfriend, I had decided, was just like selecting the chocolate truffle with the preferred praline filling)—was an elegant world of charm bracelets, opera-length kid-leather gloves and tinkling ice cubes. Bliss was in arm’s reach. “All you have to wait for now, Belle,” I mused, “are breasts, a tube of Clinique ‘Almost Lipstick’ and a curfew past 7:30.”
Done.
My first year in the city and the breasts, lipstick and non-parentally controlled SoHo apartment were in place. I was ready for my Yankee prince. I was ready to be courted. I was open. I was soooo open…
And I was lost.
If a trainer at Equinox told me he liked my work-out pants, I would arrange cocktails at the Bowery Bar. If an Argentine busboy smiled and said, “Que haces, mi linda? Quieres tomar una copa?” I would meet him at “Novecento” on West Broadway for a glass of Malbec. Sleep with the men, no—that’s never been my style. Waste my time and my brain space on them? Yes. Between working at the news channel and going on terribly inappropriate dates, I somehow forgot about myself, my writing and dear, wise Cynthia.
Then, one day I stopped. I opened a notebook. I wrote down my thoughts, wisdom passed down, anecdotes. Cynthia, Granddaddy, Mamma and all the rest poured onto the page. It felt good, I felt good. Of course, I still need a little bad… maybe that’s why I went with an old flame to “Scores” Thursday night…
“Be careful who you spend your time with. You can fall in love with anyone.”
December 12th, 2005 at 11:27 am
taking a page out of Mimi’s playbook … and writing about sex and strip clubs.
Mmmmm … you know you have the attention of this dirty old man.
LOL
December 12th, 2005 at 1:25 pm
this entry is so true. i was the same when i first moved to manhattan a year ago. these yankee men are quite fast. thank goodness my texas guy came chasing after me…
December 12th, 2005 at 2:38 pm
Ah. That is so very, very true. Even though sleeping with men isn’t my style, I manage to waste vast amounts of time on them.
Even though I am a yankee, I personally find the men, for the most part, rather… dreadful.
I think I shall take up dating southerners or just move down there.
(I really am a southern girl at heart.)
December 12th, 2005 at 4:17 pm
hhhm. overawed by inaapropriate male attention. i can relate
did u not go to college then? i’m curious as to why it took a move to NY to escape the parents….or was NY a college move?
December 12th, 2005 at 5:18 pm
Is this your oh so subtle way of telling your daily fans that you are in love?! Oy…I really need to go to NY to discover this fast-paced love that you speak of so fondly.
December 12th, 2005 at 6:35 pm
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December 12th, 2005 at 6:37 pm
Strip club plus ex…. That equals trouble!
December 12th, 2005 at 7:41 pm
My grandmother used to tell me the same thing, and my mom said it is just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a poor one.
December 12th, 2005 at 8:39 pm
There is such truth in that statement!
December 13th, 2005 at 1:42 am
Ah, as a Texas girl turned New Yorker, already law school has consumed my life far, far away from men…I did have a sad hope that it could be better up here…
December 13th, 2005 at 6:30 am
Such a true axiom, Belle.
I’d like to borrow it, may I?
December 13th, 2005 at 10:46 am
I’m from Texas and I remember hearing that same bit of wisdom.
December 14th, 2005 at 5:44 pm
at least you got fun (free:) dinners, champagne, dancing, pocket books, good lovin’ and i’m just imagining…an ipod, i know a lot more who dated a lot worse for a lot less. all i got was a shitty t-shit. i mean t-shirt…