W-Types

Women are cunning.  It’s not a bad thing, and it wasn’t meant to sound like that.  Cunning is a compliment.  It’s clever.  It’s because of their keen intuition.  They are cunning because they are the sole reason why us men fall in love with them.  Yes, even the gay men out there; you love women, but in different ways.  This process isn’t manipulative, no.  Some may feel it could be manipulation, but it sure as hell isn’t.  They strike a chord with us, and they keep playing that chord over and over again, and ever so gently.  It’s not manipulation if it’s genius.  For us guys, who have a soft heart, we’ll fall for it every time, and we’ll do whatever it takes to keep you around.

However, this can be taken with a grain of salt.  Manipulation can be confused with genius–there is a fine line between them.

What is it that we notice about women?  It could be a variety of things:  hair, eyes, glasses, face, body type, shoes, gaudy or subtle attire, style in general, and/or whatever you may be doing at the present time.  Face it, we don’t look at what you’re reading at first.  We may notice that you are reading, but we won’t care about what you’re reading may not (or may) judge you on what the book may be.  We’ll notice how you present yourself.  If you’re dressed in workout attire, you may feel gross and not presentable while at the grocery store or grabbing a tea at the local cafe, we’ll probably not judge you.  Well, I won’t, and I cannot speak on behalf of everyone.  In my opinion, despite your self-consciousness of feeling icky after–let’s say–yoga class, it’s appreciated that you (1) have hobbies, (2) take care of yourself, and (3) are confident enough to not give a shit for that moment that you’re grabbing something healthy in a public place.

I’ve stated it before that pretty faces attract my attention.  There is an attraction to natural beauty, so the caked-on makeup just doesn’t appeal to me.  Presentation wins in the classic category, and the skin-tight anything doesn’t appeal that much to me.  It’s not so much of a conservative appeal as much as it is a personal appeal.  That’s why wearing ties and blazers do not bother me; it’s a classic feel to going out and feeling good.

If you move to New York City, you have to have a certain personality and/or mindset.  Even the more timid people can move there if they have the right, confident intentions; their shell will break eventually, and their outgoing personality will hatch.  These New York Women have a hard-to-believe disposition, which can be second-guessed as a facade.  The sometimes hard-to-believe strive for the classic style–the media, the popularity surrounding Mad Men especially (possibly) amongst other portrayals, taking away from what was subtly built by Sex and the City’s (the televised heyday, not the films) modern approach, could have a lot to do with this–can throw someone for a loop.

It’s fun to pinpoint a person’s approach.  This is especially true and almost a given with improvisers.  Despite the drastic personality of the improviser, they all share that common confident metaphorical brooch.  Trust me, I’ve consistently improvised directly with three women since January.  They are all significantly individualistic.  Because of their strong personalities, I am happy to be on friendly terms with them and not pissing them off.  However, it’s been a wild seven-and-a-half months, and I am grateful to have them in my life–on and off the stage.

Amanda and Erin, alphabetically and how they were chronologically introduced to me, are improvisers.  John had mentioned to me that Erin was, but I personally found out with Amanda; both hit the conversation forcefully.  It’s important to Yes, and while on stage as well as life.  The conversation, a solitary flower of a concept, blooms into a bouquet of fun and spontaneity when both individuals listen, go off, and expand off of what the person is saying.  This is how conversations should be, and not just a game of 21-plus questions, which also seems to be an interrogation. The 50’s/early-60’s inspired attire of both women, in dresses, fit their personalities.

When I speak to other improvisers, there is an intimidation factor since my experience only dates back to January.  The basics are down, there is no problem with my jumping up on stage, but the essence of being an improv toddler sweats from me.  However, I sweat and shudder and stumble–sometimes–when it comes to talking to women.

The conversations went really well with both, and Erin seemed to swoop in when Amanda had to leave.  Is this what Cards Against Humanity meant by swooping?  While everyone seemed to be rooting for me, I was subconsciously not rooting for myself.  For one, while attempting to establish a relationship with someone not located in Syracuse is proving its difficulty (and we’re unfortunately growing distant by the day), I didn’t want to press Karma’s bad button–don’t evah pwess the wed one! (yes, Looney Tunes)–and drive the ship down any faster than the current process of simply taking on water.

As I sit and ponder, however, looking at the bigger picture, her posts and distance, this seems pretty inevitable.

There is no excuse for my not making the drive, but–life as it happens so daily–gets busier/productive as the hours pass.  It’s harsh reality.

But I was in Astoria.  This day and a half vacation was to have the best made of it.  After leaving Bohemian Hall, I joined John and Erin on a playground to swing.  It’s been years since I’ve felt the rush of a swing and the agita it created while fighting motion sickness.  After having a few drinks the dizziness generated by the swing could not be imagined, but I pumped my legs through it for my body/mind to adjust.  It was actually quite fun, reassuring.  John mentioned he’d go here to blow off steam and to think, which isn’t a crazy idea.  For a moment, a meditative state was reached, which was shown by a brief silence.

Before we headed to the food truck, I gentlemanly escorted Erin to her apartment to drop off a few things from the party.  It was fine wandering around the city, taking in every new building and sign.  Granted I didn’t know her, and who knew if she would have chloroformed me, but at least I could have protected someone if not myself.  But we made it to the taco truck without an issue.

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{Late Night Tacos Truck}

The taco truck hit the spot.  The burrito option was superfluously stuffed, and smelled amazing.  After a couple drinks anything smells amazing, but this had to be extraordinarily good.  My my senses were on overload.  The two guys manning the truck were cordial as can be while their hands were moving a million miles an hour.  They stopped to cash patrons out, taking a breather, but they smiled constantly.  Customer service at its finest.  The burrito, which didn’t take long at all, was full of flavor; the chicken was grilled perfectly, and the seasoning/sauces did not overwhelm the palate.  The burrito did not taste or feel greasy in the least bit.

The last bar we entered capped off the night with a pickleback service.  Nothing like a shot of pickle juice to top off the day, three and a half hours shy of being up for a 24-hour period.  The early-to-rise day, the day of work, the driving, the settling down (which took a while)–everything was taking its toll.  While rubbing my nose, I noticed that my hand still smelled a little bit of raspberry mayo and pear.  A group of three women caught my attention, and one coaxed me over with her pointer finger, extending and hooking.  In my mixed tired state, I thought the was reversing the motion, so I reversed it as well, repeating Danny isn’t here, Mrs. Torrance in my head.

Upon my finally picking up what she was laying down, I walked over to have one of the most awkward conversations.  Still dressed in my work attire, I was known as The Tie Guy to them, which I had to explain myself.  After a brief synopsis of my present day bio, the group dwindled; three became two, which became one, and I was left talking with the runt of the group.  I excused myself, and headed back toward my friends.  The three had a nice schtick, but I wasn’t buying it; kudos must be given to the assertion, however.

The next morning, I woke up with my head slightly pounding, but thankfully not to the point of regret.  I sat on the porch, and took in the air.  Eventually showering and returning to the couch, one of the roommate’s girlfriends left, asking me if I had made out with Erin.  This was one of the many instances that made me realize there was a coup amongst the group of friends, rooting for this to happen.  Justin made himself clear the six or so hours before about my making a move.  I replied, sarcastically, that I wasn’t that easy.  I laughed about it, but something tells me it was received differently.

Unfortunately, set-ups do not work in my favor.  They haven’t.  They probably never will.  I’m not being pessimistic about it; it’s happened enough times to understand.  However, my friends’ tampering with Fate left it obvious, but there was no regret.  As it was assured to me, You’ll have tonight.  In truth, I didn’t have the desire to do anything of hormonal instinct.  It didn’t feel like the time.  Aside, as I stated, my mind was already preoccupied.

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{Morning in Astoria}

To justify things:  later on in the day, Saturday we are speaking of, the feminine blogger whose writings I adore so much posted a picture about her dining at Dinosaur Bar-B-Que’s Brooklyn location…

Yes, I’m still listening.

One thought on “W-Types

  1. Pingback: Scheduling, Stacking, Committing | The Infinite Abyss(es)

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