2-Advice on New York City Men

Have you ever met a girl and thought- she has everything. Nicky Webb was that person, and she’s had it her entire life. She has gorgeous, thick brown hair, perfect olive skin, and pretty brown eyes. She’s skinny as a straw, yet some-how, her boobs and hips were never affected. She has curves, and Nicky wears clothes that showcases that entire package.

Call it charisma, beauty, height, or presence, when you pass Nicky on the street, you can’t help but look twice. It’s like watching a real-time commercial for shampoo, or skin lotion, or hair dye, or diet pills. You name it, if it’s good, somehow, this woman could model it. You couldn’t help but be jealous. As a woman, you wanted her fashion sense and fast metabolism. As a man, you wanted to unravel her fashion sense with urgency.

Nicky and I have been best friends since college. We met freshman year at Cornell when we both, by chance, shared the same dorm room. At first, I couldn’t stand her. I thought she was selfish, self-absorbed, and spoiled. She put up posters on my side of the room without asking, and never picked up after herself. I later learned she had a maid growing up, and never had to do any household chores.

In fact, I was the first person to teach her how to do laundry, and to think that she didn’t even know you had to separate the whites from the reds. Of course, Nicky never asked for help with anything, but after I saw her expensive white blouses turn pink, I knew I had to show her the ropes.

I assumed at the time that Nicky had everything she wanted in life, but as we grew closer, I realized she lacked one thing in life just like the rest of us, and everyone who knew her, knew it.

Nicky was looking for love.

“I don’t get this. I’m better looking than her, and look, she’s marrying an investment banker. How come I can’t find one of these guys?” Nicky passed a copy of the New York Times wedding section to me and our other best friend, Mary. We were all sitting at our favorite diner.

“Look there’s a vice president of a bank, a lawyer, a media consultant. And look at the girls they’re marrying. They’re not even that pretty,” she said.

And just in case we missed it, Nicky had circled the men’s professions and pictures in red ink. The list of eligible bachelors got smaller every week, she’d say.

“Nick, did you ever think that maybe, just maybe these girls are nice people and that’s why these men proposed?” I asked.

“You’re such an optimist, aren’t you.” Nicky snapped back. “Seriously, I’m 30 years old.”

Mary cut her off: “You’re 32 years old. You forgot who you’re talking to.”

“Alright, alright, I’m 32 years old and I’m not dating anyone seriously. I did the math last night and figured I have only about 11 more pretty years left.”

“And how did you come up with that figure?” I asked.

“It’s not an exact science,” Nicky replied. “It’s just something you know about yourself . C’mawn guys. I need your help. Where are these girls meeting these guys? Mary, where did you meet your husband?”

“William and I met through friends,” Mary said as she sipped her coffee, half-listening.

“Well maybe I need to find new friends because you two aren’t getting me anywhere.”

You never knew when Nicky was kidding or serious. Her wit was so quick and dry that she was already onto the next thought or quip before you even grasped what was said.

Fortunately for Nicky, she was blessed with great friends who loved her unconditionally. That’s what happens when you make and keep friends from college. You develop a history and comfort that only gets stronger with time.

Mary and Charley are our other two best friends. We all met back in college. Mary lived on the same dorm floor as Nicky and me, and by spring semester of freshman year, all three of us were bonded at the hips. It was like we had our own sorority group. A year later, Charley joined our group, and he quickly became the brother none of us had.

“Sorry I’m late,” Charley said, as he sat down at the table.

We were at our favorite diner with menus and sodas in front of us, but no one had ordered yet. Our dinner gathering had become a weekly ritual on Sunday nights. It started as a study session over pizza in college, but over the years, it evolved into a method of decompression before the week started all over again.

I first coined the dinners as “dinnerpy”-- part dinner, part therapy, thus “dinnerpy.” It was a made-up word, but it stuck with the group, and perhaps it was “dinnerpy” that kept our friendship intact through the years.

“What’s going on?” Charley asked.

“We’re looking at pictures,” Mary said. “Nicky’s trying to figure out how to marry one of these guys.”

“Oh, I love looking at pictures. Let me see.”

Nicky passed the newspaper to Charley. He flipped the page and brought it closer to his eyes. He didn’t have a response, which was unlike him, because he always had an opinion about something.

“Why would you want to marry a dead guy?” he asked in a serious tone.

Was he kidding, or trying to set up a joke? Mary looked over his shoulders and rolled her eyes.

“Charley, you’re looking at the obituary section. Turn the page. We’re talking about the wedding section.”

“What ever happened to that nice guy we met, Alex?” Charley asked. “I liked him. He was a good guy.”

“I work with Alex. I would never date a guy I work with,” Nicky said.

“I’ll tell you where to meet quality guys,” Charley said. “You go to the gym. Have you seen the quality there?”

“Since when did you start going to the gym?” Mary asked.

Charley wasn’t exactly Mister Atlas. He was a little overweight, --call it baby fat-- but apparently Charley’s bedroom mirror had different lighting because he saw himself as a perfect 10.

“You think I was born with a body like this? A body like this is nurtured,” Charley said, as he sipped a large cappuccino, loaded with whip cream. “I’ve been going almost a week. I won a free month’s membership.”

Nicky cut him off.

“Quit digressing. Tell me more about why you think the gym is a great place to meet single guys.”

“It’s my philosophy on single-hood,” he said without skipping a beat. “Can you pass me the sugar?”

“Charley and philosophy?” I said. “Oh, this I have to hear.”

I put on my glasses and scooted in my booth to get a better look at what was about to come out of his mouth.

“See, us single people are the only ones who have time to go to the gym,” Charley said. “And we’re also the only ones who have to keep thin.”

“I beg your pardon. I find time to go to the gym,” Mary said.

As the sole married person in our group, Mary was the maternal one who seemed wiser and more responsible than everyone else. She married her college sweetheart, William, shortly after graduation and moved to New York City with him a month later. Her entire view and scope of the City was based on a perspective and experience that involved him.

“You guys, let him talk.” Nicky said.

It was obvious Nicky was getting impatient with our interruptions. Nicky wanted to hear what Charley had to say about men but everyone kept distracting him. Of course, that was easy with Charley, because he just talked about what was on his mind, or more aptly, what he felt. Sometimes it made sense, but more often, he just rambled. When you caught him on a good day, it sounded plain funny.

Still, Charley’s opinion mattered to us girls. He spoke frankly and dished insider advice on how guys thought, and what they really meant to say, when they opened their mouths after a few cocktails. Charley had an intuitive communicative sense, which is probably why he never lacked a date. He could charm you with his smile, and make you laugh with his sincerity.

“Since I’ve been going to the gym, I’ve met three pretty women and got all of their phone numbers. In fact, I’m meeting up with one tonight,” he said with pride. “Her name is Sonia.”

He paused to think.

“Or was it Tonia?” he asked.

“All in a week?” Nicky probed.

You could see the thoughts swirling in her head. Even though she was skinny and firm, Nicky never went to the gym. She always said she preferred to run in the park with her headphones, but we all thought she just starved herself.

“All in a week. Let me know if you want to go to my gym. I’ll take you as my guest.”