I have this friend, (no really, I'm not just saying that to cover the fact that this story is actually about me, I wish it were) we'll call her… Liz Lemmon. LL is a Jersey Girl, who started dating a great guy in New York City. After a few dates, Liz told me about his apartment:
"Was it in Brooklyn?" - me
(Hi, we're 26, this is always the assumption. Or Queens… but NEVER date someone who lives in Queens)
"No, it's in Manhattan, like, Upper East Side?"- LL
"Oh, cool. Does he have roommates?" - me
"No, he lives alone."- LL
"WHAT." - me
"Yea, it's really nice. There's like a doorman, and it's a one bedroom. He made dinner and we ate in his dining room, then sat on the couch and watched movies." -LL
Then I died.
"LIZ. Do you understand what you have here? You have a 28 year old man with his OWN one bedroom apartment, on the UES, with a fucking dining room AND separate living room, and a DOORMAN?! Don't even tell me if he has central air." - me
"Yea, it's nice." - LL (Still not grasping the concept of having won the NY dating lottery)
"Liz. Tell me one more thing- is there… an in-unit washer and dryer?" - me
"Um… I think so, there's one closet that I haven't looked in yet." - LL
In the end, LL and Mr.Doorman didn't work out… but this did illuminate a ray of hope. Even in this shitty economy, 28 year old, well-employed, good-looking men DO exist...
but maybe only in New York.