My Closet Confession… I’m falling in love. But, how can this be?...

My Closet Confession…

I’m falling in love. But, how can this be? How did this city girl, whom assumed the devotion of amorous prospects would be obtained much later in life, meet the man of her dreams in a city brimming with professionals and pirates- and how did she manage to find a man with the perfect mix of both? It’s so weird. At the moment, my life feels like a John Hughes movie- everything is perfect and I’m sitting with my long awaited prince charming on a table about to blow out birthday candles, just as Molly Ringwald did in Sixteen Candles. Only it’s not my birthday, I’m not sixteen, and instead of being propped up on a table, I’m actually sitting Indian style on the floor of my closet trying to decided if I should wear boots or pumps for a date I’m probably going to be fifteen minutes late for. Clearly I’m the furthest thing from the Brat Pack teens of the eighties, but I just can’t help it… The enchantment of these affections swoop me up in blankets of adulation, where in my rose colored glasses I’m immediately transported back to the teenage years of my youth to a time when my biology notebook, fully encompassed in inked hearts of boys names, took the place of my diary.

AKA, my head is in the clouds. But, when did it get there and how do I get it out? Another question I often ask myself is do I really want to leave this place of romantic bliss? It took me almost thirty years to find this berth of cherished allegiance with an individual who houses the same nostalgia of bathetic sensibility pertaining to the excitement of a new youthful love… So, if our feelings are mutual (which they are) then what is my problem? Is it the fear of momentarily falling so deep in the depths of emotional passion I may drown in murky waters of the future? Is this feeling of emotional completeness too good to be true? Realistically, my main concern is deciding what to wear… My father always told me the two things I would need in life would be a good lawyer and accountant, but as I sit on the floor of my closet looking around the mess that is my wardrobe I’ve come to realize the two things I actually need at this very moment are a maid and a deciding outfit for tonight’s rendezvous. My goodness, what am I going to wear?!

Assuming I needed some inspirational tunage to lift me from this fashionable confusion, I decided to pour myself a glass of wine and listen to some Etta James on vinyl. But, as I sat perched on my windowsill watching my neighborhood passerby frolic about in their rat race of life I suddenly was hit with bouts of melancholy concerns. What if this doesn’t work out after all? Will the remaining few years of my twenties be engulfed in an emotion that will leave me in my thirties procreating? Will my current professional successes be forgotten due to future marital obligations? Will I look back at my life and wonder where the time went? OR will his ex, with a profound long lost love, cross-rivers to see him leaving me in the wreckage of a love left in the dust? (Ugh…)

And so, after ten minutes of saddening my psyche with mental objections of eventual circumstances I decided it best to shut off Etta (as the slow rhythms of her melodic heartbreaks were probably the cause of my dampened mood) and turn up some Madonna, considering I still had a chimerical date to attend in a few hours.

Well honey, let me tell you… Madonna made it ALL better! After listening to her album “Confessions On A Dance Floor” on repeat and at the highest decimal my mood was lifted and once again I was excited about seeing the man that may or may not change my last name. Who really cares anyway, right? If we’re meant to be, we’ll be… If not, at least I have a job I love and my fabulous friends to pull me out of bed and the somber slumber I would undoubtedly bury myself in. Additionally, if his former flame where ought to resurface within the confines of my concrete jungle proclaiming a harbored emotion they both secretly shared I’m almost positive (actually, no I’m quite certain) I, New York’s pretty little bad girl, would be able to bounce back in the dating scene without skipping a beat. After all this is New York, and in a city that holds the highest singles rate in all of the United States, surely I would be able to find a suitor, regardless of the fleeting emotions individuals in this town share.

And so, not only did listening to Madge lift my spirits and clear my mind of unnecessary cerebral demons, but she also assisted me in choosing the proper outfit suitable for painting the town red. I also decided to ring Joseph and suggest instead of simply going to dinner at some swanky establishment uptown, to grab a quick bite at my favorite Korean dive spot in the Lower East Side and dance the night away at The Pyramid. (My FAVORITE hole-in-the-wall hangout; where the dance floor is dark and sweaty, cosmopolitans are served in Dixie cups and the fashion fugitives of New York go to relive the rambunctious ways of the days of yore. While jiving to tunes, the former ruffians of New York’s elite all cavorted this bedrock in hopes of secreting the sins from the night before- Madonna, Boy George, Blondie, Basquiat, Andy Warhol, members of The Ramones and The Clash- you name them, they were there. Which is the EXACT reason I fell in love with this place… It’s dark and extremely unpretentious, nothing has been remodeled, nor splattered with fresh paint or notion of potential future refurbishments, the bathrooms are covered in graffiti and tagged with signatures from New York’s famous whom at the time were mere artists waiting to be discovered, plus the patrons are just as they were- artists, poets, writers, actors, musicians, dancers, all hoping to be discovered while conferencing with other undiscovered dreamers between swigs of bourbon from plastic cups. It’s a “come as you are” kind of place, where once your ID is checked by the burly door guy, who you can tell has no patience for the reveling riff raff this place attracts as he’s probably bounced at the door since his youth and has had to usher an inebriated Cyndi Lauper out many a nights, with a cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth rudely tells you in his deep and raspy voice to go inside. Upon entering, immediately the communal allure of days past is understood- Louboutins and the latest Fendi bag are unnecessary adornments, bodily cleanliness is objectionable, attending with an entourage of models is frowned upon and bank accounts and levels of professional prestige are rendered nugatory.

That said, my previous anxiety has diminished and I am officially dressed in my finest dancing regalia (of course dripped in a few of my favorite Suzanna Dai baubles- the Medusa Earrings and Jaipur Collar Necklace), and am ready to roughhouse at the exact dwelling Depeche Mode once found solace.

Joseph just arrived at my apartment, so I’m off… Goodness, I hope tonight’s festivities don’t freak him out! Ugh, ignore that last bit… I suffered from enough apprehension earlier and refuse to work myself up AGAIN! I’m just going to let tonight take its course… I’ll let you know how it goes. Wish me luck!  

Love, Jessica