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If there were 400 hours in a day, I would still never be able to attend all the networking events, conferences, lunches, dinners, cocktail parties, breakfasts and other events designed to bring ambitious, successful people together with the goal of connecting and making money together. Throughout an entire decade in this city, one thing was constant: Whenever I caught a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline — while jogging along the East River near my home in Astoria, Queens, or driving along the New Jersey Turnpike — I always got a giddy shiver down my spine. I achieved my dream of being a writer in New York, but instead of a Dorothy Parker-esque existence (no drunken lunches for me! And yet I don’t relocate to any of the lovely suburbs in New Jersey, Westchester County or Connecticut. My building alone — a 1926 six-storey co-op with about 90 units — is home to dozens of neighbors, ranging in age from chipper-if-struggling musicians in their twenties to the gorgeous Cuban sisters in their eighties who share a one bedroom on the second floor.
I once dated an older, dapper, so-sexy man who owned a place about 40 minutes away from me in New Jersey. There's nothing date-worthy about my town—there's one decent bar and a brick-oven pizza place. In the beginning, I didn't mind taking my son for an overnight with Grandma here and there to drive to my beau's for a date.
He lived in a pretty cool area with no shortage of restaurants, bars, cafes, eclectic shop, and views of the New York City skyline. It was But before long I got way wrapped up in the allure of this routine, and truth was I was living a double life.
Men in NYC, more so than other parts of the country, I’ve found, are incredible daters. Theater tickets, concert reservations, invites to private media parties are not uncommon.
First dates are nearly always a nice dinner out, he pays. The downside is that dating culture here can divulge into Sex And The City / Sienfeld antics — such an embarrassment of riches there is scant motivation to commit, a better offer surely around the corner, or with a single swipe-right. I just passed my 10-year mark living in New York City. That boyfriend became a husband, father of our two children and now an ex. When I feel my cheeks burn with fury at the litter blowing through the streets of this neighborhood or put in my ear plugs at night to block out the sirens, café chatter and horns outside, I am calmed by the comfort of the community I’ve amassed here.
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