You Can't Have It All

I was with one of my amazingly glamorous and talented friends tonight -- we ate dinner and drank wine down in the West Village. (I had an amazing veal-and-risotto dish. This is why I'm fat in New York City.) Over several glasses of an amazing red, we dished and bitched as only single New York City women can: We talked about our recent dates that went badly, the sex that wasn't all we thought our partners promised, our ex-boyfriends who are clearly either clueless or assholes, and our careers that are not quite what we want them to be. Yet.

That all might be true (or it might be a bit of embellishment), but in the middle of all of it, I noticed her newly glossy brunette hair and heard her speak about her latest projects, and I looked down at my middle-of-the-road designer bag and remembered the somewhat prestigious place that I work, and I thought, "You know what? Being able to afford to bitch and be fabulous over dinner in the West Village every month or so ain't half bad." Because I remember a time that I couldn't afford a stale cookie in a deli window, let alone dinner, and I will appreciate that now. Even though I'm in my late 20s and nowhere near as hot as I used to be, I'll take it, lovehandles and earned wisdom and all. New York skews your sane-person perspective somehow. Bearing that in mind, I wouldn't trade tonight and my fabulous girlfriend for anything offered to me. I walked up the stairs to my apartment happy.