Hands Up For A Set-Up

New York Historical Society
New York Historical Society

This past Sunday, I was invited to a luncheon at the New York Historical Society. My cousin’s friend from college was throwing the event, and my cousin was going solely for the reason that the event planner had a girl for him. He offered to buy my ticket, and insisted there’d be a guy there for me, too. Apparently, the guy they wanted to set me up with was successful, Indian, and had degrees from both Harvard and Stanford.

I LOLed in my head. There was nothing about this guy that appealed to me. Okay – so maybe I was being a little too close-minded about the setup – but I thrive off of danger (see earlier post). I don’t like overly achieved men; they’re either too pretentious, or perfectly nice, but still too wordy for me to keep up with. I usually only click with the artsy fartsy type. And typically, the only thing I like served Indian is my food (is it considered racist if you’re not into your own kind?) I pushed myself to go. Besides, it’s not like I had any other prospects. The guy I’d been in love with for almost three years had made it clear we were done. Le sigh. I threw on an LBD and stopped feeling sorry for myself.

I wanted to run away as soon as the Indian walked in. He was wearing a suit jacket, was practically balding and smiled at me nerdily. Yes, nerdily. I downed a glass of wine, while he downed two. I don’t remember the particulars of the conversation because they’re not memorable. From what I can recall, it was stiff and contrived. It kinda felt like going to the dentist. Oh, and little sweat pellets rolled down his face and onto his rigatoni. I tried to give him an honest chance – the poor guy was so nervous – but I couldn’t get past those damn dribbles of sweat. It’s February in New York, for Christ’s sake. Welp, I‘m only 24, I thought. Life doesn’t end here.

As I left, wine-buzzed and with a chip on my shoulder, I patted myself on the back for trying. The food was good, at least, and I made a new friend or two. Not to mention I had a great back-and-forth about Taylor Swift vs. Katy Perry with an emphatic kid named Max. Besides, every opportunity is a step closer to Prince Charming, right? There’s always the next luncheon. And hey, at least my cousin left with a girl’s number.

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About Sheena Sharma

Indian-American writer in New York. Inherently curryous about first-generation Americans, Gen-Y and love.

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