Movies and TV always seem to depict Manhattan as this ample urban expanse packed with millions of nameless faces in suits racing through their daily lives, all viewable from sweeping overhead pan shots. But once you live here, you realize that somehow, the vast metropolitan sprawl really isn’t all that big, and the presence of 8 million other bodies in a small physical area doesn’t stop you from bumping into people you know on a regular basis. It gets to the point where you enter a crowded bar and breathe a sigh of relief after determining that you aren’t obligated to make unenthused half-assed conversation with some guy you don’t know from Adam and vice versa except that both of you went to the same elementary school. Random snapshots of your past may knock you with their umbrella on the subway platform or cut in front of you in the ATM line at any moment. I suppose it keeps life interesting.
So of course it’s a matter of fate and inevitability that you occasionally run into exes. I’ve toyed with the notion that it would eventually happen, sometimes I’ll throw on a skirt rather than gym shorts to get groceries or go to the bank, just in case I stumble across a guy I used to date on the way there. And since the major Ex has officially ceased all contact and likely hung a picture of my face over his dartboard after the May 27 post (Heart of a Small Boy), it occurred to me that running into him might make for an amusing scene. So I almost laughed when I emerged from the bathroom of a particular downtown restaurant engrossed in its own trendiness to find major Ex perched at a banquette with a few former frat-brothers and an unidentified girl. It’s one of those classic split- second moments where just about every woman on earth has the same thought process: Do I pretend I didn’t see them? Not really possible, they’re sitting in my immediate trajectory. Full eye contact will occur in approximately 4, 3, 2 seconds. Oh well - thank God I showered and threw some makeup on before dinner tonight.
“Hi Ex, how are you? Great to see you, what a surprise.” (Slightly stiff pseudo-hug that I pretend isn’t awkward in the slightest).
“Uh, hey, what’s going on. How are you?” (I relax in relief, so we’re going to be civilized adults here, I’m spared any ugly confrontations over past internet transgressions).
“I’m good thanks, just finished dinner. Did you eat here?” (Desperately thinking of something to say that isn’t too moronic while praying that Boyfriend doesn’t pick this moment to come over and find me, thus necessitating a highly awkward introduction).
“Uh, no, we had Thai in the West Village, we just came here for drinks. You remember [Frat Boy 1] and [Frat Boy 2], we all met up after dinner.” (gestures towards two fresh young lads in dockers and blue button downs - both are staring at the scene with obvious amusement).
“Yeah, of course, hi guys, how are you?” (smile in a way that I hope appears warm and convivial, while I frantically try to remember who these people are). “So Ex, how have you been?”
“Good thanks, just hanging out. And you?” (This is an interesting question, since we both know that he’s probably been reading my blog and thus knows precisely how I’ve been, but neither of us intends to acknowledge this fact).
“Things are great, thanks.” (I notice that the petite brunette standing to his left is practically boring a hole in my skull with her eyes).
“And this is Lina, Lina this is Opinionista.” (gestures to the girl, who stops glaring but is still clearly less than pleased to be meeting me).
Ah, so now it becomes clear - he’s being friendly because he’s sitting here with his new girlfriend! Excellent, this whole evening suddenly just got more interesting. I have a sudden flash of how our conversation would go in an ideal world:
Me: “Hi, it’s truly wonderful to meet you. Just because we’ve both shared the same bed with this as-yet unmarried guy doesn’t mean we should feel animosity towards each other, don’t you agree? I’m sure you’re a bright, interesting woman with a fascinating story, and we can transcend the social expectation requiring that we develop instant animosity towards each other because of some ridiculous competition over men, and have a meaningful discussion in which we bond over the trials facing women in modern society while leaving the males to publicly adjust themselves and tell fart jokes.”
Her: “I’m so glad you said that! Let’s ditch these beer-guzzling frat guys and enter a stimulating debate over the implications of modern feminism as an offshoot of early feminist theory. Have you read Betty Friedan?”
But, sadly, my fantasy is just that, so the actual conversation goes like this:
Me: (smiling, searching her face for a glimmer of anything but loathing) “Hi! Nice to meet you!
Her: “Yeah, nice to meet you too.” (balefully glaring at me as if I am the human manifestation of Satan).
I turn back to Ex, mumble some excuse about having to run to meet someone, tell my new apparent nemesis that it was great meeting her, and flee the scene. Oh well, it was a nice fantasy I guess. I wonder if she reads blogs?