Below is my first Darcy Dates entry written in April of 2010. One of My favorites so I thought I would bring it out of the archives. In this entry I refer to myself as Darcy as it was written when I was still using my pen name.

It was a beautiful spring day. I had just had lunch with one of my current beau’s, a man I am casually dating whom I am taking it incredibly slow with and whom I see once every other week or so. On the off weeks, we schedule dates, but I usually cancel. Having texted all morning in between appointments with a new client in the village, he invites me to an impromptu lunch date by my office to where I have just returned.

I pick a nice restaurant that will remain nameless which has excellent food and a great atmosphere, but is a bit more low profile than some of the other high-profile lunch haunts on Madison avenue where I can possibly run into someone at any time. Dating as a mom in New York City is funny like that. I don’t want to be very public about it, especially since Manhattan is the smallest town in the world. Everyone knows everyone and everyone has gone to camp, college, teen tours, their kids are in the same class, etc, etc, etc.- before you know it, your date is over before it even began because your best friends cousin dated this guy when they were 20 and he never called her back and has been forever labeled a player and everyone absolutely FORBIDS you to even go for coffee with this terrible man.

I sit down at the table and wait. Suddenly some friends of mine are seated at the very next table. I smile politely and plant my face in the menu, hoping that they don’t notice I am meeting…gasp…a date. My date shows up and as always its very “nice”. We exchange some witty banter, I tell some inappropriate stories. He looks at me in admiration as I sprinkle my conversation with the word tits and polish off my glass of Sauvignon Blanc, which is really his chardonnay but I didn’t want to make a big deal about it (even though I don’t love chardonnay). He asks me out for next week. I say yes, knowing inside I may possibly cancel.

He is a bit short for me and when I wear heels he seems exactly my height, if not an inch shorter which is usually a deal breaker for me. I will divulge this early. I am tall and I love to wear heels on a date. I am used to dating very very tall men so my short isn’t always someone else’s short, but everything is relative. I would prefer borderline obese to short when it comes to the men I date, but this is a nice guy, and surprisingly funny. He has an unexpected tattoo on his forearm and for an upper east side money manager that is rare. I am pleasantly surprised to learn this at dinner one night. It makes me like him more since I believe it gives him the edge I think he is missing.

I say goodbye to him outside the restaurant and head down Madison to my next appointment with my new client. I have a spring in my step. Maybe its the new client, maybe its the chardonnay. I just had a surprisingly good lunch date with a guy who really likes me and I don’t totally dislike. Either way, I am feeling good and nothing can bring me down.

Suddenly a woman walks by me. She is dressed sensibly. She seems to be in her late forties. She takes 2 steps back and stops me.
“Excuse me!” she says. “Your aura! It’s incredible! I can see it all around you shining bright!”
Now, I am a believer of the supernatural and have nothing against a good psychic reading, so she happened to pick the right girl.
“Really?” I say. Beaming. Maybe things are looking up for me, I think to myself.
“Yes! They are sending me so many messages for you!”
I am not sure who this proverbial “they” is, but I like it just as much. I will take any “they”. I will take “they” the doorman’s union. I will take “they” the people that play farmville. I will take it. It sounds positive.

“I am India! What is your name?”
“Darcy!” I say, hoping this will send more messages from the “they.”
Before I know it she shuffles me to the side on the sidewalk.
“The messages are so strong! They are sending you messages. I need to get them to you. They said you are here on this earth to do incredible things! They said you are here to break new ground and this world hasn’t seen the best of you yet.”

I eat of each spoonful of crap she is feeding me, trying to decipher its meaning even though somewhere deep inside she is a whack job. Suddenly she reaches into her fanny pack. Yes, she had on a fanny pack, which now makes me wonder why I describe her as sensibly dressed, though fanny packs are hands free and in a sense sensible no? She takes out a tiny black bag. I can see where this is going. She pulls out stones, I think psychics call them ruins, but maybe I am confusing psychics with archaeologists at this point. She tells me she is going to give me a quick reading.
“Is this going to cost me money?” I ask.
“Well people pay me, if you want you can.” She says with her intense smile and crazy eyes.
“I have no money and I am actually on a way to a meeting. I should get going.” At this point I realize this is all a scam and I am trying to extract myself from the steps of the church I am somehow sitting on at this point. I always think I would not help the man try to find his puppy, but maybe I am that girl.

“That’s okay” she pleads, “I will walk you to the nearest ATM machine.”
Is this woman kidding me? We have gone from Madison avenue to deliverance in 40 seconds flat.
“No, I am fine, you aren’t walking me to an ATM machine.”

Suddenly India goes from dear lady you would like as your nanny to crazy grifter with a fanny pack in a flash. She screams to me in desperation,
“They are sending me messages you need to hear, you have an infection inside that is turning into cancer in your vagina! I can’t believe they did this to you.”
“Listen up!” I say “This started off very positive and is suddenly more creepy than carneys. I am walking away and don’t want you to say another word.”
“This is positive. I am telling you how to cure yourself of the cancer in your vagina.”
She keeps screaming to me about my cancerous vagina as I walk away as quickly as possible, knowing she is crazy but thinking I need to call my gyno asap.

Fitting I think to myself. It’s all fun and games til someone tells you your vagina has cancer. And as I heard many times before, the SNL theme song of Debbie Downer plays in my head. Wah wahhhh.

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