The Young and the Restless

I have been packing for my trip to Europe for the entire, soggy, overcast weekend. Getting out of town could not come at a better time. I honestly can't take one more rainy day. Between using 80s music as a packing motivator and having a full "America's Next Top Model" marathon playing on my muted flat-screen television for the past several hours...my last day in town was turning out to be rather ho-hum until I received a very unexpected call.

It was the street performer and he was wandering around in the rain. The band decided not to play due to weather and he wanted to come and hang out. Interesting. Of course - I said "yes" and told him that I fully intended to put him to work as my assistant packer. A thought crossed my mind that knowing I would be out of town - he might try to see if he could house-sit (especially once he saw my digs)...but I came up with a fake story in my mind to head that one off at the pass - should the subject even come up. I understand that a two-bedroom townhouse apartment in the Village with a terrace might have some appeal to a guy living in a flophouse in Harlem...but my plants don't need watering that badly and who knows what I'd come home to afterwards, if anything. A note probably saying something to the effect of "Thanks for the furniture, jewelery, and electronics - and have a great rest of your Summer, you overly trusting moron." So, no...not happening, dancing man.

We ended up ordering Lombardi's Pizza and drinking an entire bottle of 2004 Chateau Grimard Bordeaux....followed by a bottle of 2002 Chateau Rocher-Calon Saint-Emilion in my dining room. Pizza was probably not what the vinters expected these "Grand Vin's" to be paired with, but my God....it was a lunch to remember. I put on my favorite Django Reinhardt CD and we proceeded to get very, very drunk. I think, in fact, one could call me offically wasted by 4:00 p.m.

The miserable rain turned romantic...once I was drinking, staring at the most gorgeous man ever, and jazz music was floating through the rooms - at admittedly indecent volumes. He taught me how to swing dance, we made out for hours...and once we were too tired (I mean, drunk) to dance or kiss any more - he pulled a tattered notebook out of his shabby little backpack and read me some poems he had been working on.

Little Edit Piaf - my yorkshire terrier avoided the shenanigans by falling asleep in my half packed, long forgotten suitcase.

I hit the fast forward button on the tape in my mind - prematurely - as I always do when I start to like someone lots and lots and started to tell the Street Performer how much I was going to miss him when I was away and I mused out loud that it was almost a shame this had all happened right before I left instead of when I got back because it would make being away not fun at all. Ummm...yes - I'd like to say that was the wine talking, but sadly...it might not have been. He swept me off my feet - literally - in my living room.

He looked down at me cradled in his arms on the floor and smiled. He then proceeded to tell me that this girl he was crazy about in California was flying out to meet him in a few days and that he was so excited to see her. She was going to stay with him in Harlem and she would still be in New York when I got back.

Oh my God...that is all I can say. I literally took a cold shower, had a coffee, and threw a last couple of things in my suit case. I had the worst hangover from earlier and still feeling a bit tipsy. What a waste of good wine. He seemed shocked that I expected we would have anything other than a fling. He pointed out how different we were and said that the band calls me Miss Posh Pants. Did I really expect him - a Street Performer - and myself to ever have a relationship? Gulp - I guess I didn't, then I did....and well, now I don't have a choice because it is not happening.

I leave on the red eye tonight to Zurich. I hope the Street Performer trips on his shoelaces on his way home. He was the classic example of a fantasy that should stay in your mind - because the reality just isn't that great.

At least he didn't ask to house-sit my apartment with that girl...although he may as well have asked - just to finish me off completely before I left town.

Is something wrong with men - or is something wrong with me?

Something for Miss Posh Pants to ponder on the plane, I guess.