KAREN

The guy: Randal

Universally accepted fact: The ratio of men to women in New York City is a bit skewed.
Single-lady complaint (HAY!!): It’s not in their favor.

This story proves just how factual this fact is, and justifies why single ladies (HAY!!) complain about it.

And it starts with me.

You’ll remember that one of my best friends, Sara, is seriously dating a guy in his early 30’s, so I hang out with his group of friends a lot. Last summer, Sara invites me to a BBQ for one of her boyfriend’s friend’s birthdays, at said boyfriend’s friend’s apartment. I accept their gracious invite, and dress like a manic pixie dream girl. You see, that week I was watching a lot of The New Girl and decide to channel my inner Zooey Deschanel. I wear a flouncy, retro sundress and ballet flats. I curl my hair and adorn it with a thick bright-pink headband. I wear over-sized Warby Parker glasses. I look stupid.

Every attractive guy at the BBQ is in a serious relationship, engaged, or married. Every attractive guy except Randal. Randal. I set my sights on Randal and then after some foundation building, we make out in the kitchen. Not because I’m frisky (on second read- I don’t even think that Frenching in a kitchen is considered frisky). It’s because that’s where the birthday cake is, and Randal finds me eating it solo. I was an extra big asshole about it too, because I used real silverware, which I found after opening a bunch of kitchen drawers. Plastic is for peasants.

The make-out is cut short because I realize I’m late for a friend’s birthday party, which is being celebrated at a bar near the Meatpacking District. Randal comes and meets me at that bar later and when everyone is leaving at around 1am, thinking I’m being all spontaneous and shit, I ask if he wants to stay out with me and go somewhere else. He says OK and suggests a place called Raven. I don’t know what Raven is but I act like I do, and casually say OK. As in “that’s chill.”

But it’s not. Because Raven is a nightclub.

Pretty sure the fact that I just called a nightclub a ‘nightclub’ proves that I don’t frequent them often.

I guess Randal ‘knows people,’ so we cut the line, get escorted up a back staircase and are seated at a private table where we are delivered the standard club liquid-buffet: bottle of vodka with carafes of cranberry juice and soda water, and a bottle of champagne.

I’m thinking “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? AND WHY AM I STILL WEARING THIS?!”

I’m also thinking “MAYBE IF I DRINK MORE, I WILL UNDERSTAND?”

However, I don’t understand, and now I’m too drunk. I deal with this the only way I know how- the good old Irish Exit. I run towards the door when I see Randal turn his head in the opposite direction, take a black car back to my apartment because I can’t find a cab (which happened to be driven by the nicest Indian man who felt bad for me because I was so drunk and didn’t make me pay), walk to Key Foods, buy weird sushi, eat mostly all of it with my hands on the 90 second walk back to my apartment, and then promptly pass out once I get inside.

After that night, Randal texts me a few times, trying to get me to go out with him at 11pm on a weeknight to a super ‘trendy’ place, probably so he can take an Instagram pic and tag the location. I stop answering him because he’s lame and I never heard from him, or about him. Until now.

Fast forward to last week:

Another one of my best friends, Karen, texts me: “How do you know Randal McRandalson!?!?!!!”

I give Karen a very abbreviated answer, only because I hate texting- “I made out with him once when I was drunk.” This ended up being a very good response because Karen also made out with him when she was drunk the weekend prior, and actually agreed to go out with him at 11pm on a weeknight to a super trendy place, probably so he can take an Instagram pic and tag the location. (They went to Catch).

Karen texts me back: “Do you not want me to go out with him? I honestly don’t care. Plenty of other fish in the sea.”
I don’t answer because I’m in the shower.
Karen texts me again: “You can honestly say no.”
Once out of the shower, I respond: “OMG. I don’t care even the slightest bit.”
What I really meant to say was “OMG. Please go. If only so I can write this story, go.”

The day after their date, Karen likes Randal and wants to go out with him again. This is because she has on, what I call the “post-date rose-colored glasses.” The rose tint, however, fades in the few days after their first date, and as the lenses fade, Karen starts to remember all of the questionable things that Randal said/did. Once totally faded, Karen decides that she doesn’t really like Randal and doesn’t really want to go out with him again.

A few of the questionable things Randal said/did:

• Randal asks Karen if she has ever been with a black guy
• Randal tells Karen he is 28, but only after he “jokingly” tells her that he’s 39 and sees her reaction
• Randal texts her the next morning that he was so hung over he had his assistant ‘fetch’ him an Adderall at work

Cool, bro. You’re almost 40. I mean “30”.

Back to Karen’s text from earlier: “Do you not want me to go out with him? I honestly don’t care. Plenty of other fish in the sea.”

Are there, though?