I hate introductions. They’re for the most part awkward and forgettable. That being said, I suppose we need to get it over with in order to better understand the current chaos that is my life. But before I do, there’s just one thing I need to say off the bat. Let me be very clear: This is not some version of chick-lit.
Chick lit makes me want to tear out my vagina.
Anyway, you get the point. My name is Farrah. I live in New York City–Chelsea to be more specific. My friend Ryan calls my third-floor walk-up apartment “charming.” I’m still not sure if he’s saying that as a compliment or as a dig, but I digress. I’m thirty-ish. And yes, Farrah is my real name. I work at a boutique publicity firm that was recently touted as “one to watch”–whatever that means. I have a two-year-old Pug, Madonna, that I rescued from the side of the road in upstate New York. And like the singer, my Madonna can also be a real bitch. And if you haven’t answered the clue phone yet, I live a life where I am surrounded by gay men. My mother sealed my fate long ago as the “Queen of Queens” by naming me after Farrah Fawcett despite the fact that I look nothing like her.
I live in a glitzy, glittering, over-the-top rainbow flag colored world. I’ve hosted more Project Runway parties than Michael Kors has bronzer. I stood outside in the rain for tickets to the Sex and The City Movie while the boys grabbed their soy lattes and even a phone number from Starbucks on Eighth Avenue. And yes, disturbing as it may sound, I took nude photos of Daniel for his Manhunt profile–thankfully I had an assistant on the shoot, a chilled bottle of Ketel One.
Sorry for rambling. I just think it’s important that you know a bit about me so you can understand where I’m coming from. Let’s cut to the chase. It happened two Sundays ago at our weekly brunch.
Brunch to my friends and I is what church is to Southerners.
We fast beforehand (and by fast I mean I skip my toasted bagel with cream cheese); we worship at an altar (sometimes with a tablecloth, sometimes without); and we give thanks (especially if Michael, a real estate broker, expenses the meal).
We chose Clinton Street Baking Company. It was packed by the time we all arrived. Thirty minutes later, the hostess squeezed us into a table. Unfortunately it was next to a middle-aged couple that was obviously from the deep South as evidenced by the constant twang and grating “y’all” every time the waitress came by. “Y’all got anything that’s just eggs?” “Y’all never heard of serving grits?” Yes, it sounds like a stereotype but if I’m lying “y’all” can beat the “tar”out of me.
We did our best to ignore them. Daniel gave us his “post-show” about the guy he met while on the dance floor at Pacha the night before, Michael ignored all of us and read The Times, Ryan displayed his typical Midwestern naivete, and Christopher was unusually quiet. Whether it was the vodka still lingering from last night or the unusually cool summer day, I, for one, was feeling particularly good. Of course there’s an “UNTIL” coming…
In between bites of his brioche French toast, Christopher uttered three little words that would irrevocably change my life…
“I’m getting married.”
Thank you mother fucking California. Thanks to you, New York will start recognizing marriages performed out of state. Now before you start emailing me that you want to stab me in the eyes, let me just say this: I’m categorically in favor of gay marriage. Just not when it’s MY FRIENDS. Hello? If anyone was supposed to be getting married, it’s me and before YOU. Bitter? Abso-fucking-lutely!
As I sat amongst the chaos of brunch and as I watched my four best friends hug and toast their mimosas, the back of neck began to burn. My mind was flooded with feelings of inadequacy and I’m horrified to admit it, resentment. It was at that moment, and several subsequent pity parties that I threw for myself later, that I realized “my boys” had gotten older and carved out lives of their own when I wasn’t looking. My “charming” apartment felt claustrophobic and overpriced. The gayborhood, I’d known to love over the last eight years, had been replaced with -gasp- families and babies. The Bacchus bars on Eighth Avenue had been replaced with banks and Starbucks. My less than glamorous job working as a junior-publicist for an insufferable boss barely covered my bills. On top of all this, I am approaching yet another birthday with no prospects of love in sight. I am literally in no (straight) man’s land.
As I sat in the chair and plastered a smile on my face as best as I could, the waitress brought the Southern couple their entrees. When the wife looked down at the truffle fried eggs on the plate in front of her, I heard her say,
“What kind of fresh hell is this?”
My sentiments exactly.