Look, I’ve read the articles — the ones that claim New York is one of the worst cities for dating. I agree. It’s cold (emotionally), it’s crowded, and most people have their headphones on or eyes glued to their phones. But still, people move here every day with love as part of their motivation. So how do they do it?
Tonight, riding the subway home, I caught sight of him: tall, gorgeous, a McDreamy-type in a crocheted pink-and-blue button-up. Built. Stylish. A smile so good it made me forget I looked like a gremlin. He was standing right next to me on the L train platform at Union Square — and he was looking at me, too. Not just glancing — eyeing me.
It was a Saturday evening. I had just finished eight hungover hours on my feet as a restaurant hostess. My hair — ten days past its wash cycle — was doing an electrocuted frizz thing. My feet throbbed inside the impractical shoes I always insist on wearing. I felt nasty.
And yet, romance hung in the humid, sweaty air.
A trumpet player filled the station with jazz, stopping time for everyone rushing by. I watched as McDreamy stepped forward, scanning the QR code to tip the musician. That tiny, thoughtful gesture cracked something open. It set off a chain reaction. Person after person walked up to drop money in the case, myself included.
Like a herd I followed, I had the perfect opportunity to step up, say something bold. That’s how they would meet in the movies, isn’t it?
It’s easy to say I was just too tired. That my feet hurt, that I wasn’t in the mood. But that’s not the whole truth. The truth is: I didn’t feel good enough to be noticed. I didn’t feel like I was at my best — not pretty enough, not put-together enough, not enough… enough.
And maybe that’s the hidden cost no one talks about. Not just the “pink tax” of overpriced razors and dry shampoo, but the emotional tax of constantly calculating whether you’re presentable, desirable, worthy of being chosen. The pressure to always be ready — for love, attention, opportunity — or risk losing it altogether.
That’s the part that gets me. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the moment. I had it. I just didn’t believe I deserved it. I couldn’t imagine that someone like him would want someone like me — sweaty, tired, frizzy, and real. And so I let it pass.
I don’t know what would’ve happened if I’d said something. Probably nothing. But that’s not the point.
The point is: I’m tired of only letting myself be seen when I feel perfect. I want to believe that even at my worst — even looking like a gremlin with aching feet — I am still worthy of good moments. Of connection. Of romance.
