My ex-roommate was thoroughly mortified by the show Hoarders, and for good reason. No one ever wants to sink that low. It's mortifying. It's embarrassing. It shows people your taste in clothes from the Seventies. But the deeper issue is the emotional barricade these people put up through accumulating stuff. Almost a bit like the drama we occupy ourselves with in life. For example, say you have been seeing someone. Gabe, perhaps. Funny, warm, great smile, good body, motivated, and you feel so at ease around him. You always have fun, laughing at yourselves over ice cream, feeling like fatties. But you're just dating. Something doesn't feel right. Maybe he's a little too tall, or doesn't make enough money, or has a strange laugh that reminds you of the lovechild of a ghoul and a car engine revving. So you continue to date around.
And then, out of the blue, you meet the perfect man at Barney's or better yet, Crunch. He checks every box on your list. Lawyer? Check. Apartment in a really classy co-op on the Upper West? Check. Thighs that Michelangelo used to model the David? Double check. Huge fig leaf? I think my nips just got hard. And his name? Lorenzo. The next week you indulge in three or seven cocktails (who counts?) at dinner with Lorenzo, who likes your arms and shows you how big that fig leaf is. It is nirvana. Angels sing and trumpets blare. You realize that you have met the ONE. You will now be featured on Barefoot Contessa, one of Ina's ridiculously happy, turtleneck clad gays of uncertain but affluent financial means. Your days will consist of a hugely satisfying job working in advertising for Vanity Fair, commuting between the co-op and the Hamptons, milk painting the shabby chic dresser you found for the foyer entrance. Idyllic doesn't describe it; Webster's can't define it.
You revel in your new found Apollo and the wondrous world you plan to build together. Bliss, all in one week. So what if he hasn't called in three days after your last date at Five Guys? He is the ONE. He knows the special bond you have formed, all over cooing words and bubble time in the hot tub. Gabe, of the great smile, who's seen you as a sloppy mess after being out, and still wanted to take you home to cuddle, calls you to go out to a street faire in the Village this weekend. But you're busy. You're waiting for Lo-Ren-Zo. You're on Cloud Nine.
Hmm. He still hasn't called. You check your voicemail. Nothing. A few more days go by. Nothing. You are in the dumps. You call Gabe back and agree to go to the faire. It's something to do. You're a little sullen, a little pouty, and a whole lot of sass when you meet him. Nothing is going to lift your spirits. You are mourning the loss of your caviar dreams. Oh look, one of your favorite food trucks, that sells the best Belgian waffles outside of Brussels, is parked on the corner. You get one, and share it with Gabe, who comments that you look like an overly satisfied chipmunk. That makes you chortle, which makes you cough, as you've just aspirated the powdered sugar on your bite of waffle. Gabe (damn that smile) laughs at you. You glare, but you're not mad. He's just so warm, so comfortable, so funny. Then suddenly you realize it. Maybe it really is a quiet thing. Maybe this is your Robin Leach dream. And just at that moment, Gabe hands you a taster glass of champagne. You smile back at him. A smile of recognition. And those jeans you bought at Barney's when you met...what's his name? Oh yeah, they don't fit anymore.
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