Taxicab Depressions: Advice is Free if the Meter’s Running

By K

For some reason, after a few cocktails, I feel the need to delve into the personal lives of others. I call this tactic an “h-to-h,” or heart-to-heart, whereupon after listening for all of two minutes, I find it appropriate to tell a person how wonderful they are and how they should never settle in life.

Without fail, this innocuous good deed always comes back to bite me in the ass. Something about the road to hell being paved with good intentions, I guess. If you’re not religious and live in the tri-state area, think of Times Square at rush hour when you need to get just beyond it. Yeah. Hell’s probably exactly like that.

One of my cab drivers this weekend and I had a great little h-to-h on the trek from SoHo to the UES after leaving a birthday party. I figure driving a taxi must be a real hit-or-miss form of employment, and so, with a pretty strong buzz going, I decided to ask who was the worst of this guy’s clientele.

Shocking. The crying girls who are pissed at their boyfriends at 4 AM, leaving the Meatpacking District in stilettos and melting eyeliner.

The driver, whose name I didn’t catch, then mentioned how he tried to intervene with one such couple and tell the boyfriend to be more respectful. He then proceeded to say that he hoped I didn’t let my boyfriend treat me like that. How freely he judged me after I said there was no such boyfriend, and how quickly, and with genuine concern, did he ask how I was still single.

I’m sorry, did someone neglect to tell me I was being used for a bit in Taxicab Confessions?

Maybe it was an attempt at flattery, but for some reason hearing this from a complete random makes me feel worse than my father asking me to please land a lawyer/trader/whatever to supplement my funds.

I tipped him extra because he told me I was pretty, and took a detour en route home. I proceeded to take a shot with my favorite bartender on the Upper East Side and toast my future alone.

But this taxi guy really got me thinking. Why was it impossible to meet anyone worth dating in Manhattan? Not that trouncing back to someone’s place after the bar isn’t symbolic of a future meaningful relationship, but come on. Finding instant gratification anyone can do. How does one meet the dating type? No, scratch that. How does one think they meet the dating type?

As I teetered home after that last round of drinks, I decided to head where no one wants to be desperate enough for, but can’t help it. Time to find out where singles were looking to meet other sad souls, and my first stop would be CrazyBlindDate.com.

To be continued…