Life Lesson #3: Never Do It in Public, the Dance Skaters will Show you up Every Time
I love the Angel of Waters sculpture at the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park. I know its so cliché and most New Yorkers would rather declare they hang out in Hoboken than admit any sort of fondness towards tourist attractions, but get over it people. The entire park is pretty amazing, and yes, even the touristy parts have their draw.
For instance, I get psyched the first day of spring when the temperature rises a smudge above 55 degrees. People, myself included, strip down to practically nothing (and at times, simply nothing) to sprawl out on the itchy grass of the Great Lawn. Screw the beach – who doesn’t enjoy lying in a pool of their own sweat, the thud of missed Frisbees only inches from the head and the faint odor of a homeless person wafting nearby?
Or how about when you’re walking the path around the Boathouse just in time to catch that ‘Native American’ down under the walk bridge start his crazy tribal dance? I know I’m having a great day when the old guy who conducts the turtle races only a few feet away tells me to ‘move closer, I ain’t seen nothing like these turtles run.’
And my absolute favorite is the Central Park Dance Skaters who congregate around the makeshift DJ booth by the band shell area on Dead Road. Liberace and I discovered this slice of heaven on wheels last fall, and visit it almost religiously every Sunday. I swear there is nothing like it.
The Dance Skaters pride themselves on wearing roller skates, not those inline blades. Note the emphasis is on dancing, not skating. The cast of characters is amazing – any age, race and gender you can imagine – all going round and round in a circle the size of an above-ground pool, the words of Martin Luther King Jr. being sampled over some 70s disco tune. But I digress - to go any further into it would take away from the real lesson here, so another time.
My point is the park will always have a special place in my heart, and whenever I can, I like to take advantage of it. This past weekend, with global warming giving us almost spring weather in the middle of winter, I had such an opportunity.
I gave Liberace a call after the gym Saturday morning to see if he was out and about, as I assumed he would be.
“Going to the park. Call me when you’re close. And can you pick up some coffees on the way?”
At the deli I texted him: how do you want ur coffee?
Liberace responded: just half and half you slut. at the fountain.
The Bethesda Fountain runs a close second to the Dance Skaters. You get prime people-watching space, hot dog vendors only a few steps away when you get the urge for heartburn, and German tourists, who seem to love to congregate around the fountain (no offense people, I just think they’ve got the best accents and most amazing clothes – I hope stonewashed jeans never fail to be wunderbar for these guys).
I found Liberace sitting inside the fountain circle – it’s shut off during the winter months, otherwise we’d steer clear and pick a bench off to the side. Witnessing one too many baths in the fountain will do this. I swung my legs over the wall and plop down next to him, hand over his coffee and get myself comfortable.
The usual banter ensued. Liberace filled me in on his dinner date the other night that resulted in lots of drinks but never any dinner. We tried to figure out if this really hot guy I’m ‘dating’ is gay or a just prick (brought on by the fact he always notices what I’m wearing and is bitchy when drunk). I learned how Liberace almost walked out of work on Friday. We listed at least a dozen reasons why couples who work out together, particularly in public, should be airlifted to some private island that isn’t Manhattan (Staten Island, perhaps?). Like I said, the usual.
A sudden commotion across the fountain stopped our conversation. Initially, I was unsure what was going on. But then the telltale signs came into view, and we’re torn between bursting out into laughter or lunging our plastic cups.
A green vase filled with roses leaning against the fountain wall. A saxophone player playing some sappy tune conveniently close-by. A bumbling young woman throwing her arms around some guy. Two other women popping out of nowhere, furiously taking pictures and running over to the couple. A sudden yelp from one of the women, although we’re still unsure which one.
Yep, right smack in the middle of what was shaping up to be a great Saturday, Liberace and I had to bear witness to some guy asking his girlfriend to marry him.
There is more than one thing about public proposals that drives me insane.
One: Do you really need a whole bunch of people you’ve never met in your life to bear witness to the consummation of your relationship? Especially New Yorkers? I mean, we’re not very nice people. A group of young kids sitting nearby snickered the entire time. Some guy’s giant mutt kept running over and barking at them. Liberace and I ultimately burst into uncontrollable laughter – which I’m pretty sure one of their friends caught in the background of the seven thousand pictures they took.
Two: Until the morning after your actual wedding day, you two are going to be watched, scrutinized, planned over, poked, photographed and celebrated by a butt-load of friends and family. Wouldn’t you want to at least start off on an intimate, private level with the person you’re about to go through the joy/hell of the next phase of your life with?
Three: Proposals in Central Park are, on the whole, highly unoriginal. And if you’re the type of person who wants others to bear witness, wouldn’t you want to be creative? I can’t even remember how many times I’ve seen guys get down on their knee in the park– three times in one day alone last spring! Come on – step it up.
Four: On a more personal note, PDAs totally make me uncomfortable. I know that’s such a guy thing to say, but I can’t help it. It takes a certain level of alcohol and/or total comfort for me to be okay with them. So observing someone else’s ultimate PDA, the Proposal, is just way too much for me to handle.
And so,
Life Lesson # 3: Asking someone to marry you in the most public of places is wrong. It’s uninspired, gratuitous and unnecessary. Take it to the bedroom, take it to a private island getaway (maybe not Staten Island for this one), take it to a booth in the back of your favorite restaurant – I don’t care.
But I beg of you. Please don’t do it in the park. I love that place. Don’t ruin it for me.
For instance, I get psyched the first day of spring when the temperature rises a smudge above 55 degrees. People, myself included, strip down to practically nothing (and at times, simply nothing) to sprawl out on the itchy grass of the Great Lawn. Screw the beach – who doesn’t enjoy lying in a pool of their own sweat, the thud of missed Frisbees only inches from the head and the faint odor of a homeless person wafting nearby?
Or how about when you’re walking the path around the Boathouse just in time to catch that ‘Native American’ down under the walk bridge start his crazy tribal dance? I know I’m having a great day when the old guy who conducts the turtle races only a few feet away tells me to ‘move closer, I ain’t seen nothing like these turtles run.’And my absolute favorite is the Central Park Dance Skaters who congregate around the makeshift DJ booth by the band shell area on Dead Road. Liberace and I discovered this slice of heaven on wheels last fall, and visit it almost religiously every Sunday. I swear there is nothing like it.
The Dance Skaters pride themselves on wearing roller skates, not those inline blades. Note the emphasis is on dancing, not skating. The cast of characters is amazing – any age, race and gender you can imagine – all going round and round in a circle the size of an above-ground pool, the words of Martin Luther King Jr. being sampled over some 70s disco tune. But I digress - to go any further into it would take away from the real lesson here, so another time.
My point is the park will always have a special place in my heart, and whenever I can, I like to take advantage of it. This past weekend, with global warming giving us almost spring weather in the middle of winter, I had such an opportunity.
I gave Liberace a call after the gym Saturday morning to see if he was out and about, as I assumed he would be.
“Going to the park. Call me when you’re close. And can you pick up some coffees on the way?”
At the deli I texted him: how do you want ur coffee?
Liberace responded: just half and half you slut. at the fountain.
The Bethesda Fountain runs a close second to the Dance Skaters. You get prime people-watching space, hot dog vendors only a few steps away when you get the urge for heartburn, and German tourists, who seem to love to congregate around the fountain (no offense people, I just think they’ve got the best accents and most amazing clothes – I hope stonewashed jeans never fail to be wunderbar for these guys).
I found Liberace sitting inside the fountain circle – it’s shut off during the winter months, otherwise we’d steer clear and pick a bench off to the side. Witnessing one too many baths in the fountain will do this. I swung my legs over the wall and plop down next to him, hand over his coffee and get myself comfortable.
The usual banter ensued. Liberace filled me in on his dinner date the other night that resulted in lots of drinks but never any dinner. We tried to figure out if this really hot guy I’m ‘dating’ is gay or a just prick (brought on by the fact he always notices what I’m wearing and is bitchy when drunk). I learned how Liberace almost walked out of work on Friday. We listed at least a dozen reasons why couples who work out together, particularly in public, should be airlifted to some private island that isn’t Manhattan (Staten Island, perhaps?). Like I said, the usual.
A sudden commotion across the fountain stopped our conversation. Initially, I was unsure what was going on. But then the telltale signs came into view, and we’re torn between bursting out into laughter or lunging our plastic cups.
A green vase filled with roses leaning against the fountain wall. A saxophone player playing some sappy tune conveniently close-by. A bumbling young woman throwing her arms around some guy. Two other women popping out of nowhere, furiously taking pictures and running over to the couple. A sudden yelp from one of the women, although we’re still unsure which one.
Yep, right smack in the middle of what was shaping up to be a great Saturday, Liberace and I had to bear witness to some guy asking his girlfriend to marry him.
There is more than one thing about public proposals that drives me insane.
One: Do you really need a whole bunch of people you’ve never met in your life to bear witness to the consummation of your relationship? Especially New Yorkers? I mean, we’re not very nice people. A group of young kids sitting nearby snickered the entire time. Some guy’s giant mutt kept running over and barking at them. Liberace and I ultimately burst into uncontrollable laughter – which I’m pretty sure one of their friends caught in the background of the seven thousand pictures they took.
Two: Until the morning after your actual wedding day, you two are going to be watched, scrutinized, planned over, poked, photographed and celebrated by a butt-load of friends and family. Wouldn’t you want to at least start off on an intimate, private level with the person you’re about to go through the joy/hell of the next phase of your life with?
Three: Proposals in Central Park are, on the whole, highly unoriginal. And if you’re the type of person who wants others to bear witness, wouldn’t you want to be creative? I can’t even remember how many times I’ve seen guys get down on their knee in the park– three times in one day alone last spring! Come on – step it up.
Four: On a more personal note, PDAs totally make me uncomfortable. I know that’s such a guy thing to say, but I can’t help it. It takes a certain level of alcohol and/or total comfort for me to be okay with them. So observing someone else’s ultimate PDA, the Proposal, is just way too much for me to handle.
And so,
Life Lesson # 3: Asking someone to marry you in the most public of places is wrong. It’s uninspired, gratuitous and unnecessary. Take it to the bedroom, take it to a private island getaway (maybe not Staten Island for this one), take it to a booth in the back of your favorite restaurant – I don’t care.
But I beg of you. Please don’t do it in the park. I love that place. Don’t ruin it for me.
posted by Penny at 7:18 PM
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