As a single girl in New York, I knew that I was allowed – expected even – to have certain feelings about Fleet Week. And at first, seeing those starched white uniforms bobbing en masse down Fifth Avenue on my way home from work the other night, I did indeed feel those feelings. A little bit of intrigue, a healthy bit of lust for a broad-shouldered, square-jawed man in uniform.

Then I met a few, and all that changed. It wasn’t even the arrogant, Tom Cruise circa 1986 testing the weight limits of the bathroom counter, busting to show you his, errr… government secrets type. That’s not what I’m talking about.

“I’m George,” he said, offering a hand. “And this is Bud.”
“Hi fellas. Having a nice time?”

At three AM, The Gansevoort was packed. The drunk who’d forced my awkward introduction to the Marines had already disappeared back into the crowd (presumably to assault others with his too tan skin, too white teeth and shirt unbuttoned just two too many buttons). But in contrast to Shirt Guy, George and Bud were good humored, well-buttoned and completely inoffensive. Eyes flitted occasionally to my chest, but for the most part, they were gracious and gentlemanly. I was relieved to find myself in safe conversation.

We talked about Texas, my date to the junior prom (who Bud had known at the Naval Academy) and even a little about Iraq. A baby-faced sailor joined us and Marine/Navy ribbing ensued – a one-two-three-not-it sibling rivalry over being the military’s red headed stepchild. It was then that I felt it. Maybe it was the combination of the hour and the number of cocktails I’d drained, but in a matter of moments, all lusty inclinations to de-uniform had been replaced with pure, unadulterated sap.

I still wanted to my patriotic duty, alright. But I didn’t want to tear their clothes off. I wanted to make a big pan of lasagna!

“They’re just babies,” I told Stephanie in the cab on the way home. We were finishing up an unusual night of adventuring, and I was overcome with the usual near dawn drunken sincerity. Not only had I been moved by the overtures of Shirt Guy et al (“Thanks for serving, man. Can I get you a drink?”) but my own maternal instinct had kicked into overdrive. I will probably never look at another service man again without wondering if he’s written his mother.

Fleet Week has officially been ruined. But as a single girl in New York, I’m still allowed – expected even – to have certain feelings about men in uniforms. Thank God there’s NYPD.

“I pretty much shot my wad already on the blog today, so… can we talk about shoes?”

I snort a laugh into my mango salad and settle in for a bit of unwinding. And listening. Simultaneously, I hear suggestive talk involving cheese wiz, a discussion on the esoteric nature of Napoleon Dynamite, and the requisite blah blah Stuart blah.

And so goes Gate Night.

Over the course of an hour or so, our party of three grows to twelve – can you scooch over a tad? Kisses are exchanged and beer runs made as cameras dart about capturing proof of half-drunk pale ales, a leaf that sort of resembles a leaping squirrel, and folks with their mouths full of food. I’m the subject of the third category of photography and I learn very quickly how to use the delete function on all models of digital cams.

My level of insecurity triples in as much times as it takes me to scroll through the night’s images. I don’t like to see pictures of myself. I much prefer the idea of me that’s in my head. It’s better put together, more stylish, more svelte and frankly, it has a much better nose.

Maybe even a more interesting life.

Everyone you meet at Gate Night is an actor, a writer, a photographer, a musician, an artist. They use impressive vocabulary punctuated by instant messenger-bred slang. They know things. Literature, music, technology and politics – the conversations run the gamut and opinions fly. Sometimes, I feel set apart. I haven’t read that book. I only know enough about my computer to make it work. I am, to my own shame, somewhat apolitical. And when the group is large and conversation loud and animated, it can feel like a segment from Sesame Street.

One of these things is not like the others…

It happens very rarely, but it makes me uncomfortable. And tired. So I excuse myself and trek back to the subway, some very unhip music in my headphones. It gives me some time to think about my place – what I do, who I am. Where I am.

I decide that New York is the Epicenter of Interesting. We flock here to lead lives we consider improved over the ones we’d have had in Dallas or San Clemente or Kansas City -- just being here makes us feel important and part of something bigger and fundamentally worthy. And maybe that’s why once we get here, we stop looking up. Because if we look up, like the sidewalk-clogging, gaping-mouthed tourists, we get reminded of our size. Of our relative unimportance in the grand scheme of things.

The tourists are awed by it. We are chastised by it.

It’s a lesson that the city has taken out its willow reed to teach me – or maybe Life itself has – and lately, it’s been harder for me to accept. I don’t like feeling unimportant. Relatively or otherwise. It makes me uncomfortable and tired.

In New York City, Hyenas wear dark suits, cobalt blue shirts and ties of varying hues. They hover around watering holes, instinctively draining over-priced cocktails and imported beer, and though huddled in groups, each is aware that it is every man for himself as they keep close tabs on the prey they stalk from behind designer eye wear.

The Serengeti of Bryant Park’s outdoor café is abuzz at dusk, teeming with double-breasted, double-vented Hyenas and their respective prey, carefully balanced on over-priced heels and toting imported handbags. The prey saunter up to the watering hole, the Hyenas leave their packs, and the circle of life is yet again completed.

In New York City, the well-educated and well-paid corporate ladder climbers lean against the facades of their Madison Avenue office buildings, taking hasty drags of their cigarettes (there’s no time for lunch), and leer at women. They appraise each feature without any measure of subtlety, loudly voicing their appreciation for that which appeals to them. “And she’s got the legs, too” one calls out in a thick Brooklyn accent. Instantly, my mind’s eye replaces his expensive, nicely-tailored charcoal suit with a brown velour jogging suit and gold chains. He could be called David, or Alexander for all I know. But now, he is a Joe Jr., or a Lou.

Lou calls me sweetheart as I pass, and I shake my head. While his fancy costume belies the cheap, classless undercarriage of a being whose only real purpose in life is to chase tail, my apparently sweet face, glossy black coat and trendy shoes hide the soul of a girl who has absolutely no problem removing his genitalia and sucking it through a straw.

Don’t call me sweetheart.