Last night, I ventured down to the East Village for my former Quinn & Co. colleague and friend Michel’s apartment warming party.
Located in a historic hotel-turned-residence building on Fifth Avenue, Michel’s cozy new abode is the perfect reflection of her flair for fashion, with fun accents like a Vanity Fair coffee table book and a framed photo of Michel with style icon Betsey Johnson.
Michel’s intimate gathering also reunited me with another former colleague, Danielle. The three of us shared a been there, done that moment about toxic old boyfriends and made a promise to do a girls night out soon.
I found a kindred spirit in Michel’s delightful friend Becky. As we sipped on hot cocoa and peppermint schnapps -- the delicious concoction of Danielle’s brother and Michel’s beau Trevor -- Becky and I discovered a mutual affinity for Australia (she studied abroad in Sydney, where I had the pleasure working for five months back in ‘02).
We also talked about the question of how wide a berth to give mediocre first dates. I shared my three-date-minimum rule for men I’m on the fence about, a practice that grew out of not feeling sparks with one particular boyfriend until that very juncture.
Speaking of the opposite sex, Becky and I got onto the subject of strange male behavior. She told me about one date that ended with an ultimatum, with the guy saying his decision about paying or splitting the bill would be based on how she answered the question of whether she really liked him. Awkward.
Sufficiently warmed from the great company and my jacked up hot cocoa, I merrily headed home, happy that my first Saturday night out in awhile proved to be such a fun one.