ExposedNYC

It turns out I did get another chance to see Investment Banker. When my flight home from Vegas was canceled and I was tragically forced to spend three extra days lying by the pool, I also gained an extra night out with Showgirl, her boyfriend, and his cute friends that were in town.

We met at Tryst in the Wynn hotel, and discovered that Investment Banker actually had more pull in this town than the locals. Showgirl and I, who could walk our way into a club free of charge on New Years Eve, had to drag her boyfriend out from their patio table to talk the bouncer into letting us join them. I guess credit cards speak louder than cleavage in this town.

Outside next to a man-made waterfall and surrounded by the heightened drunken revelry of St. Patrick’s Day, we met the boys, surrounded by what I assumed were girls attracted to the free-flowing drinks at their table. Little did I know, I was about to swallow a jagged little pill of disappointment.

We did a quick round of re-introductions from the previous night, since few of us had held a conversation that wasn’t backed by base-thumping beats. I’d mentioned to Showgirl’s boyfriend the night before that I thought Investment Banker was cute, so I assumed the information had traveled through the male-information-network and held his gaze just a second longer than necessary.

Cue the needle screeching across the DJ board when his next words to Showgirl’s bf were, “Can you introduce Ms. Perfect?” Apparently, the cute blonde in a festively-stylish-without-being-tacky green dress, enjoying a cocktail and dancing just far enough away to entice him, was his long-distance girlfriend here from Los Angeles. I managed not to choke on my swallowed envy as I introduced myself.

To make matters more difficult, she was wonderful. We started chatting and discovered that we had so much in common that at one point Investment Banker came over pleading, “I hate to interrupt, but can you two pause long enough to shake your asses for a minute?” I tried to ignore advice from one shoulder that was screaming in my ear that she was the enemy, an obstacle to a great guy, and instead turned my other ear to the story of how they met, got together, and her plans to relocate to New York when her job allowed.

As I was leaving, she approached me asking if it would seem “weird or stalker-ish” if she wanted to get in touch with me when she did make the move. I over-enthusiastically agreed, trying to convince both myself, and anyone in earshot, that I was far from the catty female stereotype of a competitive woman. I just hope that the same rules apply to sincerity and smiles, and that if I can appear not to be jealous of a girl who has it all, one day it will actually stick.

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