As of today, Carly and I have been Brooklyn residents for exactly one week. So far, we’ve managed to make exactly zero new friends. Some might speculate that this is because, rather than venturing into the world, Carly and I are perfectly content to spend our days in our separate bedrooms watching seasons 1 and 2 of “The West Wing” for the 50th time, but there are definitely a couple of other things working against us.
1. I don’t think we’re looking in the right places for friends. The reason I know this is that the closest we’ve come to new pals was our first night in town, when we were accosted by Dan the Man and Lee, an Australian vagabond/faith healer. Needless to say, these are the type of people you hope to never run into again at the local bocce ball-playing spot (YES, THAT’S A THING THAT EXISTS.)
2. We’re both having significant hair issues. I refuse to comment on it any further.
3. We don’t have a stoop. We went out with some friends last night and realized that we were doomed to be alone forever, because while we live in a neighborhood full of gorgeous brownstones on tree-lined streets with picturesque entryways, our building does not offer us any of that.
Stoops are an integral part of falling in love in New York City. Literally every romantic comedy ever will back me up on this.
Look at those pictures. Look how charming those stairs are. Don’t they just seem alive with romantic possibility? In contrast, here’s what we’re working with:
On a related note, isn’t it weird to think about the fact that Carly and I go to sleep every night mere meters away from thousands of dead bodies?
The point is, we can’t keep importing friends from other states to have brunch with us every weekend. At some point we’re going to have to find new friends. I don’t really see any other way to do this than to start pretending that I actually live in one of the brownstones across the bridge, and that our actual apartment is just a separate property where we keep the dogs.
I literally cannot see a single flaw in this plan.