Parsons Betch: I’m Not Some Man’s Barbie Doll

Early thoughts of thesis work overwhelmed me. It was my junior year at Parsons, and I needed excitement, an escape. That’s where Z came in. His dirty blonde hair and sky blue eyes offered exactly what I needed.

An hour before our date, he sent a car service to my block. With each minute, as I slipped on my black stockings and white pleated blouse, my nerves jumped. But he told me not to worry.

“We talk like every second of everyday!” he told me over the phone. “I meant it when I said I’m one of the good ones.”

A car arrived, and I entered the back door. Within minutes, I told him I was in the car. But according to a message from the driver he hired, I wasn’t in it.

Then it hit him. “I think you got in the wrong car!”

Panic washed over me. What car am I in? Who is this driver?

Despite the confusion, my unexpected driver took me to the Greenwich Village wine bar where I was supposed to meet Z. I hopped out of the back seat. And there was Z, looking at me in a fit of laughter. Humor – what a great way to meet someone.

Z donned a sharp suit, a Rolex on his wrist, paired with the most perfect Ferragamo leather loafers. We got straight to the order – white wine. But the waiter rejected my fake ID.

Between the car incident and this identification fiasco, I thought Z was done with me. But he wasn’t. We hit another nearby bar. I gave the “ID” another shot. When the barkeep carded me, I pulled it out. This time, it worked. Our patience paid off.

After Z ordered scotch – I later learned that was his signature drink – he babbled about how he wanted to take me places. I ordered my classic martini, and I asked, “When did you decide you wanted to see me again?”

“When you smiled your way out of the car,” he told me. “You have such a beautiful smile.”

His words made me smile even more.

***

Z was good at formal dates. He was good at being a cosmopolitan. But when it came to his day job – as a Brooklyn photography studio owner – he was a different guy.

I visited his studio one day. I glanced at the walls, filled with his photographs of nude women on rocks and caves near Spanish beaches. I passed by his wardrobe, a collection of monogrammed suits customized by the same tailor who works on President Obama’s and Mayor Bloomberg’s clothing.

Then he appeared. He wanted to transform me into one of his models.

“Don’t worry, we can Photoshop your arm hair off,” Z said. “It’ll be great!”

I walked out. I just couldn’t be his Barbie doll.