There are worse things than being thirty-five, single, and female in New York. Like: Being twenty-five, single, and female in New York.
It's a rite of passage few women would want to repeat. It's about sleeping with the wrong men, wearing the wrong clothes, having the wrong roommate, saying the wrong thing, being ignored, getting fired, not being taken seriously, and generally being treated like shit. But it's necessary. So if you've ever wondered how thirty-five— year-old, single, New York women get to be, well, thirty-five-year— old, single, New York women, read on.
A couple of weeks ago, Carrie ran into Cici, a twenty-five-year— old assistant to a flower designer, at the Louis Vuitton party. Carrie was trying to say hello to five people at once when Cici materialized out of the semidarkness. "Hiiiiii," she said, and when Carrie glanced over at her, she said, "Hiiiii, ' again. Then she just stared.
Carrie had to turn away from a book editor she was talking to. "What, Cici?" she asked. "What is it?"
"I don't know. How are you?" "I'm
fine. Fabulous," Carrie said. "What
have you been up to?"
"The usual." The book editor was about to talk to someone else. "Cici, I. ."
"I haven't seen you for so long," Cici said. "I miss you. You know I'm your biggest fan. Other people say you're a bitch, but I say, 'No, she's one of my best friends and she's not hke that. I defend you."
"Thanks."
Cici just stood there, staring. "How are you?" Carrie asked.
"Great," Cici said. "Every night I get all dressed up and I go out and no one pays attention to me and I go home and cry."
"Oh, Cici," Carrie said. Then: "Don't worry about it. It's just a phase. Now listen, I have to. ."
"I know," Cici said. "You don't have time for me. It's okay. I'll talk to you later." And she walked away.
Cici York and her best friend, Carolyne Everhardt, are two twenty-five year olds who, like most now thirty-five year olds, came to New York to have careers.
Carolyne Everhardt is a nightlife writer for a downtown publication. Came here from Texas three years ago. She's one of those girls with a beautiful face, who is just a bit overweight but not concerned about it—at least not to the point that she'd ever let you think she was.
Cici is the opposite of Carolyne—blond, bone-thin, with one of those oddly elegant faces that most people don't notice because she isn't convinced that she is beautiful. Cici works as an assistant to Yorgi, the acclaimed yet reclusive flower designer.
Cici came to New York a year and a half ago from Philadelphia. "Back then, I was hke a httle Mary Tyler Moore," she says. "I actually had white gloves stashed in my purse. For the first six months, I didn't even go out. I was too scared about keeping my job."
And now? "We're not nice girls. Nice is not a word you would apply to us," Cici says, in an East Coast drawl that manages to be sexy and apathetic.
"We mortify people all the time," Carolyne says.
"Carolyne is known for her temper tantrums," Cici says.
"And Cici doesn't talk to people. She just gives them dirty looks."