Your Benjamin Franklins make me uneasy

Falai. I felt like I was going to break everything in there.

The weird paradox of being broke in New York City:

If you have money (like, a lot) I will be uncomfortable.

Case in point: in January, I met a random guy on the street. Literally on my stoop, as I had just stepped out to make the long Saturday trek from Williamsburg to Lincoln Center in the city. (Tip for out-of-towners: when not in Manhattan, but in a borough, Manhattan is also referred to as “the city”).

This guy will be referred to as Greg. He asked me for a light (which I didn’t have) and we struck up a conversation about the neighborhood. We descended to the subway platform together. He ended up getting my number, and he asked me out on a date.

Greg worked at a huge Manhattan bank. He also held a PhD in Mathematics from Yale. And his salary was a number I couldn’t comprehend. I, on the other hand, work for a small media company. I possess a BA in Journalism/Media Studies, which could practically be a degree in uselessness. And I’m barely making do with my entry-level salary.

With this in mind, I agreed to a weeknight date. We met at an expensive Wall Street (read: fancy and crusty) wine bar. There, one 4 oz. glass of wine cost more than two or three beers at one of my Brooklyn haunts. Greg was nice enough, and very gentlemanly, so I went on a second date with him. After all, in a new city, you don’t turn down friends.

A week later we went to dinner at Falai, on the Lower East Side. I highly recommend you go, by the way. You know, if you can afford the $300 bill.

But anyways.

This is where things started to get awkward, the restaurant’s see-through plastic chairs notwithstanding. Greg asked me about my job. At the time, I was still in the “probation” period of my employment. This meant that after 90 days I would be granted a raise and allowed to join the company health insurance plan.

“That’s great,” Greg said. “Yeah, today at work, I got a raise, and I was almost embarrassed by how much money they offered.” It was then I knew I couldn’t date him.

We were living on two different planets, and we were also living in the twenty-first century. And even though it’s adorable when a guy pays for a date, I feel a crippling sense of guilt if I don’t contribute.

Don’t get me wrong. Gourmet dinners are awesome, and I appreciated that Greg took me to nice places, and showed an interest in little ol’ me. But I couldn’t handle feeling so poor when I was around him.

Maybe that speaks to something in my psyche, and not necessarily anything Greg did or said. In the end, however, I can only be in a relationship in which the footing is equal. I worry enough about money; I don’t need to worry about it in a relationship too.