Eric Adams, Party Life, and the Unparalleled Joy of Canceled Plans

My best friend from high school, Tiffany Franklin, came to New York this week to stay with me and see the sights. But while we could have trekked all over the city, she mostly relaxed while I cooked elaborate meals, including dessert every night, and we gained about 20 lbs, eating, sitting, and talking.

But when we weren't doing Top Chef cosplay, we ventured to Tribeca in Manhattan for a spa day. On a 20-minute walk to the World Trade Center, after we had lunch nearby, we passed the courthouse. Immediately, we spied a ton of media outside, waiting for Mayor Eric Adams to appear, leaving his corruption case. Ultimately, the judge decided not to make a decision that day, but Tiff and I waited around to see him walk down those long steps. After standing there for a few minutes, the mayor emerged, and the press began to clamor as protesters shouted, "fuck you, Eric Adams," calling for him to resign.

I tried to interview Adams a few times when I was at HuffPost, particularly after I experienced a drive-by shooting near my then-home in Harlem. It was the height of the pandemic, and I went to a grocery store on the corner to get some bananas when shots rang out as I looked at plants outside of the store. I ended up cowering in the plant stand with the workers while people scattered, screaming.

This happened on a Sunday in the summer at noon, in broad daylight. And it was my first drive-by as I'm a suburbanite from the Midwest.

I specifically wanted to talk to Adams because he was under pressure for being a "party" mayor who was at more events than my girl Bevy Smith when that is part of Bevy's J-O-B, my friend. Like, she's the host. The mayor's job, I thought, was to run New York, and yet ... there he was. In da club. And there I was, in da plant stand, trying not to die.

I wanted to talk to the Mayor about perception versus reality with the crime stats, and I wanted to know why the block was forever so hot at 110th Street and Lenox Avenue in Harlem. I thought I'd have a good chance of talking to him a few times, but every time we got close, another expose would drop in the New York Times, and the Mayor's office would get skittish of the press again, ghosting me.

My offer of an interview is STILL ON THE TABLE! Although I'm pretty sure he's a little busy these days, playing footsie with the president while trying to avoid jail time or being fired by Gov. Kathy Hochul. But I was always surprised I never saw Adams at the events I went to, although, to be honest, I stopped being a party animal around 2022. Other than the occasional gala and when I went to a vegan media dinner featuring the Mayor before his eventual election, we clearly ran in different circles.

Although in my circle, I've become less and less of a regular fixture.

Not because I'm facing corruption charges, though. More because I really love my bed.

Let me explain.

Death of A Party Animal

About six years ago, I blew some money on a mattress, more than I'd ever spent on one, and I remember thinking two things —

1) This thing better last me until I'm deep in my 50s or longer

2) This thing better be AMAZING when I go to sleep at night

After that first night of sleep on it, I realized some things are worth the splurge, and because of this, please cancel plans on me! I have a warm, comfy bed at home that I miss when I'm out at my 100th event. Please drop that number of events to 99. Or zero.

Call it the Joy of Missing Out, or JOMO. I'm pleased to be tucked under the covers rather than out and about.

There was a time I would go to the opening of an envelope. I was so pressed to be at an event — any event — to network, meet new people, and mostly, scout for a man. You see? I was single for over 20 years, meaning I was out here trying to date for two decades and failing miserably. But because hope springs eternal, I just kept jamming my calendar with events, thinking the more I exposed myself to people, the better chance I had at meeting someone. I was playing the law of averages — a game usually popular with that dude who asks every girl on the street under 300 lbs out. It's a volume play. If you ask out 100 girls and only five of them take the bait, that's five hot dates, yo! Sure, you got turned down 95 times, but that's five more than the guy down the street has!

I figured if I filled my nights and weekends with happy hours, brunches, parties, and premieres, SURELY a man would appear who wasn't secretly engaged or had a whole wife at home. But I wasn't entirely conscious that this was my primary impetus for going out. It was more of a subconscious thing, as I was a voracious networker on the surface. I often told myself I needed to be out and about to "show the flag." As in — promote myself and get in front of people I admire or want to befriend. Those relationships weren't going to water themselves! I needed to be out in the streets — or at least that's what I told myself.

Then, in August 2022, I attended the closing night party of the National Association of Black Journalists convention in Las Vegas, NV, and met a man. We immediately connected, talking about everything from Marvel movies to politics. Six months after meeting, we were dating seriously, and for the first time in 20 years, I had a boyfriend. Then something peculiar happened.

I didn't like going out as much.

It wasn't that I was opposed to parties. I still love a good party (and attend many of them). But unless he was coming to the party with me, the party suddenly seemed less interesting. And it didn't matter anymore whether I was busy with him or not. I didn't have the same energy for hitting the party-bar-gala-club circuit anymore. But it was like no one told my brain, which continued to jam-pack my calendar with events when my heart wanted to stay inside and watch Dorinda get booted way too early on The Traitors.

It was then I realized — all that going out was JUST to meet someone! Like, 90 percent of it or more! Even though I loved going out and collecting new friends and acquaintances like Pokemon (Look! A possibly insane 40-year-old-and-up Black woman with a heart of gold and a great outfit... in the wild!), how many friends does one person need?

Like, I'll take a few more, but c'mon!

Now, in a relationship, I found myself suddenly asking organizers, "Who all is going to be there?" before committing to events. If my friends were coming? Sure. I'm still down. Love all 3,489 of my friends. Let's get lunch! But to just go to an event just to be going? With strangers??? Those days are seemingly over.

Well, for me anyway.

And probably Mayor Adams, too.

But I'm sure he also has a nice bed he prefers to return to rather than go hang with rappers.