Growing old, not up

I suppose it's possible. But let's review some recent facts:

Scenario 1: The ever-painful (but still exciting) new apartment search has begun. D. is the (unknowingly brave) first audition. His email is harmless enough, exhibiting intelligence and punctuation skills to my satisfaction. He lists interests that aren't unusual, but are not usually introductory (exotic fruits?). We meet on a rainy Thursday, after a lethargic trudge from the office to Union Square. Immediately, I notice it. I know the next twenty minutes won't change my mind, for it's already made, but I'm in no position to suddenly call off our rendez-vous. I'm sure my parents would tell me my judgment is hasty and probably erroneous, but despite my penchant for stubbornness, I know I'm right this time. D., poor soul, cannot hold any sort of eye contact. None. It's strangely revolting, though I feel for him at the same time. I know what it's like, and in a way, this is hypocrisy, but D. offers little to induce decisive compunction. He is smart, but can't speak his mind. He is looking for somewhere to live, a home, that crucial piece to the New York puzzle, but seemingly has no preferences about anything except a befuddlingly vague location idea - near an express stop (for he works in the financial district). Yet he's not opposed to Brooklyn. Or the East Side. Or brokers. Or caved-in ceilings and cockroach havens, perhaps. I look at him (though he's obviously not really looking at me), and I see something of the me of a few years ago, a blurry silhouette who occasionally cameos, unwelcomingly, in my dreams. Whether I like D. or not, I know that reminder is a chilly and permanent presence from the past, not one I want dwelling in my apartment, relaxing on my couch with legs kicked out over the coffee table, or sitting on my toilet, or storing milk in my fridge. I sidestep such regression as if it were a dead rat in the alley; ironically, I can't look it in the eye. New York is progress, and D. is not.

Scenario 2: Barnes and Noble, oblivious, aisle-strolling. Gargling over the PA, microphone feedback. I shift to the end of my current aisle (Proust is still overwhelming), slip a peek out towards the commotion. Some bespectacled bald guy, chatting on stage with a non-descript but eager-looking interviewer. Oh, it's Moby. I lend an ear for a commercial's length, register some commentary on Moby and friends "creating" a new religion. Something about "prognosis" and believing before, sounds like a play on words, but really isn't if you think about what the word actually means. Smug in his apparent wittiness, he lets out a self-important laugh, which noticeably increases in satisfaction as it's echoed by the seated denizens who feed off his every syllable. I mutter my own self-important "whatever, dude," and take my place on the escalator to escape the ghastly scene.

Scenario 3: The six-hour train ride has already overshot its mark thanks to a broken down Amtrak ahead of us. A terminally unattractive woman in her late-thirties comes on board, dragging three exploding children along, one of whom looks bound to be a middle-aged cretin himself. She spends the next two hours vociferously reprimanding their every move, punctuating these bouts with even louder cell-phone exchanges, during which she needs to stand, for reasons undisclosed. I curse them repeatedly under my breath until they mercilessly (and loudly) disembark.

Has New York (or, even worse, have I) turned me into an asshole?