Monthly Archives: October 2011

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Can’t Have My New York

After brunch at 40 Carrots, M, A and I browsed the racks at Bloommies full of clothes  we can’t afford (but like to pretend we can), and chatted vigorously despite our hangovers. Deciding it was about time to get snow boots, we took a load off to try on Hunters, that unfortunately only came in one size and one color — neither of which suited any of our needs.

As M tried on a boot, I received a text message from Mr. P that felt like it made my heart stop.

Unable to really comprehend or to make sense of anything, I started gathering my things and wrapped my scarf loosely around my neck, when A looked up and noticed my panic. “What’s wrong?” she asked. I showed her the text message and said, “I have to get out of here.” M quickly stepped out of the temporary footwear and I pushed through Bloommies like I was someone important, completely careless to who I ran into. I felt like I was losing my breath and I needed to get to fresh air and out of a store that while I love it, doesn’t exactly give a warm and fuzzy feeling.

When we reached the cool outside, I exhaled for the first time and felt the tears splash down my cheeks, uncontrollably. I didn’t care who on Lexington Avenue gawked at me, the pain hurt so deeply that I knew trying to conceal it would only sting worse. A gave me her D&G sunglasses to hide the mascara residue and M quickly filled our conversation with laughter and always-insightful perspective. Walking to the subway on the way home, where we would all veg on pumpkin cheesecake and movies that have nothing to do with romance, I tried my best to not look around at everything we passed.

The Plaza, Central Park after the first snow of the season. Barney’s, Columbus Circle, the horse-and-buggies that are so old-fashioned and cliché that they’re beautiful. Tiffany’s. The last surviving multi-colored leaves and the feeling in the air that the holidays are near — all of these things make New York what it is at this time of the year. And for me, they remind me of all of the hope I used to feel toward Mr. P. Of when it seemed like he would actually change from Mr. Unavailable to a true possibility. I’m taken back to strolling while holding hands, to admiring his rosy cheeks that I could feel myself falling for, to how I thought New York was magical because it was New York, but also because I thought I was falling in love.

And you know, I did. I did have that first New York romance that’s every single bit complicated as it is dysfunctional. I stayed longer than I should have, I wore those rose-colored glasses when I would have been smarter to invest in a good pair of D&G’s that apparently, can conceal most anything from passerbys. I was loyal and true, and I let myself believe that someone who can’t love himself could ever love me in the way I deserve. I gave more than I had and when it wasn’t enough, I convinced myself that leaving would surely invoke passion in someone who is quite passionless.

There is no harm in believing, but there is harm in deceiving yourself. And I became the master of tricking myself to see a vision of Mr. P that doesn’t exist — so much that I allowed myself to go back to the scene of the crime, only to be disappointed, again. I played the part of a fool as brilliantly as a fool can be played, and in the end, I only found myself with swollen eyes, bundled up in a winter jacket next to the two best girls in Manhattan, feeling disposable, degraded and wondering how in the world I will be able to love someone with all of my heart ever again.

But then I reminded myself — sometimes you put those big girl panties on and deal, and sometimes you stupidly take them off to make more mistakes. Sometimes you make the wrong decision despite knowing that eventually you’ll just cry about it later. Sometimes you see the goodness in people to the point of self-destruction. Sometimes you love someone blindly, hoping that with love will come change, forgetting that it’s really only changing your outlook and standards that will bring you love. Sometimes you can do all of the right things, say the right words, be the right kind of person, love the rightful, selfless way — and still, the person you give so much to, will not give you the same in return. Being a compassionate and kind-hearted person will get you very far, but only if you’re surrounded by people who are the same.

Looking at me as I stared off into the anonymity of the MTA, M said, “You can’t let him ruin Bloommies for you, though!” A excitedly nodded in agreement and I smiled. She’s right — he can’t ruin Bloommies for me. Or Barney’s or Rockfeller Center. Not even Bryant Park where we had our first date, or Williamsburg where he lived in a tiny little room. He can’t ruin the splendor of Christmastime in New York or the magic I feel in my heart on these streets. He can’t ruin Central Park or Tiffany’s or put a dent in that magnetic skyline that’s always been destined to be my backyard.

He can take a lot of things from me and he has. And I have let him. My patience, my give-a-damn, my dignity, my pride and the pieces of my heart that were too warm and sincere for him to ever deserve. He can make me cry outside of Bloommies, on my birthday, in a sushi restaurant I’ll never go to again, in my hometown with my parents in the next room, at a bar in meatpacking and one in the Lower East Side.

But he can’t have my New York or define my happiness here. As a native, he’ll never understand it’s shine, and as a self-centered careless 30-something bachelor, he’ll never be able to appreciate my shine for all that it is.

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Making a Commitment to Me

It’s a lot easier to see a relationship clearly once you’re not in it anymore. That’s the way it is with anything — sometimes your friends understand you in ways you can’t, your family accepts you, even when perhaps, they shouldn’t, and no matter what you do right or wrong, those who love you, see you through your moments of crazy and of clarity. Even if the first is more common than the latter.

The period following a breakup is like that too: it partly makes you feel like you’re losing your mind and partly makes you feel like you’re finally getting your mind back. In this particular case, it feels like I’m getting my life back.

I was walking back from the gym on Wednesday evening after a very difficult workout, chatting with my friend L and my mom, and I remembered what it felt like before Mr. Possibility. When every decision I made was based on what I wanted and what I needed, not on what I thought would make him happy. I remembered what it felt like to run nearly every single day a week and the instant confidence boost I feel every time I go. I remembered what it was like to reconnect with friends and to make plans for the entire weekend that revolve around nothing else but a good time and giggles. I remembered what if was like to wake up when I wanted to, to not share my bed or my heart, and to just be…me.

I didn’t see how the relationship was affecting me when I was in it — those rare nights where everything felt right with Mr. P always seemed to outshine the rest of the days when everything was completely off. I didn’t realize how I pushed my friends aside or how I put my feelings and my desires on hold in an effort to be what he desired. I knew, but didn’t fully comprehend how little time I took to actually take care of myself or how much I really missed running, even with the aches and pains it brings me. Come to find out, the aches and pains a man who isn’t right gives you are actually quite more difficult to get over, and require a different kind of stretching.

When I returned to my apartment, I noticed how much cleaner I’ve kept my room, how it finally looks like someone lives here, instead of someone who just passed by because she’s in such a rush to get to her boyfriend’s apartment. I looked around at the space that no longer houses anything that really reminds me of Mr. P, and with a glass of wine and a delectable dinner I cooked just for me, I retreated to the living room to enjoy the company of myself. My roommates gradually joined and chatted, and even though I’ve lived here for five months, it was one of the first times I really connected to them.

I would never say I regret anything that happened with Mr. P or that my time with him was time wasted. I value what he taught me (even if I’m still trying to figure that out) and a part of me will always love him. But I couldn’t see how unhappy I really was until I had the strength to leave and rediscover the happiness I had forgotten about. The happiness that comes from just living my life, doing those things I love to do, and spending time with those I love. Regardless of the words I wrote on this blog or the advice I gave, when all was said and done, I was the girl who still let a man monopolize her life. I put him before myself and before my friends, and in the end, I’m not only rebuilding my mojo, but the bridges I let crumble.

For the first time ever, I think — I really don’t want a relationship. In the hysteria of our ending when I was upset and angry, I immaturely screamed at him: “Well you cured me, Mr. P! I don’t want anything to do with love!” Of course one day, I’m sure I will — but I don’t really long for companionship. I don’t envy the couples I see. I’ll go out on dates, but I’m not begging or working for them. I’m quite content on my own and I really don’t feel like I need a man to complete my life — it already feels complete.

I’m healing and I’m learning more about myself each and every single day. And until I get to the point where I know that I won’t lose myself in another relationship or in the arms of some guy, I really have no desire to be committed. Instead, I’m making a commitment to myself, one that involves running again, spending more time with my friends, doing things that I’ve put on hold, taking time to rest, working harder than I have before, traveling and falling in love with this city…

…as I try to fall in love with myself again, too.

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Less is More

A month has passed since Mr. P and I officially parted ways. While he doesn’t quite remember the choice between coming home with me and working things out or going to Brooklyn and ending our relationship, I do — and I’ll probably never be able to return to that corner because it reaps of bitterness currently.

That was the Saturday night following my birthday and on Monday, the day I ended the daily-post regimen of this blog, I met him at a sushi restaurant after work. I dressed particularly attractive for the occasion — determined that if I felt good about myself, I’d be strong enough to stand my ground. We took our seat and he instantly grabbed for my arm and started apologizing for the weekend. Where he was 30 minutes late to my birthday dinner, and an inexcusable three hours late for his own friend’s party, leaving me alone with his family without anyway to get a hold of him. It wasn’t about his tardiness or his decision to not go to my apartment that night and try harder, really. It was just the tip of the iceberg, the final act where I realized the man I had been falling for may just be a figment of my imagination, not the actual man behind a clever mask.

I could barely look at him and I remember focusing so intently on a poster displaying different types of a sashimi, I could probably recite it if I tried. He wanted to take some space and some time, but stay together because he loved me. Tears welling up in my eyes, and Seal’s “If You Don’t Know Me By Now” ironically playing in the background, I set the key to his apartment on the table, along with a notebook I had kept our entire courtship, even dating back to when he was Mr. Unavailable. I told him that I’d either give it to him when we married or when we broke up. The latter just seemed to be our fate. As far I know, he hasn’t even opened it once since that day.

I meant business then and I knew I had to do the right thing, even if it felt wrong and it was extremely difficult. We had been fighting relentlessly, feverishly for six weeks and I couldn’t take another night where my eyes stung from tears, or worse, we were both so silent because there just wasn’t anything left to say. The only way to salvage any type of anything — and to build my own self-worth back up — was to end the relationship. In some sort of odd way, I felt like I was breaking up with a part of New York because he’s been part of my life here for nearly as long as I’ve lived here. He wasn’t just my lover or my first Manhattan boyfriend, but my best friend. And having that constant consistency is an awkward thing to wean yourself off of — especially since there wasn’t a big fight that transpired or some huge awful thing that either of us did that was entirely unjust. It just wasn’t working and we both knew it.  I didn’t want to have to be the one to walk away, but I knew I’d be angry if he got to it first. It’s a petty thing to admit — but aren’t we all a little shallow when our hearts are breaking?

Even so, I didn’t fully remove those rose-colored glasses. Maybe it’s because I know him so well or because the way I got to know him was through a grand gesture for another girl (who happens to now be more of my good friend than she was ever his ex-girlfriend) — but I expected a parade. I thought I would be showered with gifts and kind, reassuring words. I was convinced there would be an email waiting in my inbox that declared his passion and his commitment to me, regardless if he felt passionless himself. I didn’t want to believe that he’d just let me go, just like that, and that would be…that.

But when you part from someone because they aren’t meeting your emotional needs, aren’t falling for you at the same rate you’re falling for them, and can’t give you what you want right now — why would you expect them to step up to the plate once you bruise their ego, hurt their feelings, and walk away? It’s a terrible double-standard but one I was led to believe was the standard for him: a woman is pushed to her limits and he can’t allow her to disconnect because he realizes how much he cares.

But there haven’t been flowers or love letters. No box of chocolates or lilies at my door. No sweet sentiment that makes me wonder if there is still possibility blooming between us. No wonderful anything, no declaration of love, no paramount change to change my mind. Instead, there have been a handful of emails, a dozen calls, some text messaging, and lunch delivered to my office. Oh and a pumpkin. I’m not sure why I expected more — but in some sort of odd way, I’ve started to tell myself that in this case, in the case of our relationship, less is really more.

If someone sees that they are only hurting you by being in your life, that they’re disappointing you, that they can’t give you that love that you want and that you deserve, if they can’t do the gesture to win you back because winning you back would only result in more trouble for both of you — isn’t the greatest gesture of all…no gesture…at all? If you can’t love all the way, why settle for meeting in the middle? If you’re not ready for va-va-voom, there’s not reason to keep all that room open in your heart.

Maybe he realizes that and so instead of dragging out the conversation, making a play that he can’t follow-through with, even if he wanted to, he’s releasing me to find someone who can go the distance. To find someone who won’t need to make a gesture because they’ll see what they have when they have me. Someone who can meet my needs and even surpass them.

There is pain in the silence and a lot of frustration, but if you’re brave enough to not blame yourself for the lack of a chase, you’ll see there’s actually more peace without the persistence. Having a grand gesture can be grand, but not unless it’s the one you need. And sometimes the one you need is simply…nothing.

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A Glass of Perspective

There are a few stages in the mourning period following the end of a relationship that are so emotionally difficult, we all swear we’ll never fall in love again. Of course, we all eventually do — but at the time, it seems inhumane to experience such traumatic ups and downs when we still have the aftertaste of a happiness that was, once upon a not-so-long time ago.

I’m attempting not to blame my current grief on myself or the fact that it’s incredibly normal to experience the longing, but rather on outside factors that can alter someone’s rational mindset. In fact, I think I’ll call them “Things That Make You Want to Call Your Ex to Come Over and Keep You Warm or Do Other Things That I Shouldn’t Mention in My Blog.” (Short title to come later).

1- The transition from hot weather to chilly weather= it’s colder, snuggling is desired.

2- The onset of a nasty flu due to a last-minute decision to get my first ever flu shot= I’m curled up in blankets drowning myself in chicken soup that’s not even half as good as my dad’s.

3- The tactful persuasion of my friends to go out and drink away my woes= alcohol’s even more persuasive ways of making me want to reply to text messages, emails or phone calls that I know I should definitely ignore.

4- The indescribable feeling of being so satisfied with your job that the days go by so quickly, you can barely believe it = such joy is often expressed to the person you love, and then suddenly, because of your decision, they aren’t there anymore. Or if they are, you know you can’t take advantage of that lack luster connection.

Sure, I’ve felt all of these things before in some shape, form or fashion. I know that before I can feel completely like myself again and let go of the idea of what I thought I’d found with Mr. P, I have to feel all of the heartbreak. I have to let those dreams die in the slow, painful and wrenching way that they always seem to do. I have to remove those lovely rose-colored glasses I’ve sported foolishly for the last several months, and not only face who Mr. P really is, but who I am without those specs. I have to be willing to cut communication and my losses, so I can try to see all the lessons I gained from the relationship. And before there can be wisdom, there’s always a bit of whining and a few nights of sending emails I instantly regret the next morning.

I woke up today with a cloudy head and tired eyes, and out of habit, I turned to greet Mr. P’s warm body. When I rolled over, I nearly fell off the bed (getting used to the whole middle region still), and realized I was alone. His photo isn’t by my bed, his backpack isn’t in the corner of my room, and he doesn’t have a towel here anymore. There are no sneakers by my bed, no toothbrush by my sink, and his number isn’t the last one I’ve called. There isn’t anything new for me to analyze or something for me to worry about in terms of us because whatever was us, is now over. There isn’t anything to feel guilty about and there wasn’t a bridge that was burned, just my pride and my spirit were bruised in the process. Along with a sometimes overshadowing sadness that floods over me on mornings like this one.

My mood continued to be melancholy, despite my attempts to cheer myself up with pumpkin pancakes and two cups of coffee. For the first time in while, I allowed myself to have those “Remember when?” thoughts. My mind chronicled the good times while carefully omitting the bad chapters that most of the time, outweighed the splendor. My memory served me wrong and highlighted those moments where I really felt like I was falling in love and those weekends where we spent endless hours talking and caressing, forgetting that we had any responsibilities at all. My senses started detecting things that remind me of him — from New York landmarks to Groupon deals that he would have enjoyed and funny emails I’d like to forward him. My heart continued to ache, even after treating myself to soup I couldn’t taste and walking around the office for a bit to give myself some breathing room…well, from my own thoughts. I worked incredibly hard to try to erase the negativity I was engaging in, but my headache just continued to get worse.

That’s when numbers 1, 2 and 4 come into full effect, as I cursed myself for not bringing my daytime medicine. I was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe through my nose, so I started inhaling slowly through my mouth, making me sound incredibly odd when I answered the phone. I could have taken a quick elevator ride to buy some meds, but I was comfortable and more content, apparently, to just suffer through the sniffles. While stifling my coughs, someone from the mailroom stopped by my desk with a package, which I signed and thanked her for, and went right back to work.

An hour later when I decided I absolutely had to get some water or I would pass out, I kicked the package with my foot. After shooting the bag a dirty look, I opened it up and found a blessing I didn’t even ask for: orange juice.

Naturally, my first thought went to Mr. P — wondering if he had remembered my addiction to the juice and sent it to me as some sort of grand gesture. I quickly realized it was simply a PR company promoting a new blend, and while I was a tad disappointed, I was more highly surprised and entertained. Here I was, sitting around missing a man who couldn’t give me the love I deserved and needed, and the universe delivers something to brighten my day, without even the slightest request from me.

I smiled and poured myself a glass, happy to have something that always seems to make me feel better. It won’t keep me warm at night, it isn’t alcoholic and it probably won’t help my career, but it gave me something I needed more than vitamin C: perspective.

Sometimes it’s those things you don’t ask for or those things that you don’t even know you need that you actually do. Oddly enough, orange juice was just what I needed, even if I thought I needed something (or someone) else instead. After all, pouring myself a glass of tangy perspective is much better than pouring myself back into the past.

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What Feels Right to You

Today, I rose unusually early for a Saturday to join my friend K and support my friend, Mr. Hitch at a dating conference in NYC. The idea behind the 8-hour multi-talks day was to teach women how to find their dream bachelor and to correct how they are going about it the wrong way.

Maybe it’s because I’m fresh out of a relationship or perhaps it’s due to the last year of writing this blog, but something about the sessions rubbed me the wrong way.

Now, don’t get me wrong — I found everything I heard very interesting and I admired all of the stories from the dating experts. In fact, they really did remind me of myself: they woke up one day, realized how they were obsessing about love and went out to fix it by first fixing themselves. It makes total sense to me and though we may have all went about improving our lives and learning to love ourselves first and foremost, I truly believe that to find love, you first have to define yourself by love. And that often means coming to terms with that negatively bitter sourpuss attitude that most of us have toward dating once we’ve been in the race for a while. It also means realizing that while you’re not perfect, you do deserve more than just scraps a man throws at you, even if because he’s simply a man (and that seems so hard to find!), you think you have to put together those pieces to create a prince. The more we do that, the more we keep creating frogs.

While sitting at the conference, taking notes in case I wanted to write something for work, I looked around the room. There were women of all ages, shapes and sizes, life stages, races and styles. There was hardly any whispering, all were listening contently and many were scribbling down things to remember, even though they didn’t have an assignment like I did. Many asked thoughtful questions and inhaled the answer as if it was the solution to all their problems. Everyone who came lived in some portion of New York, was single and paid $50 to learn how not to be anymore.

And really, it made me kind of sad.

I couldn’t help but wonder — where is the male version of this seminar? Do guys do all that they can to meet the right girl? Do they come up with strategies and gameplans to be in the best position of the bar, to go to lectures because there is a higher caliber of women in such places? Do men obsess about the hidden meaning between cryptic text messages? Are they told to purposefully wear red because it attracts the opposite sex’s attention? Do experts tell them to make sure they are groomed and polished, put together and showing just enough to be just enough sexy, but not too much? Are they encouraged to take a year to really find themselves, to go out and be alone and learn to be single so they will be more confident and comfortable? Are they told to have nice, light conversation and to reach for the check, but don’t actually pay it on the second date because the gal will notice?

The advice really isn’t bad advice, in fact, it’s pretty accurate. Wearing red will make you stand out in a pool of New Yorkers who have an oddly natural affinity to black. Being casual instead of super serious and confrontational will win you more dates. Going out at 7 p.m. instead of 1 a.m. will open up a whole new group of men that maybe aren’t just out for someone to share a cab back to their place with at the end of the night. Attending concerts and visiting museums will host more men who are more concerned with things other than football and pounding Bud Lights. A simple smile across the room while maintaining eye contact will lure dudes in your general direction.

These are all very smart and strategic words of wisdom — but as I listened and considered what I was learning, a part of me wanted to stand up and say: Get out of this conference room and go out there and just start talking to people! Go and figure out what makes you happy, go find your joy. Put yourself out of your own comfort zone and try things that you have been afraid to do. Go on a date with someone just for the sake of going on a date, not to find the most idealistic mate. Have great hygiene just because you should, not because someone else will care. Wear something that makes you feel sexy and confident, regardless of what color it is or how tightly it hugs your curves. Talk about what you want to talk about because it interests you and don’t be bothered if some guy you just met disagrees with you.

Sometimes, I think we just think about it all too much. And Lord knows I’m a walking hypocrite as I type this, because the whole web and my circle of friends knows I’ve written a year’s worth of blogs analyzing everything from sex positions to deeply profound and personal questions of love. Sure, I’ve thought it to death — and you know what?

I’m exhausted of it.

Now that Mr. P has proven impossible and I’m out on my own, rediscovering the city I love so much while working incredibly hard to be successful at a career I love, I don’t find myself looking for love or longing for a partner. Instead, I find myself just trying to live. Just trying to experience all that I can and be the best me that I can possibly be. Instead of searching for possibilities in the form of tall, dark and handsome, I’m exploring all the possibilities inside of me that I’ve put off because I’ve been far too concerned with finding love.

One speaker said that if we put as much energy into looking for a mate as we put in our careers, we’d all find love. That if we get laid off, we send out our resumes everywhere, we actively search and we ultimately find a position. Sure, that’s true — having a job means being able to survive, so we all are diligent in our applications. Call me old-fashioned and a little too convinced that fate has a plan for everything, but it shouldn’t be like that.

It’s not about going to all the right places or saying the right things or looking the right way. It’s not about having a calculated angle that’ll make you more enticing. It’s really just about living your life, loving the life you lead, and being open to love. If your heart is open and your mind is too, you’ll give off a confidence that’s not only attractive, but genuine. You will find yourself being pulled to people who are satisfied with their lives and their choices too, because what you put into the universe, you get back. What you think about yourself, others will think about you.

And if you approach dating by being loving and liberated, then you’ll soon find yourself loving the liberty that a true match, the right person gives you: the freedom to be yourself, whatever color you wear, whenever you decide to go out and whatever you decide to feel. You can’t create love because you’re doing all the right things to find someone. You can only find love if you’re doing all the things that feel right to you.

But if I did have one piece of advice that I really agreed with — it’s taking a year to really figure yourself out. I can’t explain how much it’s taught me about love and relationships, but most importantly, about myself.