Every time this blog has crossed my mind the last month, I’ve felt a sense of guilt. Sometimes, even dread. Believe me, this little spot in the big ‘ol internet has built my life in so many incredible ways, I could never truly complain, and it’s not the blog’s fault for how I feel…
…but I can’t hide how I do feel anymore. You guys… I’m burnt out.
It’s not that I’ve given up on love (I still believe in it more than anything else). It’s not that I don’t want to go on dates (though I’d rather the good start outweighing the bad). It’s not that I don’t want to help inspire and invigorate every single woman (or dude) out there to put themselves first, value their worth and not rush into an okay relationship instead of waiting for a spectacular one. It’s not any of these things… but it’s something.
It’s this deep-rooted, incredibly painful, slightly manic and utterly obsessive fear that’s in the pit of my stomach and within every racing heartbeat. It’s what has been keeping me feeling a little less like myself and a little more depressed lately. It’s been the language I’ve been using and the words I’m selecting. It’s been the tone of my voice and the hushed cries at night that embarrass me more than enlighten me. It’s what I’ve been Googling and what I’ve been G-chatting about with my closest friends, who for some odd reason, still love me despite all of my messiness and need for reassurance on the same damn topic.
Will I be alone forever? Continue reading
Dear Future Children,
We haven’t met yet, but I’ve thought about you…my whole life. When I was flying back from Europe for the first time (with your grandma), I wrote you a letter about why I hope you travel, and that you take more advantage of your passport than I did in college. There’s so much world to see, and while you’re out there having grand, exciting adventures, you might meet a boy or girl that you’re interested in.
Your mom sure has met plenty of boys along the way.
And though I’d like to meet your father, I haven’t yet. I think of him often, and everyone tells me (like your aunts and uncles and grandparents who you’ll love) that once I fall in love with your dad, I will be amazed that I worried about finding love. It’s a comforting thought, and at times, it helps me power through another date, but it’s also impossible to hear when you’re in the middle of what feels like a neverending revolving door of men you don’t want to date. You’ll understand one day, love. Continue reading
What if your Sunday afternoon of busy to-do’s: your laundry, grocery shopping, tidying up, prepping for the week ahead, is always something you do by yourself? What if those Monday mornings where you roll over groggily, angry at the alarm clock, and longing for the warmth of another body against yours… are always met with an empty space by your side? What if all of that time you’ve spent dreaming and imagining, hoping and believing that something – someone – quite wonderful is somewhere out there, wasn’t worth your energy?
What if he doesn’t exist? Continue reading
If there’s one single characteristic that’s carried me through every terrible date, bitter break-up, sleeping with my ex and trying my damnedest to not give up on this elusive thing called love, it’s my optimism.
Know that emjoi that’s smiling and has hearts for eyes? That’s me.
More than anything else I value in a future partner — and in myself — is a person’s ability to see the bright side of things and to put others before himself to bring a bit more happiness into the world. I’ve been called a little naive before and that I look through rose-colored glasses, but what can I say? I like the view from here! It’s positive, encouraging, and keeps me keepin’ on.
So if you’re planning to be with me, here’s a few things you should know in advance:
1. I don’t understand — or tolerate — constant negativity. Continue reading
We really need to talk.
We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of years now. In that time, we’ve grown pretty close: I find myself searching for you when I’m waiting in line at Starbucks or when I need a break from editing at my beloved job. I often think of you when I’m heading to the ladies room or when I feel that small, haggard, terrified voice in the back of my mind that’s politely screaming: where the hell is he?!!
You made so many promises when we first met one another – when you encouraged me to talk about my interests and you gushed over my smiling, yet subtly sexy, poses. The one where I’m in a bikini in Mexico, the one where I’m on the merry-go-round in London. The classic, stereotypical one in front of the Eiffel Tower, and of course, the one of me trapezing by the pier, looking graceful as I sling myself toward the ground, dangling by a cable. Continue reading
In October of last year, with my mouth full of tortilla chips and tequila on my brain, I was talking about how long I’ve lived in New York, when my friend Erin interrupted me, “Linds, it won’t be four years in March that you’ve lived here. It’ll be five years!”
In that moment – and frankly, in this one – I was in disbelief that half of a decade has passed since those black Target pumps marched out of JFK into what, at the time, seemed like the start of everything.
I didn’t know it then – but it really was. March 14, 2010 was the beginning of what has become not a journey or a roller coaster, not a blog post or a story, not some romantic comedy or book that’s yet to be published… but the start of my adult life.
My first birthday in New York, before I started this blog a few days later. With Erin.
As I sat down to write this post, highlighting some profound lesson from many lessons and experiences in Manhattan (and Brooklyn and Queens), I kept coming up short. Every other year, I had a clear picture of what I wanted to write about: what it means to be a New Yorker, how the rain has followed all of my prized moments, how I almost gave up on New York (and myself) but didn’t, my own version of ‘Oh, the Places You’ll Go’ – but this year…
…I drew one hell of a big blank. Continue reading
I really hate being compared to Carrie Bradshaw, but I’m starting to come to terms with it. We might live in apartments the size of her closet and I might be looking in the windows of Jimmy Choo instead of shopping there – but she got one thing right: there is love in New York.
And for a while, we all believed it – at least the six years that Sex & the City was on – but somewhere between The Bachelor and everyone joining Tinder, we got lost.
I know I definitely did. I moved here with a few bags, full of my clothes, my hopes, my minimal savings and my one pair of fuck-me heels (from Target, thank you very much). I didn’t have an apartment or a job when I landed at JFK – but I knew everything would fall into place because I had faith. And a hell of lot of blind ambition.