You’ve been there: after a not-so-great date, you’re venting to one of your coupled-up friends, expressing your frustration and practically begging for an answer to when your luck in love will turn around. After some calm words of reassurance and promises of a happily-ever-after that’s frankly a little difficult for you to imagine, you snap at your pal for being so positive when dating is anything but that.
For most of us, that friend who has managed to find love will almost always say: “You know, it’s a lot about timing and a little luck.” Continue reading
The streets of Copenhagen were full of lights – tiny, sparkling, circular spots that led the way through the colorful town. They were meant to guide the bike riders through the night, but in my red wine haze, I excitedly told James, my dear (and cheeky) British bestie: People say that New York’s streets sparkle, but these really do!
He rolled his eyes at me and took another puff of his cigarette as I rushed ahead to match his quick pace, hooking his arm to slow him down. We had just finished a three-course Valentine’s dinner, along with celebratory champagne and a bottle of wine, and we were making our way back to our hotel to drop off the rose I found along the way. Do you think someone lost it? I asked James with concern, to which he said: No, I put it there for you. Take it, silly!
I was twirling it around in my hand, slowly picking off the thorns so they wouldn’t prick me when we stumbled across a store window that caught our eye:
There was a period of time last year when I basically refused to go out.
I wouldn’t say I was depressed – that’s a bit of an exaggeration for me – but I wasn’t happy. There were a lot of things going on, from my family to my non-existent love life – and no matter how hard I tried or how much I damned myself to be more hopeful, I just couldn’t get there. And when my friends all made fun plans to go bar hopping in Brooklyn or hit up a gimmicky club in the Lower East Side, I politely joined them for dinner and weaseled my way out of of the late night excursions.
Logically, I knew that staying home snuggled up with my pup wouldn’t get me closer to finding The Infamous Love of All Loves – but emotionally, I couldn’t stomach standing in some crowded place, having drinks spilled on me and drunken guys attempting to hit on me while slurring their words. I wasn’t in the mood for it and frankly, at the time, I didn’t believe it would actually help me meet anyone worth meeting (I’m still not convinced it will, for the record, but I do go out more now). But more than the immature 24-year-olds hitting on me or the blaring pop music…
…it was all of those girls.
On Thanksgiving – and always – I feel so incredibly blessed for this little life of mine. If you would have told me five years ago that I’d be living in one of my favorite parts of New York, working at a job that I really love, writing for a dozen or so magazines and have an incredible group of friends, I probably wouldn’t have believed you. Sometimes I want to pinch myself that nearly everything I’ve wanted has worked itself out… beautifully. Surprisingly.
Perfectly how it was supposed to.
Now of course, there are things I’d like and things I dream of. There are Thanksgivings I imagine with my one-day man, and there are certain visions and luxuries I’d like to be my reality one day, but in this moment, sitting in my PJs with Christmas music playing, my pup at my feet and my roommate cooking in the kitchen, I’d say life is pretty damn good right now.
So thank you. Thank you for showing me just how much love there is in this world. There is SO much, I can’t ever explain.
I went on a date on Sunday… with my literary agent.
If you could see me right now, you would see a grin ear-to-ear, and if you could get inside my heart, you’d feel it beating frantically out of its chest. There are very few words to describe just how happy – and excited and thankful! – I feel to have someone actively trying to turn this little ‘ole blog of mine into a book. (When it happens, you will all be the first to know, I promise!)
Even so, I was nervous to meet him (and afraid he wouldn’t like me) – but my gut was right: it was two hours of constant rapport, brainstorming and storytelling. And then he said something that just about made me cry:
It’s hard to believe that Confessions of a Love Addict is four years old today.
I get those damn butterflies in my stomach every single time I think of how far this blog has come in the past few years. And my heart feels like it’s about to burst when I think of how blessed I am that you all come back to read my thoughts, hear about my adventures and stick with me through any breakup, job change or difficult time.
I know I’ve thanked you before, but let me do it again:
A year ago today, I turned 25.
Truth be told, I didn’t want to be the big 2-5. In fact, the whole idea of being in my mid-twenties really freaked me out. There was something ominous about making the transition from fresh-out-of-college to real-life adulthood. Sure, I have been on my own for years, but when you’re a quarter of a century, it somehow seems way more serious than it did before.
But I really didn’t have a damn thing to worry about – 25 was (by far) my best year yet. So much so, that as I turn 26 today at 2:14 p.m., I’m secretly wishing that I could stay 25 forever.