A year ago, I published a blog called ‘Dear Boy.’ It was an ode to all of the jerks I went out with that year as a way to dismiss them and let ‘em go. I was amazed when I received so many letters from all over the world of women (and men!) experiencing the same let down.
I don’t know what it is about writing, but it sure does get it out, doesn’t it?
So in honor of releasing all the bad of the year to prepare for a bright, amazing year ahead, I want to encourage you to write Dear Boy letters again! You’re welcome to anonymously submit or use your name (or a fake one).
Just click this link and fill it out. I’ll email you when you it’s published.
To inspire you, here’s one from me:
Dear Boy Who I Though Could Have Really Been Something,
After our marathon date that lasted nearly 48 hours, I was smitten. Our conversation and chemistry was magnetic and I was so impressed with your follow-up. You were handsome and charming, and yet, a little more reserved than I usually go for. I thought stepping outside of my normal dating routine and going for someone who was less the life of the party and more an intellectual with a goofy side would be good for me. But what I didn’t realize is that you weren’t really grown-up yet. You didn’t know how to manage stress. You didn’t know how to balance life, work and love. You didn’t know how to stop being selfish and frankly, you didn’t know how to give a girl an orgasm. I was a little sad when we ended things – at some bar in midtown – but more than anything, I was relieved. I didn’t want another relationship where I did all the work, where I had to put up a big fight and do the wooing. I want someone who can do that all on his own. And I know I’ll find him, and I hope you are one day able to take a deep breath, relax and really let yourself fall for someone. It’ll be a lonely life if you don’t.
With love, Linds
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So here’s the honest truth: I haven’t had sex since July.
I know, I know—you would think for someone who dates as much as I do and is so open about her personal life, I’d be getting a little more nooky. But since I ended that kind-of-relationship with Patrick right after the Fourth of July, I haven’t been laid. Sadly, I haven’t even been touched more than a drunken ass grab outside some crummy bar downtown.
From my Facebook page looking in, I seem like I pretty much have it together.
I have a job that I really love, I signed with an agent this year to turn my blog into a book, I live in one of the trendiest neighborhoods in New York City, and I’m lucky that I’m a good enough saver that I make it overseas a couple times a year for a vacation.
I’ve been pretty d*mn successful (knock on wood) so far in my 20s, but the one thing I’ve yet to master is dating.
I’ve been online dating basically since I realized it was an option. For an article for the school newspaper my sophomore year in college, I tried to sign up for eHarmony, but I wasn’t old enough (ya gotta be 21), and so it called me “unmatchable.” After crying to my mom (and um, reading the fine print), I held off on signing up again until I moved to New York.
When I arrived in the city, I signed up for Plenty of Fish, and though I did have a little luck (met a millionaire for the first time!), I was still a little too young for the market; it was easier for me to hit up a bar in midtown to meet a dude over a romantic Bud Light than to fiddle with all those search filters. I ended up meeting my ex when I fell down in front of him on a bus (go figure), and after that relationship ended, I was determined to get over him stat, so I signed up for everything.
I’ve been thinking about London lately.
About how easy it was to get around the city, even with it’s hushed voices and last-calls at 1 a.m., instead of 4. I’ve been thinking about how the men were such gentleman, wishing me a good day and commenting on how ‘quite lovely, quite everything, quite was’ in their darling accents that stupidly remind me of Hugh Grant. I’ve been thinking about how even though I tried to have an afternoon delight in Kensington at lunchtime with a tall, handsome character I met in Shoreditch the night before – he refrained. I’ve been considering the echoes in my head from all the women who complained – over their cigarettes and their pimms – that the men are far too serious, that they want relationships too soon, that they just bore of them ‘quite quickly, I’m afraid.’ I’ve been thinking that maybe, a British man might be what I’ve been looking for, after all.
I’ve been thinking about Paris lately.
Like clockwork every single night, I get a text message from my dad. It’s usually a mix of “I love you” or “I miss you” coupled with a few sentences about being proud of me (awww). But a few weeks ago, his message read:
“Your mom had a busy day today, and she fell asleep on the couch. She’s so beautiful, Linds. She’s been so good to me. I’m a lucky man. You’ll find your lucky man one day, too. Goodnight, daughter.”
Now, before you get misty-eyed (it’s OK, I did, too), know this: my parents’ relationship and their marriage is not typical. It’s one of those stories that people write about—the kind of love that could be made into a movie (after being a best-selling Nicholas Sparks book). Theirs is a marriage that’s more of a goal rather than a standard.
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: