Every Christmas, my mom gives me an astrology reading for the New Year.
I’m not sure how much I buy into it, but I really love hearing what she has to say about the different ways the universe affects my everyday life, the choices I make, the opportunities I have and the influences around me. I don’t know if it feels accurate because she’s my mother (and knows me probably better than anyone) or if just hearing that you’ll be successful makes you conclude it’s destined, but more often than not, she is spot on and my year is usually right on track from her predictions.
As she went through all of the things that could very well happen this year – more freelancing, prosperity at work, stronger friendships, more travel – I nodded along and smiled. But when she got to the big black hole in my chart (okay, not really, but what feels like a bottomless pit of frustration) – she started to go over the signs of love orbiting my solar system. I listened intently and perhaps grinned a few times, but I also finished my generous glass of red wine and let out a hefty sigh.
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.
A few weeks ago, I went out for a second time with a tall, fit blonde-hair boy with dimples, and as I sat across him, sipping wine and nibbling a cheese plate, I only could conclude I was drunk on our first date.
Because otherwise, why in the world would I have agreed to go out with him again?
Now, forgive me for being critical (it wouldn’t be the first time someone suggested such a thing) – but there wasn’t anything wrong with him per se. Except that he was upset that I choose to sit at a table instead of the bar (since I arrived 5 minutes early and he arrived 10 minutes late, I got to take my pick). And that he spent the better portion of our date complaining about his job, and the last few minutes of our date laughing telling our handsome European waiter (who was interested in my work) that he doesn’t “read shit like mine.”
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:
I’m so excited to announce my new weekly dating column for WomensHealthMag.com. Check out my first post below!
I’ll never forget my first date in New York City.
I was 19 years old and interning at a women’s magazine, living in my college’s loft at 24th and Park for the summer. I had imagined myself much more mature than I actually was, and because my fake ID (sorry mom and dad!) said that I was 21, I spent a lot of time at bars post-interning hours. It was at some bar in Murray Hill that I met Joseph—a 28-year-old finance guy.
A month ago, I was sitting at a place I didn’t want to be at in Murray hill, drinking wine I didn’t want to drink, waiting on a man I didn’t know if I wanted to date.
I was passing time and nursing my one glass because I didn’t want to leave the place and be forced to sit outside his building where Lucy would die of thirst. Mr. Unexpected had some sort of test that night and Lucy had a grooming appointment the next morning a few blocks from his apartment, so it made sense that I would sleep over… but as I tried my best not to obsess over when he would text that he was out, I wondered what the hell I was doing.
On paper and mostly in person, Mr. Unexpected and I really connected. The sex was great. He made me laugh. He was honest. The chemistry was there but there was also a big ole’ thing missing that I knew, he knew and probably even Lucy knew if we had a way of asking her. I couldn’t put it into words then, but a month later after a weekend of silence to “clear our heads” and “decide what we both wanted,” I found myself sitting across from yet another man who couldn’t give me what I wanted.
But there was one big difference in this mini relationship – and that was me.
When you write a weekly column about relationships in your college paper – that no one takes seriously – but gets great traffic, you suck up the snide remarks from other staffers. When friends and people remind you time-and-time again that when you move to New York, you might not work for a magazine. You might not get a job in editing at all. You might end up being an intern forevermore and never make any money and eat Ramen until you can’t possibly stomach another noodle – you smile and take it all with a grain of salt (or put it on said Ramen). When you receive hate mail on the very last day of your very last class of your college career, where someone says they hope you fall on your “pretty little face” in New York because “being pretty” doesn’t mean you can be an editor – you vow to frame that letter when get that corner office. When the chancellor of your university says that you just don’t really have what it takes to lead a staff and that you would fit in better at a glossy than writing about “serious topics,” you congratulate the new editor-in-chief, graduate early, move to New York, and land a job… writing about “serious topics.”
Because even if people find you ridiculous or don’t believe you can’t do what you keep sayin’ you’re going to do — ya gotta do you.
When you start a blog way back in 2010 because your day job – an editorial assistant at a business magazine – just wasn’t quite what you wanted, you spend hours (and hours) after work building your social presence, writing content and scheduling posts. When you meet someone two weeks into designing a blog about being single, about learning to love yourself first before loving a man, you put off the relationship talk for as long as you possibly can and stick to your rules, no matter how self-imposed they are. When your blog generates traffic from all around the world and you’re basking in the afterglow of being featured on the homepage of WordPress, you remind yourself that fans are fickle and the Internet, like some men, loses interest quickly, so be thankful. When your boss at that business magazine isn’t a fan of you posting the blog on LinkedIn and pulls you aside about it, you kindly decline the request to remove it because it’s part of who you are.