Monthly Archives: February 2011

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Don’t Push the Button

Manhattan is a mere 2.3  miles wide by 13.4 miles long, and yet it is one of the most densely populated cities in the world. To provide housing, nourishment, and entertainment to the millions of dreamers who float on this small island, the only way to build…is up.

And up is where New Yorkers go. To the tallest skyscraper, to the top of our careers, to the highest of heels, to the most impressive of social circles, to the most diverse collection of interests, intelligence, and conversation. To the corner office on the highest floor, to the penthouse suite of a high-rise, to the man who towers at 6’4″ with one of those impressively heavy credit cards that are by invitation only. To get to where we’re going, us, the united and tired people who refuse to live in any borough but Manhattan, we do it quickly. We hustle to catch the train before the conductor warns us of the closing doors, we hastily parade through tourists admiring the sites we probably take for granted, and we are always keeping our eyes peeled for the next opportunity, for the next businessman to treat us to dinner, for the next big thing that’ll take us closer and closer to the peak we all seek.

Because we’re in such a hurry to get to our next destination, no matter if it’s work, our dwelling, or the surprisingly difficult to get to top floor of Macy’s – we take the elevator. Just like the cobblestone streets in the Village and Ms. Lady Liberty herself, some of the shoots in this city are scarily old. But, like Mr. Trump’s towers and the luxury buildings on nearly every tenth corner, some elevators are so fast, so motionless that they’ll take your breath away.

Regardless of their age, though, there is something strikingly similar about each of these mechanisms: the “close door” button is much more worn and used than the “open door” one. It makes sense – if we’re always chasing the next fire to start or to put out – don’t we want to get in and get going as soon as possible?

I don’t usually take the elevator, mainly because my building is a walk-up and my office is on the fourth floor – but when I do, the elevator etiquette is almost always the same. The men step aside to let me, the lady, in first and then they follow behind in suit, as if they’re protecting me by ensuring no one gets in who shouldn’t. We each push our buttons and face towards the exit, without striking up conversation, by smiling politely to avoid awkwardness. And then, as we’re all settling into the spot we’ll refuse to leave for our entire ride up (or down) – someone inevitably pushes the “close door” button. Not once, not twice, or even three times – but as many times as it takes until the door closes and we cascade up the shoot.

I’m convinced most of the “please, please, please close” buttons don’t work or they’ve lost their power over the years – but as much as it irritates me to watch that person insist on moving faster than the elevator already does, I have to admit that for a long time, my approach to love and life was even more diligent than his/her finger.

From the time I decided I wanted to be a writer who lived in New York, I fought tooth-and-nail to make it a reality. I took on more responsibility than I should have, I had more internships than I needed to, I took on titles and roles that weren’t necessary, and I saved more money than I ever anticipated. I walked away from relationships I thought would hold me back, I graduated a semester early from college, and I worried endlessly that my dream, what I thought was my destiny, would never get here.

I closed many doors and never looked back because my eyes were set to what I thought was the end-all-be-all, the top flight of my life. I was so focused on the doors to spread apart and to step out into the world I knew I was supposed to be a part of, that I couldn’t have gotten here faster.

And while I do not regret my path and any of the things I left behind to become a New Yorker or a writer – I sometimes wonder if I needed to rush. Because once you get to where you’re going – you’re there. Could I have missed doors that opened because I wanted the elevator to close so badly? Could I have missed a floor that could have brought me happiness because my sights were set to narrowly to my goal?

Haven’t I done this in love, too?

Once I realized a relationship wasn’t working or the guy let me know he no longer wanted me part of his life -I made a run for it. I jumped on the fastest-ride to mourning, getting angry, and eventually attempting to forget about the certain he-who-should-not-be-named. I figured, no matter if I sprinted towards the doors of the old relationship to try and catch them before they slammed shut  – they would eventually close. Even if I push the “going up” or the “come back to me” button one hundred times, it would be one hundred times wasted. I turned my back often times on letting someone catch the elevator with me because I just wanted to go, to run away from any possibility for fear I’d get hurt. Yet, I always had one eye carefully watching for a door to open, for it to be the moment, when I met the man who would change it all. To stop on his floor, instead of figuring out which one I belonged on.

Like the New Yorker I always was, but now can officially claim, I never give myself a moment to breathe. As much as I don’t have patience with men, with my career, with the train when I’m about to be late to work – I have even less patience with myself. Nothing is ever good enough, clever enough, smart enough, pretty enough, shapely enough, or high enough. I want more and more, faster and faster, tougher and tougher, fancier and fancier -and I don‘t want to wait. I may not push the button to make the doors close, yet I push my own buttons constantly.

But, I’ve finally realized that the span between the lobby and the penthouse is never really that long.

Sometimes the cart is empty and you go from bottom to top without hesitation. Sometimes people come and go with each floor that passes, and sometimes a child wants to make the whole screen light up. Sometimes the doors must be held open to let something large fit, and sometimes you go up an extra floor just because you’d like to continue locking eyes with a handsome stranger (and to figure out which one he’s on). Sometimes there are technical difficulties, sometimes the air conditioning goes out, and sometimes it goes down before it goes back up.

And sometimes, when we’re luckier than we know, the doors open to a place we never anticipated. This is when instead of rushing – we step carefully out into the unfamiliar space and hear our click-click against the floor. And there, we decide perhaps we can enjoy the ride to the top and experience everything along the way. No need to push the open or the close door, and especially not our own. If we so choose, we may decide to go back down or pick a different level, and not worry about the pressures we place on ourselves or about time it takes to go floor-to-floor.

Because when the time is right, when we’ve had patience with ourselves and with the masters of fate, we know the elevator will always go up. And if it doesn’t, we’ll be strong enough to take the stairs.

P.S. Confessions of a Love Addict is celebrating Valentine’s Day a little differently this year. We’ll make it more about the single ladies and less about flowers that’ll die in a day. Submit your Valentine here.

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A Few Good Men

I once went out for pasta with a guy I will call Mr. Boy.

He, like most of the men I’ve dated, was tall, dark-haired, and had one of those smiles that’ll make you look twice. To be completely honest…that’s about all I remember about him. I can’t recall how we met or how long we hung out. I have no idea what he’s up to now, what he did after we split, or where he’s living. This isn’t because he didn’t make an impression on me, but rather because of the poor taste he left in my mouth.

As we were chatting, sharing stories, and getting to know each other on our second date, Mr. Boy brought up a topic that was sensitive to him. It wasn’t anything too personal or too traumatic (as far as I could tell from knowing him a few weeks), but right there, in the middle of our dinner, he started crying. And he didn’t just get a little misty-eyed, but actually, literally, sobbed and shook. Stunned, I didn’t know how to respond other than turning on my mothering methods by patting his back and shielding him from the stares of other patrons. I may have even “Shh”ed him and encouraged him to finish his ravioli because it’d make him feel better. He eventually calmed down, yet continued to pout as he soaked up the leftover sauce with pieces of bread he tore up into tiny pieces.

When the check came, he did not offer to pay for it or reach for it, even though he had invited me to be his company for the evening. In between sniffles, he asked, “So, just split it down the middle then, yeah?” I gave him a little grin and complied, though he must have been oblivious to not notice my disdain. As we were both signing on the dotted line, he suggested under his breath, “The service wasn’t great, so don’t feel like you need to give 20 percent or anything.” At the time, I bit my tongue to protect my class, but today, I would have replied with, “Well, the company wasn’t all that great, so I don’t feel like I need to stay any longer.” Eh, coulda, shoulda, woulda.

After he walked me home and I gave him the cheek treatment instead of a good-night kiss (or a night-cap, as he was hoping for), I closed the door, leaned up against it, and slid down to hug my knees. I didn’t, in fact cry, but I heaved a sigh he could probably feel as he headed back to his place. Probably to wrap himself up in a big blanket and fall completely to pieces while eating ice cream and listening to a Celine Dion on repeat, I thought at the time. Out of nothing but utter frustration, I glared up at the universe and directly asked a question, fully expecting to receive an answer:

Where are the men? I’m so sick of dating boys.

Now, don’t get me wrong – I’m not one of those women who thinks her man must be a cowboy, a jock, or lead the free world to victory. I believe a man should display his emotions, isn’t always responsible for picking up the tab, and shouldn’t always be tough, rough, and direct as dudes are often portrayed or raised to be. However, no matter how many street smarts New York gives me, I will always be Southern sweet and hold myself (and others) to the goodness of manners. And frankly, crying on a date and being rude is unacceptable. Though I sympathized for him and the subject that broke him down, I also thought it was something he shouldn’t have brought up if he felt so strongly about it, and maybe more so – he shouldn’t expect me to console him. Or fix him or act like his mother.

I’m not sure what I would call this preferred method of conduct, but David Good (who you might know from The Bachelorette & The Bachelor Pad) – would call this The Man Code. Recently, Good and I shared a glass of Merlot and Maker’s Mark so he could explain to me the rules, according to dudes.

Good’s a Midwest guy who was raised to be a man. If he was outside sporting only a t-shirt in the weather New York’s been entertaining lately, he would have never shivered. If a lady needed an arm to steady her step, he’d graciously offer it. And when it comes to insecurities, though he has them – he’d never ask a woman to cure them or boost his confidence. While he believes vulnerability is an important element to developing feelings (he goes as far to say brutal honesty is the key to healthy love) – it is also something that’s reserved for a relationship.

When tears and the introduction of personal fears becomes intertwined in dating, and even at the pick-up stages at a bar, Good thinks men are playing on the fact women are caregivers to attract them. Because they know a girl will automatically say, “Oh, sweetie, what’s wrong? Are you okay? What can I get for you?” they use it to their advantage to make a gal feel comfortable. And to think, well, he’s actually in sync with his emotions – when in reality, Good thinks the guy just knows what card to play.

I”ve met a lot of boys who wanted me to tidy up their messes and let them lay in my lap of comfort. And when it comes to playing Ms. Fix-It with practically each man I’ve been serious with, I’m guilty as charged. I once witnessed Mr. Idea cry for 45 minutes over a cat that hadn’t even passed away, but was just more lethargic than lately. Regardless, for me, as independent and self-sufficient as I am, when Mr. Boy acted nothing like the man I picture myself being with, I couldn’t have escaped from his faster. So if he was using that little trick on me, he should have not played with a grown-up lady who wants to meet a partner, not take care of a child. For the record, I never called him back or responded to emails or text messages. He sent me flowers to let me know how “understanding” he was to my busy schedule, and I gave them away to my friends. It wasn’t really the crying that did me in – we all have moments of weakness – but the pity he sought from me, when we weren’t in a place where that was appropriate. I do, however, hope he found a chick who will dab the olive oil and tears as they drip down his face. It seems to be his preferred choice of luring a gal, anyways.

Good says guys should have “testicular fortitude” which is interesting way of putting: men should have balls. Or as I’d like to say it, men should come to the table as I do. We’re all human, we’re all full of flaws, we all have things we hate about ourselves, and personal qualities we adore. We all have a past, we’ve all felt the burn of loves that were, and we’ve all had the often wayward hope of all that’s to come. But, if we’re constantly looking for someone to complete us, someone to take all of negativity we project or have off of our shoulders, and bear it themselves – then we’ll never learn how to stand on our own. Or how to be a dynamic duo, instead of an overly dependent couple.

Because we’re not looking for a mate who will tuck us in at night, comb our hair, and tell us right from wrong. We aren’t looking for parents, we’re looking for our match. Someone who will step up to the plate with us, someone who will challenge us to turn our mind to face new lights, someone who will encourage us to let it all out, no matter what it is, but then move on and learn from it. I don’t want to be taken care of or depend on a man for my sanity, my finances, or my future – I can handle that just fine on my own. I would rather be with a guy who’s as in-tuned with himself as I am, and thus, instead of being half-people searching for each other to piece one single person together, we have two people to bring to a relationship. And as any sale at Barney’s will tell you – half-off is not nearly as incredible as two for one.

So while I’ve put up with a long list of boys in my dating history -I’m not giving up on the belief there are a few good men out there. In fact, I’ll demand nothing less than one. After all, I’d rather treat myself to dinner for one, the rest of my life, then to suffer through pasta with a pansy, even once more.

P.S. Confessions of a Love Addict is celebrating Valentine’s Day a little differently this year. We’ll make it more about the single ladies and less about flowers that’ll die in a day. To get involved, click here.

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Something To Talk About

New York may attract the dreamers and the artists who express in every medium imaginable – but it also harbors and encourages the nosy.

Those of us who consider people-watching a pastime. Who have mastered the art of appearing engaged reading the Monday edition of The Times, when we’re actually eavesdropping on a riveting conversation three seats down. Those of us who can be entertained by the very best and the absolute worse displays of human emotion, affection, and self-destruction. Those of us who find ourselves inspired by strangers as much (if not more so) as we do from those we actually know the names of.

For a journalist and a woman who is easily combustible when given fodder for intriguing content – I picked the best city to live in. I may argue it picked me, but nevertheless,  though I love strutting to the rhythm of my powerhouse iTunes playlist while navigating the streets, I find myself removing the buds to tune-in to conversations I wasn’t invited to be part of.

Maybe it’s because of this blog or the universe’s way of encouraging my quest to self-love, but lately, the name of the eavesdropping game has been men. Or rather, women obsessing to a ridiculous degree about the guys who are, are not, could be, should be, or will be in (or out of) their lives.

Case in point, a few night ago I was changing in the locker room of my gym, when I overheard two girls discussing a dude one of them had met at a bar the weekend before. The girl was so distracted by going through each and every single detail about what he texted, how much time was between those messages, and what she thought he meant by them, that by the time she finished explaining everything, her friend had already changed into workout attire. She then realized she was behind her buddy and frantically started pulling off her work clothes to catch up. Obviously contemplating what her friend should wear as she waited for her to get ready, the other gal instructed, “Well, since you met him at kind of a trendy, clubby, flashy place, and you were dressed up – that’s how you should be when you get dinner tomorrow.” The girl with the dude and the date, stopped pulling up her sweatpants and with intense emotion said, “I know! I’m so stressed out that he’ll see me and think ‘Oh my God, that’s not who I met the other night.’ I really need to stop by H&M after this and pick out something. Or maybe you have something – are we still the same bra size? He’s taking me to some place downtown that I Googled, looked on New York magazine’s site, and on Menupages – so I think I have the scene figured out.”

Her friend placed her hand on her hip, tilted her head and matter-of-factly said, “You just never know, though. Ya know?” To which the girl nodded and replied, “I know. It’s going to be a disaster and I’m going to screw it up, I just know it. I always do.” By this point, I had been stretching my legs for far too long to hear their conversation and needed to literally run -but as I turned to look behind me, the scene of the girl stuck with me: athletic pants, an edgy sweater, two socks, and one running shoe on – gazing up at her friend in complete distress over a guy she’d met once.

Once.

Now, I started this blog for this very reason. I was that girl. If I’m honest I was far worse than that girl, if you get right down to it. My obsessions were intense and borderline-psycho. When I met a new man and he did actually call, email, text, Facebook, Tweet, or some other technological option of getting in touch with someone – I became instantly smitten. I lingered on his every last word, romanticized the way we met, came up with reasons why it must be fate, and tried to imagine what it’d be like to be his lady. Even if I didn’t quite remember what he looked like, what he did for a living, or if there was a spark – the fact that he was interested in me, meant I needed to make sure he stayed that way. And what better way to keep someone intrigued then to figure out the perfect thing to say, do, act, and seem like, so that the reason he decided to contact me in the beginning, would only continue.

And for the few first dates that turned into something more, regardless if they became boyfriends or flings – the obsession with talking about boys didn’t come to a stop…but only intensified. No matter what I had going on, what great adventures I was attempting, what strides I made in my career – I always defaulted to discussions about the man in my life. Or the one I wanted to be in my life.

In the spirit of honesty, I’m still not cured from being that girl. Like this weekend when a group of gals all-but had an intervention with me concerning what I felt about Mr. Possibility (hence yesterday’s post). Of course I appreciated and listened to their concerns, asked for their opinions, and described certain parts of my something-relationship with him in complete detail, my feelings were different. Unlike guys in the past, Mr. Possibility’s presence doesn’t rule all of my conversations. I tend to believe that if there weren’t any complications, he’d probably be mentioned a lot less. Regardless – that night, as I went on and on, played Devil’s advocate, tuned into their viewpoints, and tried to believe the most rational reasoning, I found myself exhausted of the conversation. I could hear the ridiculousness in my voice and the way I was putting myself down, going around in circles, and frankly – not having any sort of compelling conversation because I was lost in my own obsessive delusions. At that point in time, in those hours spent drinking and catching-up with my friends – why was I wasting my time talking about a man who was across several oceans?

Wouldn’t I rather know about their lives? About the half-marathon one gal is running and how she wants to be running buddies? About how one found the absoulte perfect job that would fulfill her dreams? Or how one managed to help bring a book she edited to the best-seller’s list? Or just about the cool recipe they came up with? And wouldn’t they rather know something more about me…then a damn boy?

Surely, we want to know these things about our friends and they want to celebrate in our success and be there for us in our trials, but somehow – the topic of men always seems to be far more intriguing. In that night alone, we compared our crazy sex and ex stories (which sometimes tend to be one-in-the-same) talked about what we wanted the very most at that moment – and two responded with “A man! It’s cold!”

Guys can be quite confusing, engaging, and incredibly entertaining – but don’t we have something more to talk about than them? Something that’s more meaningful, more interesting, more beneficial to our lives and our personal growth? Something that showcases who were are as individuals, the women we’re growing into, and the battles we’ve fought to get to where we are?

Of course – but do we always want to talk about those things?

Really, discussing relationships, no matter if we agree or disagree with them, want one or not, or have ever been in or fallen out of love- make us realize that we’re not alone. If we say these worries out loud, if we give them life by putting them in words, if we catch a raised-eyebrow or an understanding glance from our best friend -then we know that it’s okay to feel these things, it’s okay to be obsessive sometimes, it’s okay to not be the best player at this game of love.

It’s okay that at times, the only thing we want to talk about, even when we know we shouldn’t or when we know it makes us sound insecure or addicted – is the relationship we hope to find. Maybe we’re projecting what we want on strangers, getting way ahead of ourselves, and reading into details we don’t need to analyze.

Or maybe, giving them, or us, something to talk about, means saying the things you always hold back for fear of how they’ll make you appear. When in reality, they don’t make you that girl, an immature woman, or a non-recovering love addict – they just make you human.

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