Monthly Archives: August 2011

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In Love in New York

Make sure to keep your belongings with you at all times, but keep your heart closer. Stand clear of the closing doors, but don’t keep that heart too open. If you see something, say something, but don’t say too little or too much, too soon or too late. Step away from the platform edge, but don’t be afraid to take a chance on that handsome stranger. A train is now approaching the station, but you’re not going to catch it. Not this one or the next one.

New York is a dangerous place to fall in love.

I used to think the image of his loafers next to my stilettos was quintessentially cute. It seemed so New York, I thought while avoiding eye contact with Mr. P this morning. “Now it just seems commonplace. I’ve watched our feet walk or stand in sync for almost a year now.”

“Can you believe it has almost been a year since we met? Since I started the blog?” I asked him over cheap sushi last night, celebrating the beginning of my 401k. His eyes were glistening in the faux-candlelight, his new haircut reminding me of freshly-cut grass – I yearned to reach across the table and brush away the sad little strands, but that was his length now. I hate his hair short but it irritates him when it’s long. His face burns when his facial hair gets too thick- so he trims and shaves, leaving me with scratches on my cheeks from his addiction to nuzzling. I know so much about him, now.

“Look how much you’ve changed in a year. Look how different you are from when I met you…” he started to say. I cut my glance down to my Passion Roll – one of my favorites with avocado and spicy tuna. It was true, I have changed – a new apartment, a new group of friends, a great new job, a new sense of self, a new everything. I have grown leaps-and-bounds in the nearly 12 months we’ve known each other. But while he was once Mr. Unavailable and he painfully, slowly transformed into Mr. Possibility – he hadn’t changed that much. I pushed a piece around in the low-fat soy sauce thinking, should I lie and say he’s changed too? 

“…you’ve come so far and I haven’t changed hardly at all,” he finished, taking a swift sip of Saki and slamming down the porcelain container. My mother’s China cabinet all the way in North Carolina shuddered at the thud when it hit the table. I gave him my happy grin, the one that says: “My darling, I understand. I’m here for you. You’re going to be fine. Don’t worry.” It’s the one I pull out when I don’t know what to say, when the situation can’t be fixed with kisses or quickies, when the hard work isn’t up to me, but up to him. I reached across the table and rolled my thumb along the top of his knuckles, remembering the first time I noticed our hands looked alike. They still do but are we alike anymore? I took a sip of boxed white wine and I moved the conversation in a different direction: politics. That’ll keep him occupied for a while.

Why do I always go back to that place? Sure, it’s cheap – $20 worth of sushi and you get unlimited wine, but it always gives me a headache. Always, I thought, still staring at Mr. P’s shoes, finding my mind wonder back to that moment in that downtown joint. I had come far, I was different but he wasn’t. He was still beautiful and wonderful in all the ways I first fell in love with him, but he is also now human. He is a man who has hurt me, who has disappointed me. He’s a man who still surprises me, who recalls things I do not. He’s delicate in a way he’d never admit and more vulnerable than most of this world will ever see. He is loving by nature, defensive because he thinks that’s how dudes should be, and stubborn to a point of exhaustion. He is my mate, my partner, my boyfriend.

He is a man who loves me. But he’s a man with a past to overcome, isn’t he? 

A grumpy business man who has been taking the 1 train to Wall Street for 20 years from his Upper West Side apartment, which is probably rent controlled near a cafe where he orders the same dish and the Bodega he buys his wife petite pink roses (her favorite) – crashes into me, pushing me into the arms of Mr. Possibility. I sure do make a habit of falling on him, don’t I? 

He rubs my back and takes a deep breath in, his chest rising to another melancholy occasion. He’s lost in his thoughts again. Lost in what was, what he’s missing, what he thinks he can’t get, what upsets him. He’s lost in worries and he’s wallowing in self-pity – a trait that absolutely frustrates me, no matter who it is. 

My friends warned me of this. So did my mom, though I’d prefer not to admit her astrological advances were accurate. Hell, even Mr. P said once I found my footing, I’d question my stance next to him. They all said: The girl with a future avoids the man with a past. Thank you Evan Escar, whoever you are. Here I am though, listening to the MTA give warnings of safety while I hear different precautions in my head. The girl with the future avoids the man with a past. The girl -me – avoids the man – Mr. P – with a past. 

She avoids him? Why can’t she let him work through the past so they can have a future? Or does he need to be alone to do that? Is he right? I hate when he’s right. Now that I feel set and comfortable, do I suddenly want to leave? I’m different, I’ve changed, he’s simply stayed the same – can that still work?

Now that I’m starting to feel suffocated both on this grimy, hot train and in this moment, I look around the cart, desperately waiting for someone to rescue me. Someone tell me what to do! Anyone? You over there, you’re falling asleep reading The Times. I can assure you that I would interest you enough to stay awake. Tell me – does the girl with a future really avoid the man with a past? Can we move forward if only one of us…is moving? 

This is what New York is like though – right? Love dims when the sun rises over the East river, when corner stores open for business, when everyone orders the everything bagel, when everyone realizes that everything that felt so right last night, doesn’t this morning. Those who come to the city looking for love quickly find it is a glorified Hollywood myth. Love only come to those who withstand the decade of dating disasters in their 20s, only to find a nice, shorter, balding man in their 30s who can provide. They marry him in a rush, have a baby within a year, and then they become part of the stroller brigades of Park Slope and the UWS, causing a whole new generation of 20-somethings to see their happy little family and big bling and think, Sigh, I want that, too.

But can the girl with a future have that with the man who has a past? New York is such a dangerous place to fall in love – one day you believe in it, the next day you condemn it and on Friday, you’ve decided you’ll try for it again.

I follow Mr. P’s example and exhale, a little too loudly. He notices, and in between 50th and Times Square, he tightens his grip around my waist, pulls me into him, grazes my forehead with his lips nearly a dozen times. Quietly, sweetly. It feels like we’re alone: I can feel his breath in my hair, his thumb pressing into my hip bone. He takes his hand to lift my chin up to him and meets my eyes before giving me our normal morning goodbye kiss. I love you Tigar. I’m so proud of you. I’m so happy to have you. Have a great day at work, he whispers as we reach the station, the doors fling open and he gets out, smiling at me through the subway windows as the cart hobbles away. The girl sitting in front of me rolls her eyes in envy and I read her mind instantly. She’s the girl I was a year ago, wishing for what she just witnessed.

The next station is Penn Station transfer is available to the 2, 3, A,C,E trains and the Long Island Railroad…

…and you can also, in just a stop, transfer your heart from thinking that New York’s a dangerous place to fall in love to believing it is a beautiful one. And that maybe, the girl with a future can love the man with a past. That is, as long as there are no delays that block her way.

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I Wish for Wrinkles

It is often the first thing I notice in the mornings, when I wake to splash water on my cheeks and prepare for the day ahead. I see it when I powder my nose in the shadowy mirrors of downstairs basements of downtown clubs I don’t pay to get into because I have breasts. I see it when I click through tagged pictures on Facebook and reflected back to me in the sunglasses of my friends on hot summer afternoons, sipping on mimosas and pretending Eggs Benedict isn’t bad for me.

It’s become part of the structure of my face, a defining feature that adds to my visual character, something that most would refer to as a flaw, but I see as beautiful: a wrinkle, quite deep for someone my age, smack dab in the middle of my forehead.

If I hold my face perfectly still and refuse to react during conversation or to concentrate while writing, it is hardly noticeable. But if you’re around me for five seconds, you’ll quickly see that I almost always have something to say, and I say it extremely animatedly. So even if I wanted to disguise my wrinkle, I’d have to try extremely hard with careful thought, and then I wouldn’t be acting like myself.

I haven’t always been fond of this crease – I used to try to clog it up with makeup, somehow convinced foundation would work like cement, filling in this hole I despised. I considered it ugly and distracting, an imprint I couldn’t erase that caught attention instead of my baby blues. I envied my friends with their flawlessly-tanned skin, without any acne scars, without even the slightest indication of aging or sagging to be found on their faces. Some of my friends are blessed by the kiss of a complexion so clear, you’d think they still had the layer of skin they were born with.

It’s easy to feel insignificant and even invisible in the presence of those who have something you want. It’s easy to compare yourself and to measure all the ways you fall short on the levels of attractiveness when put up against someone who you find alluring. I’m still guilty of entertaining self-defeating thoughts when it comes to my looks, but instead of analyzing the bar scene to see if my friend is getting more attention than I am, I’ve started reminding myself that she’s probably doing the same.

We all have insecurities and parts of our bodies and faces that we wish we could change. Even though we’re all familiar with the prevalence of PhotoShop and the fact that models in person don’t look how they appear on the ads – we all secretly wonder if we could look that way. We see the chiseled, defined bodies of celebrities who we know have the luxury of a personal trainer and dietitian to tell them what to eat and what to work out – and yet, we think we can exercise the same self-control they do, sans scary-drill-sergeant, sans certified-brownie-thief. And we all see features on our friends that we wish we had – crispy, white smiles, legs to die for, hair that always shines. But rest-assured, they see something in us that they want, too.

I’m sure my friends or strangers don’t long for my little wrinkle, but I’m also sure they don’t really notice it. Come to think of it, the only person who has ever mentioned it was Mr. P, but it was in the context of compliment during an intimate moment. Contrary to my personal belief, it isn’t the first thing others notice about me, nor something that would be a deal-breaker for a could-be mate. That wrinkle, which is only the first of many to come, is a tiny reminder of the things about me that are beautiful.

It came to be only because I chose to laugh so hard that I couldn’t control the corners of my grin. It came to be because I’ve spent endless hours thinking and writing, trying to put into words the story that’s always lived inside of me. It came to be because I decided to cry when I was sad, to express enthusiasm when I  was happy or inspired, and to verbalize anger when it couldn’t be softened.

I don’t really wish for more wrinkles and I’m not against plastic surgery within reason, but if having no fine lines means never living one hell of a fine life, then I’d rather have those memories outlined on my face for the world to see. For the world to witness all the beauty I’ve been able to find – in its people, in its challenges and joys, and especially within myself.

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When You’re Forced Indoors

So Irene was a dud.

My apartment was full of people, food, supplies, and booze, and the worse that happened was some pretty fierce winds and a lot of rain. I’m thankful that we all overestimated and Bloomberg attempted to make up for the snow-acopolyse by being fully prepped for a hurricane, but my roommates and friends all agreed: we were a little disappointed.

The puns on Irene were plenty (Me, Myself & Irene on FX, “Come on Irene” status updates, playlists dedicated to the storm, etc.,), and it gave us all one giant excuse to stay inside, watch awful television and procrastinate doing the things we actually needed to do like laundry and grocery shopping.  We all were braced for the worst and wanted to have a safe sleepover indoors without electricity, without television, without internet, without those things we all live by. I even wrote blogs a few days earlier because of all the hype – determined to sincerely write every single day for a year. But nothing happened, except my apartment became a center for giggling festivities and six pack drinking.

I know it’s a blessed thing that Irene passed quietly by – but why waste a weekend crammed up in a tiny apartment when we could have been enjoying our city? Why did we have to give up our Saturday?

To teach me a lesson, of course. Why else?

Irene made Step 11 real for me. It’s all about learning how to relax. And there is nothing like being told by your mayor that if you go outside you could risk your life, to make you sit tight and take a forced-breather. So that’s what I did – without anything or anyone to answer to, I sat back, opened the windows to witness the doom-and-gloom outside and did what every 20-something does to mellow out: gossip, eat, drink and sleep for 10 hours (give or take a few loud gusts of wind that woke me up).

I still have to learn how to meditate to complete the 11th step (have plans to join my friend A on Sunday), but for now, I can attest to the fact that Irene actually brought something rather positive. As Mr. P would say (and often does), she taught me how to “chill the f*** out.”

If only for a day or so, anyway.

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Hurricane Irene, Part 2

With dreary skies outside, M and I sit anticipating Hurricane Irene, prepared with water and food, candles and flashlights, just as everyone advised. We’re watching the news as long as we have power, trying to prep ahead for work on Monday and figure out how we’re going to get there if the transit doesn’t open until noon. We’re comfy in sweats and trying to decide what in the world we’re going to do if nothing works and we’re without the means to shower. While it’s scary and no one really knows what to expect, it’s also a little exhilarating.

I mean, two natural disasters that don’t normally happen in the Northeast in one week?

God forbid anything happens and lives are lost in the city, I think it’s an interesting lesson for New Yorkers to experience. The island gives you a sense of invisibility. If you make it here, if you can survive the task of living in the city in general, then you’re tough. You’re strong and bold, and because you’re on the good side of Manhattan, the buildings will protect you. The streets will, as Ms. Keys says, make you feel brand new and you’ll walk them tall and proud, inspired by the existence you’re lucky to have. Unlike Los Angeles, it is quite rare to have an earthquake and unlike Miami, it is even less common for us to be in a state of emergency because of a hurricane. But both of those things have happened, and New Yorkers aren’t quite sure what to do with themselves.

The two grocery stores near me have lines lining the block, everyone holding their umbrellas and talking to everyone they can, while they can. The office was busy with chatter about what we should do, if we should be more afraid than what we are, if this is the real deal or if it’s going to blow over. My friends and I were texting all night and this morning about where we should stay, what’s safe and how we should prep. My roommate’s boyfriend has filled our living room with buckets of water so we can flush the toilet if we need to. My other roommate bought a case of water and M brought beer with her – all necessary requirements for being stuck inside.

Me though? I made sure to call my mother so she wouldn’t worry, kiss Mr. P like I meant it just in the rare case, I wouldn’t get to again, and checked up on everyone in NC and in NYC. And then, of course, I took a really nice, long shower so I would at the very least, feel very clean.

But you know what I really feel?

I feel like I shouldn’t take New York for granted as much as I do. I should value the city in the same way I would if I didn’t live here, like all of those 20-plus years I spent idolizing Manhattan because I wanted to be here so badly. I should count my blessings and be thankful for what I have, and never, for a moment, believe nothing could take it away from me. Because maybe a really powerful earthquake could rattle the pavement – most of New York is built on a fault line anyway. Or maybe this hurricane will be worse than what we think and there will be clean-up and relief efforts I’ll be able to volunteer with.

The city isn’t invisible and neither are its inhabitants. We’re the same people with the same warnings and same worries of those anywhere else in the country, and this week, the weather is reminding of us of that.

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Hurricane Irene, Part 1

Well folks, I’m waiting on Mr. P to get out of the shower so he can drive me back to my place on the Upper West Side, which happens to be one of the safest places you can be with the expected arrival of Hurricane Irene. She’s already hit my friends in NC and now she’s coming for my beautiful city. Luckily, everyone I know is fine and those in Zone A have evacuated New York to a safer place.

I don’t have much time and I’m not sure how serious this will actually be, but anxiety and fear of the unknown has a way of making you cling to those you love. Knowing that my apartment is safer than where Mr. P’s family is, we had to make a tough decision to separate during the storm. He should be with his mother (as I would be with my family if they were here) and I should be where I’ll have the lowest risk of danger. Why we would like to be together, sometimes you have to make a tough decision to do what’s best for both of you.

So, he insisted on driving me to make sure I arrived and I’m that I’m safe. Transit – buses, subways, railroads – all close at noon, so we’re leaving before the option to take public transit doesn’t exist anymore.

He’s dressed and ready now, giving me the look it’s time to go, so one last thing:

If you’re in the Northeast, please take care of yourself. And don’t freak out too badly, take this advice from Gawker to calm your nerves. My thoughts and prayers are with you all.