Monthly Archives: August 2011

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Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Before the final round interview for my dream job, I went out to a handful of stores to find something I’d feel sassy and confident in. Considering how much I wanted the position, I knew I needed to not only study up and prepare intensely for the interview, but also have that extra kick that comes from an outfit that looks just plain killer.

It took a little time, but I ultimately found a pleated pencil skirt and silky top duo from H&M that seemed to fit the bill with some careful accessorizing. The morning of, my friend M came over to approve of the outfit I created (my personal fashion consultant who charges by the glass of champagne) and to come along with me, that way she’d be there once it was over. Mr. P was there in my apartment too, since he was visiting to wish me luck.

Standing in front of the mirror, I said to them: “I have something new (the dress), something old (the shoes), something blue (my cardigan) – but what about borrowed?” Instinctively as if he was waiting for it, Mr. P handed me his Chapstick (yes he carries Chapstick). I smiled and glanced over at M who was sweetly rolling her eyes at me. Mr. P asked as I applied his borrowed gift, “Are you going to marry this job?” I thought about it, pressed my lips together to make sure the gloss was even and said, “I hope…I do!” Mr. P kissed my head, told me to go get em’ Tigar, and headed to work. M and I caught the train after some prayers and some praises to the Job Fairies, and the next day, I got the call that would change my life.

The offer of my dream job. Tomorrow, I start.

Maybe it’s the way to pass time or to calm jitters, but I had a vision of wearing a blue dress on my first day. I wasn’t sold on the idea until my mom called to say she had the same prediction and that it was an astrologically-sound color, so I quickly went on the hunt for the perfect one. Turns out, finding a not-too-professional, not-too-casual, not-too-tight, not-too-loose, not-too-classic, not-too-modern dress in Manhattan isn’t as easy as it sounds. Maybe I was asking for a tall order and just didn’t realize it.

Over the course of week, I went to two TJ Maxx stores, Marshall’s, Gap, H&M, Forever 21, Bloomingdales, Barneys, Express, New York & Company, and a few no-namers without any luck. I messaged my friends for their opinions, called my mom wishing she was there to go around with me, and even got caught in the rain a few times, wondering where in the world my new something blue was.

Finally, today, about an hour or so ago, M and I were picking through the clearance rack at Filene’s Basement and there it was.

Stuck between something with sequins and a pasley skirt, a petite dress that fit me just right. As soon as I put it on, I felt what brides must feel when they find their wedding gown: I screamed to M: “I found it! This is it!!” I cached out of the dressing room and she smiled, beaming and probably relieved that I wouldn’t hassle her with the search anymore: “It’s perfect, Linds!”

And it is.

But the dress doesn’t make the job, just like it doesn’t make a marriage. Even so, a job and a marriage have more things in common than we think. If we’re lucky, they bring us immense joy, but require a lot of work and understanding. Like you must make a commitment to continuously get to know your partner as they change, at a job you should constantly challenge yourself to learn more, to raise the bar higher for yourself and the company. You get to practice trial and error, especially in media – seeing what stories work and what doesn’t, and how to communicate your message effectively. Doesn’t the same go with your partner? You must remain dedicated and patient with yourself as well as your mate and your career, and you should plan for the future as much as you practice diligence in today.

And if we’re lucky, the job and the marriage gives as much as it takes, and it makes some of those dreams we had as kids become a reality. I may not be the expert on falling love, but I think the two things you can fall in the love with the hardest are often the ones we think we’ll never find: the dream job and the dream guy.

I’ve found one out of two and I’m not 30 yet. I’ll accredit it to the luck of the something old, something new, something borrowed, and finally, something blue.

PS: Have a question for me? Want to know anything about my life/advice from my adventures in dating? Before September 19, I’ll publish a post answering all of your questions. Email me, Tweet me, Tumble me, or Facebook me. Or you can comment below!

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Get Up and Go

While I am a thinker – always analyzing, discussing, and chatting myself (and my friends) to death, I’d consider myself more of a doer. Like any other transplant who grows roots in New York, I came here with lofty dreams and blind ambition, but I paired those traits with a hard-working, spirited attitude. I’m rarely lazy and I function better when I have a million things to do than if I just have a few. I enjoy being busy; I prefer a fast-paced environment compared to a slow one. I yearn to be challenged and to solve problems that seem impossible.

Maybe that’s why running is a good choice of exercise for me it’s all about motivating yourself to keep going, often without anyone else to encourage me. The problem, though, with being a doer is that I expect everyone else to be the same. And as you can guess (or maybe as you are), not everyone has that get-up-and-go-attitude that I do.

Take Mr. Possibility for example, who wakes up slowly, nibbles on whatever he can find, downs some orange juice, maybe some of that muscle milk stuff that’s so gosh-darn disgusting, and then he clicks around on the computer, flips the TV from channel to channel, then he showers or goes to the gym or picks up coffee or chats on his Blackberry…loudly. There’s nothing wrong with this morning routine, casual Saturdays after all, should be kept casual, I suppose.

But as much as I’d like to think I could just relax and take it easy as he does- once I’m up, I’m up. I’m ready to go. I make my bed, I take a shower, I check my email, this baby, the Times, CNN, and Facebook. I buy coffee on my way to the train, after I make breakfast and clean up after the mess that morning foods seems to always make. I text or call my friends, I figure out what the plan is, and I get moving. I’m not a fan of idle time and because he is, there’s always a bit of tension.

But it’s not just in romantic situations -I’m the same with my friends. My birthday is mid-September, but I’ve already make the Facebook invite and set up a private space at a trendy midtown club. I don’t like to “play it by ear” or “see what happens” – I’d rather have an idea of where we’re going and then let it happen, so I can not only budget my time but my expenses, and most importantly, my outfit. I want to know what’s next, what we’re planning, what we hope to achieve: drinks, dinners, wandering around, working out…what?

What are we doing? And why are you, my best friends, my family, my boyfriend – moving so miserably slow?

Step 11 is about being quiet, meditating, finding inner peace, reconnecting to the universe, being still, and having faith. But if patience is a virtue, I’m not the virtuous. It’s not so much that I want my way – or maybe it is, I wouldn’t deny I can be bossy at times – its just that I want to keep moving, keep going. Rationally I know that being still is positive, but I feel so much better when I go. I mean, my mama swears up and down I skipped walking and went straight to running – so really, I was born this way.

I’m learning as I grow and as I get older though, that getting up and going sometimes leads to poor decisions. It can entice you to enter relationships before you’re ready, agree to things without careful consideration, and make hasty decisions that aren’t always the best. And by being so intent on moving ahead, it can also cause you leave others behind simply because they just take things a little slower. We all move at different paces and our comfort levels rise and fall at varying places – so somewhere between the movers-and-shakers and the restful, wise souls is a happy medium.

A normal person, maybe?

Maybe that’s where I need to be, who I should aim to become – someone sitting sweetly, pacing inside my mind, twirling my fingers and twirling my hair, making endless lists of everything I want to be and want to accomplish, but waiting for a while, completely still. Just so I know I’m doing it right, just so I know I’m not rushing others when going smoother is what brings them happiness. And if they don’t speed up just a bit to meet me in that middle, then I can go without them.

Just a little slower than usual though, so they can catch up if they’d like. So they, in their own way, can get up and go, too.

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With a Month Left to Go

Eleven months ago today, I started this blog in the cafe of a local grocery store with my legs laid across the chairs, glancing down at my tattered heels as I typed. It was one of those evenings where I was particularly filled with ambition and yearning for a big change in my life. More than any drive though, I was ashamed of myself.

The night before (which happened to be the day after my birthday party), I curled up in the fetal  position of an old Victorian tub, crying my eyes out in hysteria, making demands instead of prayers toward God, and attempting to avoid the scary mold on the shower curtain. I was so distraught because I was so incredibly, pathetically, longingly, ridiculously single.

The months before, I had signed up for OkCupid and PlentyofFish – resulting in plenty of “ok” dates that never turned into anything. I had yet to have sex in New York (I know, sad) after living here for quite some time, and though my friend base existed, I didn’t feel like I had developed any strong connections. I had a job that I liked fine, I was meeting rent, I was living in Manhattan and not in a borough, as I had wanted – and yet something felt like it was missing. I was convinced that I needed a boyfriend to fill that space. Someone to come home, someone to call when I wobbled back to the train on a Saturday night, someone to snuggle up to and kiss, someone to make love to, someone to love me, someone to complete that silly little void I couldn’t shake.

But I didn’t have that, I thought, feeling the hot water pound my stomach. I winced at the thought of being alone, of becoming one of those bitter cat ladies who lived with bookshelf-lined walls in rent-controlled apartments in the West Village, reading about romances they will never have. I was terrified that my looks would go before I could snag a husband, that I wouldn’t be attractive in my wedding dress, but wrinkly instead. That the New York love story I had always wanted was a far-fetched fantasy that wouldn’t come true, unlike every other dream I had for this damn city.

I had already moved to chase what I wanted and so many had hoped I would fail, so many condemned me for just being who I am – but I had made it. I had a foundation and I could walk on it, though as much as I thought I wanted to walk  alone, I was now determined not to. Crying it seemed, felt better than trying. I didn’t want to go out there and date anymore. I didn’t want to shoot arrows on OkCupid or go fishing on PlentyofFish. I didn’t want my nights out with the girls to translate into flirting until some poor chump was suckered into buying us drinks for the rest of the evening. I didn’t want to play the texting game or to act like I was going home with someone when I knew from the beginning I had no intention to. I was looking and searching the faces of strangers, wondering if they would become a lover that would ultimately turn right back into a stranger when the love affair failed.

Because they always do, don’t they?

Wallowing in this self-pity mess, though, I looked down at my naked body and felt the naked emotion running down my cheeks. What was I doing? What was wrong with me? What do I have to complain about? I’m not going to walk the runways, I thought, but I’m attractive. I’m not going to cure cancer, but I have gifts and I’m smart, but most of all I’m brave enough to go after what I want. I’m not perfect, but I accept my flaws. I don’t live in the part of town I want to, but I have faith that I will. Working at a business magazine isn’t my dream job, but I’ll get there, won’t I? I may not have a very best friend, but I have support. I may not be in love, but won’t I be, one day?

And just like that, it clicked. It was time for a change. It was time for me to stop worrying about love and to start living my life. Time to start building it into what I wanted it to be instead of waiting for a pseudo-Prince Charming to rescue me from an existence that was frankly already pretty magical.

So I picked myself up out of the tub, threw on makeup and clothes, and headed to click “Publish” for the first time on this blog. I wanted to really love myself, really define myself, really just be myself without worrying about a man or a lack of one. I never dreamed my decision to create and follow at 12-step program by writing daily for a year would give me what it has. I was shocked to find my blog on the homepage of WordPress, for it to produce dozens of Internet/blog friends from all over the world, to meet a close friend because she figured out the identity of one of the Mr’s. I didn’t expect for its pages to be attacked by an ex-lover and her friends of Mr. Possibility or for friends I haven’t talked to in years to come out of the woodwork to say they relate to what I write, regardless of how old they are, where they are, or what they do.

But all of those things happened and so much more, and now that there is only a month left to go, I’m in awe of what’s changed in the past year. I start my dream job on Monday, I have a beautiful, wonderful best friend who gets me so well, I live in an apartment that I adore and I may even move downtown within the next 12 months, I did have sex and I did fall in love in New York….and I never gave up on writing these posts. No matter the circumstance or what stress was going on in my life, I found a way to come up with something. I was honest and open with myself, my friends, my readers. I believed in the 12 steps and in myself, but did they work?

Time will only tell, but I’ve learned to accept my flaws and my shortcomings, to admit my strong points even if they aren’t deemed significant in the eyes of others. I’m learning how to continuously stand up for myself in relationships and how to walk away before too much damage is done or bridges are burned. I’ve decided that I’d rather be a 37-year-old bride who marries the right man instead of a 27-year-old bride who rushes down the aisle because she’s afraid she won’t find better. I know that if given the choice today to meet the man I’d marry or have my career be booming and fulfilling for the next five years, I’d pick the career over and over. And now, I know that’s not such a bad thing – there is plenty of time for everything we want to have, there’s no deadline for love, there’s no trick to this most-confusing thing called life.

You just have to live it.

And if something or someone asks you to sacrifice parts of yourself for their happiness or for something to work, then you have to have the courage to choose yourself. To love yourself and have faith in the life you know is destined for you instead of hanging onto the notion that something or someone could change. The 12-steps don’t fix obsessive thoughts or an addiction to love – I still have crazy ramblings, and of course, I still want to find that once-in-a-lifetime love.

But it’s not the most important part of me anymore. It’s just a piece of what makes me me, not the end-all-be-all or the start of my happily ever after. For the first time, I’m truly happy with where I am and that’s not dependent on any man or any fairytale I wish to have. It’s merely dependent on me.

With a month left to go, on the 11th step, I’ll be sad to see this blog end, but I sure am thankful for that depressing night in that disgusting tub that made me see the light and take a chance on loving myself.

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I Do it Myself

When Mr. Possibility and I visited my family in North Carolina earlier this summer, I felt bad for him. Being the doting parents of an only child, my mother and father couldn’t resist the opportunity to show him at least one home video. They have records of everything I’ve ever done, a “wall” of fame for my journalism and pageant awards, plus diplomas and they still carry around a photo of me to show strangers.

I’d say it’s embarrassing, but it’s really just quite adorable. Mr. Possibility thought so too, especially after he had a few drinks. That seems to be the magic solution of surviving Lindsay as an energetic, defiant, and talkative toddler. While I’ve only grown a few feet and inches since then, my attitude is roughly the same. I’m still optimistic and too independent for my own good.

This was illustrated by my third birthday party, when my cousin attempted to help me unwrap a present and while sporting pink bows and a frilly dress, demanded: “I do it myself!”

That’s basically how I’ve felt all week – I’ve wanted to do it all, all by myself. I go through stages really, where I want to be around my friends or Mr. P constantly. Sometimes I crave company as badly as I do pizza at 3 a.m. on Friday nights – but at other times, there is no place I’d rather be than alone. In those moments or days, I don’t text as much, I appear invisible on Gchat, I don’t comment or update the Book of Faces as often, and I spent time working on my personal to-do list of things that really aren’t that vital. Like at-home pedicures, color-coordinating my closet, attempting a difficult recipe, or finding books to sell at Strand and clothes to give dollars for at Buffalo Exchange.

And when I’m really ambitious, as I was last night, I take on a day-long task at 7 p.m. at night. While giving my room a thorough cleaning, I decided on the fly that I was bored of the layout and wanted to rearrange. So with Pandora blasting in my fuzzy pink socks, sweatpants and sports bra, I moved my dresser, desk, bed, and bookshelf single-handedly. At one point I was cornered with no place to go and had to become Spidey-like to climb over top my furniture, while praying Ikea wouldn’t let me down with its flimsy durability. I replaced photos in frames, restructured my getting-ready-in-the-morning setup, threw out shoes that saw their last day years ago, and finally concluded that I’ll never be a 34A again, so holding onto training bras probably is a waste of space.

Around midnight, when my room makeover was complete, I stood in awe at my work. And of the change.

That little bit of reorganization makes everything look different and feel fresher. It makes me cleaner for a few weeks and gives me a new appreciation for the apartment and roommates I was lucky to find. And though I’d say most anyone reading this blog could do the same in their own space, I thoroughly enjoy the feeling of doing something by myself. I’m no Southern Belle who poses as a damsel in distress, but a young woman who would rather be sore and filthy than to rely on anyone to do the things I can do without help.

It’s that mentality, I think, that gets me far – in my career and in my love life. Accepting myself as an independent, as someone who can do most things she sets her mind to has given me the confidence to go after those things that seem unreachable. To push harder, to believe in my abilities, and to take responsibility for both my successes and my failures. It’s made me a product of my own doing – capable of not only being the person I want to be, but doing those things that others have said I can’t or have tried to do for me. Perhaps it make me a little much to handle in a relationship, but if a guy can’t hold his own while dating me – there’s an express train a few blocks away and I’ll provide the $2.25 he’ll need to catch it.

If someone else wants to come along the journey, they’re welcome to – just don’t slow me down or instruct me how to walk or to talk,, what to see or how to be. Because as I promised over twenty years ago, I’ll do it myself and I’ll be damn happy about it.

 

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An Ageless Bond

Standing in the fitting room of a trendy boutique in the West Village today, staring at myself in the mirror in an overpriced $105 cotton blue dress with embellishments, I had an ache in my heart for no one other than my mother.

Considering I’ve been out of grade school for quite some time now, and the whole “back-to-school” shopping trip ceased when I hit college, every Fall, my 20-something self misses spending a few hours at the mall with my mom. She used to set a budget and then let me go at it – jeans, sweaters, leggings, bras, shoes, school supplies, and anything else I needed was up to me to pick out. She’d go around holding up things that she thought would be “cute” and the older I became, the more I went against her suggestions and went with my own.

Maybe some have mothers who want them to wear turtlenecks and long skirts that cover every possible inch of their body, but my mom was never like that. She’s actually one of the best critics – she’ll be honest about how I look and she’s queen of selecting pieces that flatter my body. She never told me to hide my curves, but to dress for them. She should know how to do that after all – she’s the one who gave them to me. While we may disagree on certain picks, I trust her the most on fit, and I value her sweet sentiments over anyone else’s.

Our Girl’s Days Out weren’t limited to pre-September though, it was always our thing to do monthly. Sometimes we’d just go bouncing around to thrift stores, try a new restaurant downtown, and once I became an adult, I started dressing her instead. Since she’s been walking or biking a few miles daily for as long as I can remember, my mom is in great shape and for a 50-something (sorry mom!), I’d say she’s pretty smokin’.

But she doesn’t always think so. And she has to be reminded that wearing tight clothes isn’t out of the question in your middle-age, that being sexy doesn’t disappear because wrinkles appear, and that she deserves new clothes too. After spending a vast majority of her life treating me to special things and taking me on shopping trips, she often forgot herself – but now it’s her time.

She started esthetician school today and I couldn’t be more proud. I waited anxiously by my cell phone for her to get out of class, wondering how her day was and if she liked her classmates. She was nervous about the transition from working to taking a chance on something she’s always been interested in. Accounting is far from waxing and beauty treatments, but with her gentle touch and fiesty entrepreneurial-spirit, I’m confident that with a degree, she’ll be unstoppable.

While I was happy for her bright, new beginning, I was sad that I wasn’t there to share it with her. To treat her to a new outfit to wear to class that flatters her style and the softness she exudes without trying. To split a bottle of wine and chat about what she liked and didn’t, and dream up what kind of salon she would open up. To just see her beaming and brave, being the woman I’ve always known was inside of her, but she was afraid to face.

It’s funny how tables turn and how eventually, we end up parenting out parents a bit. Or maybe they just become our friends because they’ve been befriending us our entire lives. And just like they have to with us or we have to with a childhood friend that can’t come along for our ride, we have to learn how to let them go. How to support their new endeavors that don’t involves us or our day-to-day lives that don’t include one another, or the goals they’re reaching that we can’t quite see. How to stand on our own and let them stand as well.

How to pick out our own clothes with our own money for the brand new job we sought and found, while they start a brand new chapter of their lives by returning to school. How mothers continue to learn just as much as daughters, and how closing your eyes and sending a hug from the big city to the sweet countryside may seem impossible, somewhere, you just know she can feel it, too.