Monthly Archives: August 2011

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When the Caged Bird Flies

Sitting in the West Village today at a miniature Brazilian restaurant overlooking Bleeker, sipping coffee that was just a bit too hot, reading New York magazine, I looked outside and thought to myself: “I wish I could put this feeling into words.” I’m not convinced I can, but I’ll try.

I’ve concluded that there are these periods in your life of great sorrow and doubt – where you mourn yesterday and though you’d like to hope for tomorrow, it seems far-fetched and like a fantasy. It’s almost as if thinking about the months ahead seem like a daunting ordeal, something to tag on the bottom of your to-do list, along with mediocre tasks like sweeping underneath furniture and dusting window seals. You experience disappointment and then you consume it, mimicking a caged bird with beautiful feathers that just yearns to fly so badly that it can’t sit still, until it tires and ultimately retires to pouting on a perch.

But its beauty isn’t gone, it’s just put on hold for a period so it can rest and recuperate and attempt to soar the next day, when maybe someone will open the door to release it into freedom.

That day always seems somewhere in the distant future, in a place that’s shadowy and paved with gloom on a road that’s rocky. The map leading there seems practical enough: work hard, believe in yourself and memorize as many names and faces as you can, and you’ll find your footing. You’ll be released out of captivity and into that brave new world you seek – your wings flapping with that uncensored ambition in the great unknown.

And while you probably head too far South when you should be shooting North, and you ignore the rules to take a detour that seems sexier and easier, you eventually find the way out. You wake up one day with a shiny attitude and shop for a new purse to go along with it. You accessorize your happiness the way you would your favorite outfit, pairing it with happy hours and dinner dates, tooting your own horn as loudly as you can, but remembering to be as gracious and humble as possible through all that glee. Everyone you know tells you how deserving you are, how proud they are, and your elders in the industry remind you that being tenacious only works for so long, eventually you’re older and instead of someone being surprised by your age, it just becomes natural. You should be brilliant and on top of your game in your late 20s, so play up that youthful spirit while it’s raw.

You fly through the streets wearing a blue dress and heels, carrying that confidence with big, powerful, bold steps, and you smile at strangers, tip a little more when you dine, and finally, feel at ease. Suddenly you’re singing the praises of your fate and serenading the universe with notes of thanksgiving, humming a sweet little tune that bubbles inside of you when you savor this fervor.

And that’s what it is – a romantic happiness. It’s warm and simple, understated to the world, but overpowering inside of you. It makes everything else seem ordinary and yet, you feel enriched by the extraordinary direction you’re suddenly allowed to go. You can’t even entertain thoughts about other parts of your life that maybe aren’t so fabulous, they suddenly seem unimportant and a waste of your energy. You’d rather think about this shine instead of giving any time to something sub par.

You revel in your company, not only of the fancy footsteps you’re following, the tailwinds for others you’re creating, but the friends who sat next to you in that awful little cage or fed you slivers of mango from outside, reminding you that one day, you’d be free again. It’s that happiness that you find when you’ve reached a goal or you’ve reached a level of comfort in your own blue-suede shoes that will soon switch from so-four-seasons-ago to hot off the redesigned shelves at Barney’s.

That fight from fearful to faithful is a long one. But you remember that without that fight, there can be no magical flight. Without resting those wings, they’d never be able to radiate in the sun or survive opposing winds. Or to sit peacefully in the good graces of the heavens and on the good side of yourself, cherishing this joy for all its worth, knowing that moments like this one and days like these don’t come around too often. They are brief and easily forgotten when the clouds gather and the sun retreats away again.

Trying to put this feeling into words or bottle it up to take a sip when we’re going through that rough time again, when our vision is challenged by horizontal bars of adversity is wasteful wishing. The point of such romance isn’t to hold onto it for very long. The best of flings and the highest height of passion are meant to be tawdry and temporary, concealed behind blushing cheeks and rouge lips, only brought out when temptation tempts or dreams most unbelievably actually come true.

Nor fighting or flying can last forever – but as long as we can make our way through each of them without losing our heads, or more importantly, our hearts, then we’ll get to keep the most precious gift either of them can give us. The beauty of a romantic happiness and the knowledge that being a caged bird isn’t so bad. If we’re never made to sit still, we’d never realize the opportunity the spread those colorfully wounded wings and try out a new bright, blue sky.

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A New York Week

Well folks, I’m beside myself. I have a full week to do whatever I please in this busy, rainy city and I’m drawing one huge blank. With so many options and not wanting to go over my budget too badly, what in the world should I do?

I figure this is one of those rare opportunities – in fact, I can sorta feel it. When else will I have time off to just be one with New York, without obligations, without planning a trip, or preparing for something life-altering like surgery, pregnancy, marriage, etc. This is really a time, in my 20s to go exploring the place I love without worries. Freedom is funny that way though – when you have so much of it, where do you begin?

I’ve been down to the Pier and I’ve taken a cruise on the river. I’ve seen the Statue of Liberty, I used to work in Times Square. I used to live near the Flat Iron building and I’ve waited more times than I’d care to admit in the Shake Shack line. I’ve toured Central Park, soaked up the absent sun on the Great Lawn and swung on a swingset for kids on my way out.

I’ve been to every museum I have an interest in going to; Bryant Park continues to be one of my favorite places in Manhattan.

I’ve went shopping in the West Village and waited in another long line at Magnolia’s. I have a library card but don’t really use it; I’ve been to Tiffany’s and Macy’s, Saks and Bloomies, and even stomped on the big piano in FAO Schwartz.

I’ve pretended I was Eloise at the Plaza, I’ve walked the highline and will soon work near it. I’ve gone clubbing in meatpacking, made friends with college kids in the East Village and Union Square, and hung out with the gay hubbies in Chelsea.

I’ve sat in the middle of Columbus Circle, looking downtown, dreaming of the future, and on top of a building in Williamsburg gleaming at the city at night.

I slept on a couch in Park Slope and sat outside eating Lobster Mac N’ Cheese near Wall Street. I’ve seen more than a few Broadway Shows, ran the West Side Highway, and walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. I’ve met some celebrities, interviewed a handful, and enjoyed the baking talents of one.

I’m a regular at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where I light a candle for me, for you, for my family, for my friends, for the world. Mr. Possibility works in Rockefeller Center, so I’ve visited consistently. I’ve been to several fashion weeks, even bringing a friend along for the ride thanks to a friend who invited me.

I’ve paid my respects to 9/11 and pretended I could afford anything in Soho. I’ve battled China Town and welcomed free wine in Little Italy.

I’ve been stuck in the rain trying to catch the uptown one train after a tireless day of touring the city with a friend, but took it all in style anyway.

I’ve jumped through fountains in the middle of a ‘Welcome to New York’ boozy brunch with a friend of mine and without shame, sported my super pale legs.

I’ve enjoyed the beauty of New York dining, including free passes to pop-up restaurants where everything is cooked outside and made deliciously, including a wine bottle coincidentally filled with water.

I’ve discovered the art of the ice cream cone in the middle of a hot August afternoon and how actually, there is such a thing as too much whipped creme.

I’ve been on countless dates, shared a few kisses on doorsteps, and loved only one in New York so far – and with him, the possibility, been caught having a moment at an event.

I’ve had the luck to gain experience in interviewing folks on camera, including on the rooftop of an apartment building I wish I could afford to live in smack-dab in the middle of Chelsea.

I’ve enjoyed the city in all of its seasons: drenched in sweat in the summer, preparing for an unexpected storm, inhaled the colors of fall in Central Park, enjoyed my favorite, the lovely tulips in spring, and even made it to see the Rockettes.

And ice skating at Wollman rink…

And surviving my first experience seeing a live, male stripper (giggling and shock and all)…

And city views from The Boom Boom Room to rooftop hotel bars with my favorite people on Earth…

But through it all – I’ve had one thing that New York is best at: making me smile and giving me a life full of people that make the city what it is…

Home…

So what do I do with a week off – when I already feel like I have it all?

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Writing About Love

Mid-day Gchat conversation with my friend K recently, I mentioned how I had written about something we were discussing. The chatting continued and I realized that again, I had written about another topic that came up. And as if I hadn’t already known, I typed “God, I’ve really been writing about love a long time, haven’t I?”

Maybe I’ve never actually claimed the title, but it’s true: I’m a Love Writer. If you count my teen column in a tiny newspaper at 15, being front page editor for the middle school gazette, and fairytales I composed before I kissed a boy – you could conclude I’ve been penciling love for over a decade. It’s only been within the last five years that I’ve been paid to write about such things, but I’d still do it for nothing (hence this blog).

You’d think after nearly 365 posts (can you believe it?) and ten years of coming up with ideas surrounding the many tangled complications of relationships, the messy wonder of sex, and how those both combine to create a combination of feeling and choice – something most of us call love. And most of us also curse the name of at least a handful of times between the eighth grade dance and “I do.”

But you’d guess wrong. Fodder for these posts and my other pieces is rather quite easy. It’d be easy for you too, if writing was the way you decided to express yourself. Even if you gladly wear the cynic badge, believe you can go your whole life without falling in love again, and have a vendetta against all men – there is always something about love that’ll come out of anything. Especially out of those fleeting feelings of hatred and fear. Writer and monk Thomas Merton said it better: “The question of love is one that cannot be evaded. Whether or not you claim to be interested in it, from the moment you are alive you are bound to be concerned with love, because love is not just something that happens to you: it is a certain way of being alive. Love is, in fact, an intensification of life, a completeness, a fullness, a wholeness of life.”

I’m not under the belief that you need romantic love to have a full, complete, whole life – but you need some sort of love. Maybe that’s the greatest lesson I’ve learned from all these bylines and this journey – love isn’t limited to men or relationships, but about the life you build around yourself. Even if I found that great love, that patient man who will suffer through a lifetime of me writing about our marriage, our children, our home together – if I didn’t have great friends and great experiences to go along with him, our relationship wouldn’t survive.

But I’ve also learned that while I know I could survive and find happiness if I never did meet that man, if he doesn’t actually exist, I’ve also discovered that half of the battle in shaking the distraction of love is admitting that yes, I do want that. I’m a confident, successful, strong, smart, and bold woman – but I’m also loving and understanding, kind and compassionate, and full of hope that someone out there was meant to be my partner. It doesn’t make me weaker to want love nor does it make me a silly, irrational girl – it just makes me human. We’re all entertained by the idea and we’d all like to be supported – it just depends on how we go about it.

I’ve met important men in my life when I wasn’t looking and when I was, when I wanted it and when I didn’t, when I was unsure of their intentions and when I thought I had them figured out. There’s really not a way to control who you fall in love with, but you do make a choice to stay in that love. From what I hear from married folk, it’s a daily decision to remain committed to not only the person, but to that love.

So maybe that’s why I think I’ll always write about love. Why I’m not ashamed to call myself a Love Writer. Because while everyone experiences it, everyone talks about it, everyone wonders about it, everyone wants it – I take the chance and put it all out there. At least when it’s out, there’s no room to doubt what it is that I hope for. After all, what would a love writer be, without love?

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The Baby Daddy

Somewhere between being asleep and awake, I laid in bed wrapped up in sheets with tired eyes, listening to the sounds outside the window. In the distance, a taxi driver became impatient, two women shared a laugh, an oversized truck continued down the street, and a dog expressed concern. Tossing about and wrestling with my pillow, I tried to decide if I really wanted to nap in the afternoon or if I should get up and prepare for my night out. The cotton sheets were freshly pressed and felt so smooth against my skin, tempting me to rest for just a while longer – if only to be more enthusiastic for the hours ahead of me.

I threw my leg over a pillow the same way I would a man and shut my eyes, hoping the noises below would subside long enough for some shut-eye. All was quiet and still except for the sound of the air conditioner running and the pipes busily working away. Just as I was about to drift away, I heard something that almost always makes me beam:

Children’s laughter.

It was simple and subtle, happily filling the sidewalk and bouncing off the buildings to echo up to the apartment. Drowsily, I peeked out the blinds, attempting to shield my eyes from the sudden sunlight. Right outside was a blond-haired-blue-eyed family of  five with two little girls and an older boy. They looked like they lived in New York, dressed in preppy clothes and looking comfortable int he mayhem – a trait that only comes with living in a city. They happily  played with one another and giggled away, their parents keeping a look out for them while talking. This clan was just about picture-perfect as it could be and I smiled at their beauty.

In watching them, I was reminded of some advice an older woman once gave me when I asked her for relationship advice. We were standing outside a cute cafe in the Flat Iron district, saying out goodbyes after a Cobb-Salad-and-Diet-Coke lunch. After a brief hug, she said, “When you’re dating someone, stop imagining yourself getting married to them. See if you can imagine them as the father of your kids.”

She isn’t the only one to give me such wisdom, my friend K said something along those same lines when comparing two men she dated. She said that while she would think about marriage with one, her feelings were so much stronger and felt so much more real with the guy she could see as a dad. At the times they both challenged me to think that way, I wasn’t interested in what they had to say. It sounded sweet, sure, but if I could imagine the nuptials, wouldn’t I naturally see nurseries, too?

Not really – there’s a big difference between seeing someone as the husband and seeing someone as the baby daddy.

I rolled over in bed and stared up at the ceiling, noticing cobwebs I needed to knock down and though I’m nowhere near marriage or babies, I tried to picture myself with a family. Could I see the strollers and the bottles? Can I see someone kissing my belly, anticipating the arrival of our child? Could I see little pigtails and tiny trucks? Onesies and picking out baby names?

Have I ever dated someone who proved to me he could be that supportive, that kind-hearted, that responsible, that dependable, that loving – to be a dad? It was simple, when I really entertained the idea – I had never been in a relationship like that. I had never really met someone or dated someone who I could see that with.

But maybe that’s the point anyway – it’s very rare to come across someone like that. True Baby Daddies who want to be fathers, who would be the type of guy who not only plays catch and plays dress up, but is financially and emotionally stable enough to stand by his family and provide for them – are few-and-far-between.  And when looking for a match, you can’t just focus on how romantic or dreamy they may be, but if they are the type of man who you could see wishing your children sweet dreams as they go to bed.

Who doesn’t just call you baby – but will make a great daddy to your babies.

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This Little Light of Mine

When you move from a peaceful, quiet small town to the big city, everyone has an opinion to give and advice to share. They’ll tell you that New Yorkers are rude and brittle, the type of people who are self-centered and egotistical, raised with the mentality of cold, brutal urbanites. These city folk wouldn’t be kind and accepting like the South teaches, New York and its people would swallow me whole if I didn’t fight them every step of the way, proving that I belonged here, too.

I never really believed them though – I was always under the impression that New York gives you what you give it. If you expect disrespect, you’ll find it, if you’re fearful of crime and deception, you’ll face it, and if you think people are up to no good, then you’ll meet those people. But if you approach New York believing that there will always be goodness crossing your path and blessing your way, then you’ll find yourself happy and confident, living the way you could have never imagined.

Because really, being a bitter being is dependent of geography. There are cruel intentions inside of each of us, it’s just that most people allow the sun to shoo away the shadows. There will always be those who are oblivious to the luxuries they enjoy that most do not, and those who are profoundly thankful for all that they’ve earned. New York hasn’t been perfect, and of course there are dangers that loom and precautions you have to take to be safe. It’s not about where you’re located, it’s about being realistic and smart.

I’ve recently received a second wind of admiration for this place – it suddenly feels different. Or maybe I feel different. I’m starting a new amazing job soon, I’m enjoying the company of my friends, and soaking up all those life experiences I’ve always craved. I have an extra kick in my step, a better attitude and a stronger appreciation for all the luck that’s found me. The city seems fresh and new, but I don’t anymore. Instead, I feel like I finally belong. It’s not just a dream anymore, I’m living my reality. And best of all, I worked hard to create it without losing hope or faith in my abilities.

So I’m smiling more these days. I’m taking more time to inhale the buildings and the scene, as well as the characters who flood the streets. I take a stroll instead of rushing on the subway, I treat myself to afternoons sitting under an umbrella with a glass of wine and a new book, watching passerbys and being overly gracious to waiters. The summer will soon pass and then the fall will arrive with its bold colors and cool airs, making all the struggles I’ve faced lately dim memories, simple reflections of the path I picked for myself. But for now, before the next chapter unfolds in this brilliant waiting period, I’m learning to just be.

To take my mother’s advice and remember that I only have to take one step and then another, the rest will work itself out. She’s right – it always does, it always has, no matter how much I’ve thought it wouldn’t or simply couldn’t. It is in the darkness after all, when you’re worried that everything everyone said about New York may in fact be true, that you learn how to let your light shine. You figure out how to keep it flickering and more important, how to breathe new life into it when the old wick isn’t applicable anymore.

And there are always people there to remind you – like today, when I took the uptown train after a glorious breakfast at Ciprani on Fifth and boarded with a group of fellas harmonizing their rustic voices to “This Little Light of Mine.” After the song was over and they were starting to exit, an old man when a crinkled face and sunglasses on, bent over and said, “You have a beautiful day, gorgeous,” and unlike I ever do, I actually thanked him.

Because he recognized, just like I have recently, that after much delay and much hesitation, I’m letting my little light shine. And ya know what? It’s shinin’ mighty fine.