Monthly Archives: August 2011

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To Call it Home

Yesterday, I joined the happy tourists with sneakers and fannypacks at Rockefeller Center. I was feeling especially happy and particularly pretty, and as it rarely does in August, New York was cool enough for me to sit for a while without sweating my weight. Just as it blew the flags of every country, the city breeze tossed my hair and dangerously ran my skirt up my leg. I barely noticed anything around me though – other than the fact that I was so damn happy, I could barely stand myself.

Though my level of obsession with NYC has been out of hand since I was seven, it isn’t always easy living here. There are reasons why Frankie says if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. He doesn’t just mean in showbiz or in being successful in the career you pick for yourself, but just surviving. The cost of living is significantly higher than most hometowns newcomers come from, and while you save money by buying groceries, those groceries are not only more expensive, but far less appealing than the dozens of restaurants that send amazing scents into the streets every minute. To make it here, to start on the journey that makes you a New Yorker, takes a lot of patience. It requires you to fail continuously, to succeed randomly, and to trust in whatever process is happening.

Sometimes, you find yourself sitting alone in the small room you pay so much money for, staring at your dwindling bank account, fearful of what the next few weeks will hold, and you wonder why in the world you came here. Those thoughts are hard to shake when you feel like you’re at the end of your rope or your heart is starting to get that city-toughness you hoped it never would. I’ve faced them – if I had not decided to major in journalism, if I had stayed in North Carolina, if I had gone another path, if I had never moved more than an hour away from the house that made me, what would my life be like? Would I be married with children? Would I have an actual mortgage and responsibilities that aren’t selfish at their core? Would I be a different person?

Would I be happy?

Maybe I would be. Maybe if different things fulfilled me. Maybe if I never had the feeling that I was destined for something much greater than what I can even imagine – maybe then. Maybe if I hadn’t grown attached to taking chances and barely getting by. Maybe if I hadn’t braved the city and fell in love with it. Maybe then I would have been happy in the country. Maybe I could convince myself to find peace in the ordinary, without striving for the extraordinary.

At those low times, I can almost believe that moving back to where it’s easier seems like the right decision. But then those high times come. Then that phone call that I had been praying for actually comes through. Then the city captures me in midtown, sending friendly smiles and good weather my way. Then that smile that I was missing for months becomes impossible to erase. Then the answer that I was waiting for becomes the answer I really wanted, even if I tried my very best not to get my hopes up.

And then, there I am, playing the part of a walking cliché, listening to New York, NY in my new shoes, making eye contact with handsome strangers and grinning a grin that came from my own hard work. There I am, looking around at the city that knocked me down a few times and realizing it wasn’t up to New York to make anything happen, even if ole’ blue eyes makes it sound that way.

It’s always been up to me to make my life what it is. The city is just there for some moral support and some really killer inspiration. It’s what it is, it’s New York – and it’s worth every struggle, every downfall, every dollar lost, every everything – to call it home.

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The Way it Goes

I could write about how happy I am, how much thankfulness I feel in the deepest part of my heart, how difficult it is for me to sit still for any amount of time out of pure excitement, or how long I’ve been waiting for a day like yesterday to arrive. Let me tell you – when I do write about it, when I do have the patience and the stillness in my fingers to write about it, it’ll be a killer blog. It’ll be one of those that I know the second I publish it that it’s going to get a lot of hits and tons of comments. I’ll feel it pour out of me swiftly and easily, the kind of writing that is more like therapy…than well, therapy.

But it isn’t time for that now. Now is the time to celebrate with my friends at a bar in meatpacking with my favorite shoes and a sexy number. It’s time to toast to having patience and believing in the very best, no matter what sets you back at first. Because if you really have a gift, if you really have faith in yourself and what you can do – there may be moments where you feel inadequate or even times when you fail, but because you’re you and you know how great of a thing that is to be – you’ll always find your way.

And sometimes, the way it goes is a way that surprises you. Unexpectedly and quite beautifully. But most importantly – perfectly.

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The Misinterpretation of the Palm

Last night with Mr. Possibility and a few fabulous friends in tow, I attended Cosmopolitan’s Summer Splash Party at the Hudson Terrace. It was everything you’d expect out of a Cosmo party – sponsored in part by Durex and Plan B, complete with blow-outs and make-up touchups, bags of beauty goodies and of course, palm readings.

Now – I’ve had palm readings several time in the past. I’ve always wanted to find one of those secret psychics who doesn’t advertise like the rest of the city clairvoyants with services to offer. Those that are hidden away that don’t charge barely anything at all because they just want to help, they just have this special gift they must offer the world. Because I’m not rich and famous and connected to such individuals, I usually settle for whatever I can find. Whoever can give me an unrealistic peace of mind.

As he could have probably guessed, as soon as I saw the palm readers, I signed up for my turn and Mr. Possibility headed to get us drinks. I manged to only be sixth in line and as I sipped my Pinnacle Whipped Vodka that remarkably tasted just like cream soda, I kept one eye on the table, anticipating my glimpse into the crystal ball. A few minutes later, our mutual friends arrived and while Mr. P joined them in a loop around the space, I sat down in front of my personal psychic for the evening.

Having done this countless times before, I knew exactly how to place my hand and I excitedly waited for her to reveal the vision she saw for me in the future. She casually asked my name and I was careful not to reveal anything else, knowing how easy it is to get sucked into a conversation and then they base your entire reading off of what you’ve already told them. She analyzed my palm, turning it over and running her fingers along the lines. She asked if there was any particular subject I was interested in more than another and I requested to chat about my career, as it happens to be the one I’m thinking about the most these days.

Looking deeply in my eyes as a photographer snapped pictures of me, I tried to look intrigued though she hadn’t said anything yet. “So, I see that you’ve never really known what you wanted to do. You had a hard time picking a major in college and now you’re trying to decide what industry to go into. You’re still young, I see, so you have time. Maybe you should try art school or work at a museum or dabble into writing. You might really like writing if you give it a try. You have someone in your family who can support you financially, don’t be afraid to ask for it. Then you can really explore.”

Not one to hide anything I’m feeling, my forehead must have been scrunched up something awful, so she asked, “Is there any other topic you’re interested in knowing about?” I was stunned speechless at her complete inaccuracy – the other psychics at least can come up with some sort of something that’s somewhat true. I have always been a writer, always known what I wanted to do, and if I do have a wealthy relative I’ve never met, I’d love to be introduced. She was still blinking at me intensely, maybe trying to prove herself impressionable when Mr. P came by and dropped a drink next to me. I didn’t respond to thank him, but it reminded me of something I usually ask about:

Love.

“Well, what about my love life?” I asked. She went back to scrutinizing my hand, tilting her head this way and that as I watched, continuing to doubt her. A few moments later she looked up at me and said, “You have mixed feelings about relationships. You have a hard time committing, don’t spend a lot of time obsessing about love and have never been one to be ridiculous about men. You’re not seeing anyone special, but you could be if you would let go of the past. Wait – not the past, the past of your parents. Don’t worry, just because they are split up doesn’t mean that you’ll split up with your husband. You have to take chances or you’ll look back on your life ten years from now and wonder why you never loved anyone.”

Having heard enough, I thanked her for her time and she gave me hand lotion as a parting gift. Mr. P was waiting close by and asked, “So, what’s the future hold, babe?” I rolled my eyes in annoyance and told him what she said. He jokingly asked if he could meet this side of me and I shared the story with the rest of our friends. Maybe being an astrologer’s daughter has ruined me for psychics, or maybe the comfort we seek in a psychic is something that’s impossible and overrated.

Because as much as we’d like, there’s no one to predict our fates. We can’t control what the universe gives us, only what we give it. There’s no way to see the blueprint, only ways to build the life we want to live. No matter how brilliant it would be to know what’s next, who we’re going to end up with, and what success will find us, knowing before isn’t an option to opt into.

So instead we have to just be. We have to take chances and make mistakes, go so big and so hard that going home isn’t in the cards. We have to pray for what we want but understand we usually get what we need. And though we may hope for the very best, perhaps it’s actually best to prepare for the worst, just in case. We have to have faith in ourselves, trust in the master plan that we can’t see, and love those we’ve yet to meet.

There’s no telling what’s next, no matter how many fortune tellers we visit or stars we read. Maybe we design our destinies, maybe it’s all pre-determined – regardless, the point of it all is to just live, hoping that one day it all works out. Perhaps how we imagined, how we planned, how we thought it would.

Or maybe, it turns out in a way so beautiful and complicated that our own palm could have never predicted its path.

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Trusting the Fire

It’s an accurate statement that I’m a bit of a pyromaniac. As a fireman’s daughter, I was taught fire safety from a very young age and I still practice stopping, dropping and rolling – only it’s not for the same purposes. Though as much effort as my father put into to teaching me the best practices as they pertain to open flames and gray smoke, if there is a candle around, I still want to dip my finger in the wax. I like lighting matches just for the hell of it and my idea of the perfect end to an August evening is sitting around a campfire, attempting to perfect the toasted marshmallow.

With my experience in fire-loving, I’ve learned a few things about getting one started and about extinguishing them. While the flames are always so appealing and they make you feel so warm to be near, distance is best. If you get too close, you run the risk of getting burned or of putting out the fire before it has time to grow or to really heat up anything. A flame does best when it has something to burn, with a little more added here and there to keep it going. It prefers a soft breeze to a gush of wind and it’ll grow hotter if you give it space.

Being in a relationship and developing trust within it – is a lot like playing with fire. Actually, it’s a lot like flirting with fire. You’re trying to entice success and get close without getting too close, constantly teetering on the edge of a booming romance and damned disaster. At any given moment, it feels like it can go either way.

Mr. Possibility and I obviously had some issues to work out concerning trust. I’m not someone who naturally trusts anyone – I believe it is better to be earned than just given without any consultation. Prove to me you’re trustworthy and I’ll forever trust you, prove to me the opposite and you’ll spend a lot of time earning the trust you never had.

Even so – I’m learning that the natural reaction to developing trust (spending endless amounts of time together) is one that I shouldn’t encourage. Sure, being around someone 24/7, never having to wonder where they are or who they’re with or what they’re doing seems like the perfect way to show their loyalty, but if you squeeze too tightly, you end up putting all the fire out. Like they say, nothing can bloom in shade.

Without room, without giving each other some space to develop true trust, nothing can build, no fire can accumulate. The spark won’t get stronger if you’re constantly fanning it or hovering over it, praying and hoping it won’t go out. To keep it strong, to create something you can rely on, you have to learn to have faith in the space. You have to give it fodder without putting it out.

And you have to believe – in yourself, in your partner and in the relationship. But most of all, you have to believe that sometimes flames start steady and never last, some struggle but end up lighting up the whole room, some are so hot you melt, but burn out quicker than you like, and sometimes, with the right combination of everything, you find a fire that not only keeps you warm, but reminds you why having flames of passion isn’t as important as having trust that it’ll stay lit.

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Damn Girl, You’re Lookin’ Good

Back in college, when I was wrestling with the idea of having sex outside of a relationship, a friend of mine asked me something so ordinary that it caught me off guard:

Do you find yourself sexy when you’re all alone?

It’s was an interesting concept, I thought at the time. I looked down at myself wearing a homecoming t-shirt from the year before with baggy sweatpants, my hair pulled up in a clip I’d never be caught dead wearing in New York. My makeup was smudged from the day’s wear and I had just downed at least two pieces of pizza (I won’t admit to anything higher than that). But had I needed to be sexy today?

What had I done anyway? I had gone to class wearing jeans and cute top with heels. I had met friends for lunch, had no intentions of seeing a man that evening or of taking off my clothes in any strip-pole-approved manner. It was just another day – one that ended in my dorm room, next to my friend with green eyes and flawless olive-color skin. She had back muscles – something I’m still figuring out how to develop even with my best gym efforts. I bet she always felt sexy, regardless if a guy was worshiping her or not, I thought as I looked at her. This surely wasn’t a fair question for me to answer – the me who is consistently pale and pimpley.

“I mean, I feel sexy when I dress myself up for a night out or where that little black dress I love,” I replied casually. She rolled her eyes at me in return: “No, silly – I mean when there is no intention of being with anyone or of having sex or of doing anything. Do you ever have a night in with yourself where you just feel sexy on your own?” she asked. I raised an eyebrow in return, silently questioning her. “Oh Linds, I don’t mean like that, I just mean the feeling of being sexy,” she said with exaggeration.

At that point – I hadn’t.

I only put on anything remotely sexy when I thought I would have a reason to take it off. I only splurged on lingerie when there was a special occasion or when I felt the need to up the ante with my partner at the time. I never lathered myself in lotion and expensive perfume just for the hell of it, or laid around in silk bathrobes or lace bras and panties. I didn’t walk around naked, only in my heels and look at myself in the mirror and think, “Damn girl! Look at you!”

I admitted that I don’t feel sexy alone and she made a suggestion: “When I want to feel sexy on my own, I order in a pizza and then I change into my sexiest lingerie and eat it alone on the couch with dim lighting and sensual music.” While that sounded nice, it wasn’t the way I wanted to romance myself.

And to really knock myself off my own feet, I’d have to figure out what was romantic to me. Over the course of the next few weeks when my roommate wasn’t home, I’d try different things. I’d walk around naked with stilettos. I’d eat a big bowl of pasta while wearing silk (and pray not to drip on it). I’d throw something over my lamp to make it sultry and I’d curl up my hair so it flowed around my face. I laid on my bed seductively, attempting to find a position that made me feel like a supermodel. I tried all sorts of things until none of them worked, I lost interest and forgot the conversation.

Maybe my friend had found her inner-sexy at 19, but it took me a little more time. It wasn’t until I moved, when I came home after a day of worked, followed by dinner with a dear friend and poured myself a glass of wine that it clicked. I was standing in a black skirt from work, a black lace push-up bra, my only pair of designer shoes still on, my hair naturally wavy with Merlot resting in my hand and I caught a glimpse of myself. My other hand was turning on the computer, my lips were pieced and my eyes were unusually blue for being indoors and I felt beautiful.

I finally felt sexy.

And it wasn’t that I was doing anything particularly sexy – there were no candles, no soothing music, no anything spectacular. But that was the beauty of it. That was what made it sexy. I realized that without trying, without making a big deal of it, without testing out positions or deciding if silk or stockings gave me more pin-up qualities that I was sexy. I was sexy all on my own, without doing anything at all.

So I don’t really try to romance myself anymore. I wear the right bra with the right shirt, sometimes it is lace and sometimes its not. I buy skirts that fit me, some that hug my hips more than others. I lay however I wish on my bed and I don’t think twice. And I continue to find these moments where I catch a passing reflection of myself on the street or in the privacy of my apartment that I see my inner sex goddess and that Southern drawl comes out all on its own with and it thinks: “Damn girl, you’re lookin’ good!”