Since the pharmacist decided to take her sweet time, I was running late to a luxury event where, apparently, they revealed a fabulous new car for 2012. Not one for automotives unless they are yellow and can take me from point A to point B — I wasn’t annoyed to miss the big unveiling, but rather the unveiling of the champagne.
When I arrived in my worth-every-penny gold and white heels, sporting an orange dress and tousled locks, the first thing my dear friend A said was: “Your hair always looks so good. I kinda of hate you just as much as I love you.” I put together a smile while I put together my attitude and looked around, attempting to take in the expensive scene that technically I couldn’t afford, except for the fact I’m considered press. No one needs to know I cover love and sex instead of new cars and overpriced chocolates (though they were quite delicious).
It came as no surprise that my friends were camping out in the beverage line and I was thankful to have such beautiful lushes as my affectionate accomplices. M and A tried out bourbon while K and I stuck to wine, and as I whipped around, still situating myself and my bag, I found myself eye-to-eye with someone I didn’t want to see…
…Mr. Possibility’s best friend.
I didn’t notice him at first, as I was carefully trying to ignore the creepy older dude hitting on K and I behind us, but when I turned my head, he swiftly said, “Lindsay! What are you doing here? I didn’t think you noticed me.” He was right — I hadn’t. I was far too consumed in catching up with the girls to pay attention to someone who only brings back memories of a time that may have been recent, but now seems so far away. He’s a lovely person with an impressive resume and Rolodex, and while there may be tension between Mr. P and I, I decided to be the bigger person and greet him with the same pleasantries he presented me with. We exchanged a few words and I introduced my friends before we headed off to make our rounds around the event. The second we separated, I whispered over my Cabernet: “That’s Mr. Possibility’s best friend. How is it such a small world?”
I followed the advice of my friends and carefully put the fear of Mr. P showing up in the back of my mind, though I casually kept one eye on the entrance, praying he didn’t walk through, arm-in-arm with a tall blonde that would put my short stature to shame. We tasted the most delicious macaroons I’ve ever had, ran into some old friends who happen to play Manhattan Rugby (in other words, trouble!), and made an effort to be as ridiculous as possible at such a fancy occasion. You could blame our age or the fact that pricey things aren’t impressive as our bond — but either way, I’ll go with the latter. Sometimes giggling is more fun than gawking — right?
As we stumbled out to the Autumn night, thankful that the rain subsided, we made our way to a local place we love, ordered truffle french fries and laughed about things we won’t remember tomorrow. We discussed weekend plans while confessing how sincerely happy we are with our jobs and how sometimes we just want to pinch ourselves out of a reality that seems so dreamlike. There was hardly any mention of relationships, no deciphering about a guy who may or may not like us, no realization of insecurities or inconsistencies. Instead, if we talked about guys, it was in the context of how badly we wanted sex and how we could possibly go about sleeping with half of the foreign population of Manhattan without losing our dignity. We haven’t figured it out yet, but when we do, I’ll be sure to update. Promise.
As I saw the street lights reflect off my plate and in the eyes of women that I haven’t known very long, but feel like I’ve known forever, I felt a certain sense of peace and an undeniable joy stem from my heart. There may be no Mr. Possibility left to go home to, but the possibilities before me seem quite endless. I thought, nestled in my own corner of Manhattan: The city is still alive and so is my life, it’s just that one chapter has come to a close. There is still so much more ahead.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have mixed feelings. There are moments, like when I see a mutual friend or when I walk past something I first saw with Mr. P that I miss him. There are times when I still get the urge to text him or to email him, and a few times, I’ve given into that longing, only to be further disappointed by the response. The thing about breaking up with someone who wasn’t giving you the love and commitment that you deserve, is that once the relationship has been solidified as over, that disconnect only seems more evident. His name is still sensitive to my ears and the memory of his touch still endearing, but the level of settling I’d have to surrender to go back to his bed is far too high for me to rationalize it. My heart may feel one thing, but my head places it in its place when it’s pulling too roughly.
Being single isn’t easy — but we all know I know that. If I didn’t, this blog would have never existed. Some of my dearest friends are radiating with the newly-engaged splendor, others are going through a divorce at the ripe age of 23 and even more are doing just what I’m doing: discovering men while discovering themselves. I used to want to skip the dating part and skip the trial and error that it brings. I used to hope that I could just wake up, walk out of my building and be greeted by the man who would be the end of my heartbreak — but now, I long for adventure. I wish to figure myself out more. I wish to try new things and meet new people. I’m thankful that the idea of getting married makes me uneasy because I know I’m not ready. I find peace in being by myself and I try my best to make the most of my solo life before it becomes a duet performance.
Walking back from the subway, sporting M’s new perfume Chance by Chanel, I caught a whiff of my youth. It smelled a little like sunshine, a bit by stale red wine and a lot like curiosity. I smiled at the stranger I passed and I held the door open for the teenager who scurried up the stairs with rosy, blushing cheeks. Once he was out of sight, I turned up my iPod and danced, all by myself, waiting for the elevator to come . No one saw and it didnt’ matter because the words of Lupe Fiasco were enough for me:
The show goes on. After heartbreak, after change, after failure, after disappointment, after the end of something you really cared about. No matter the trouble, no matter how you think it will turn out, no matter what you face, no matter who you love, no matter who you hurt.
The show just keeps going on. And luckily, so do I — as do you.