Category Archives: Dating

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Cranky Young Men

I tried my best to hide my disdain behind wide-eyes and red lipstick, smiling as he spoke, trying my best not to look around the restaurant for something far more interesting than this date. I knew going in that I probably wouldn’t like him: he already asked a question that rubbed me the wrong way via text, his first dinner suggestion for our date was three blocks from his apartment (no thank you) and he came across a little full of himself.

I do like confidence, sure, I reassured myself on the subway ride down. I do think he’ll be interesting to talk to. Maybe I’m being too hard on him.

But my instincts were right – there was something off and I was pretty much finished with the evening by the time I took my last sip of red wine. But he suggested one more glass of vino at a bar nearby, and I obliged, deciding that I had two choices: I could either sulk that I met another someone I wasn’t interested in or I could get to know this person and possibly, learn something  instead of being annoyed we didn’t click romantically.

And so, sitting on a couch in a 20s-themed speakeasy type of joint on the west side, I listened.

I listened as he complained about his job in investment banking – that pays an outrageous amount of money, I’m sure. I listened as he expressed his real joy was found in a more creative, but not quite lucrative pastime that he simply doesn’t have enough time to pursue. I listened as he complained about the guilt he feels over having a dog that’s left at home the majority of the time (okay, I can relate to that). I listened as he complained about turning 30 this year and how he wasn’t where he thought he would be and he regretted not pursuing his passions. I listened as he talked about his on-and-off relationship with a girl he didn’t think was The One, but he wanted to figure out if it was really her or if maybe, it was him. (I think it’s him.)

I listened. And then I declined his presumptuous invitation on our first date to go back to his place – because really, is there anything sexier than a depressed man? Yes. Lots and lots of things.

In the cab ride back to my own apartment — by myself — I tried my best to not get disappointed by another date that wasn’t great, but what I was really thinking in between my pep talks was:

Why are there so many cranky young men?

When the New York Post interviewed me for the most eligible single article, they asked me what I was looking for in a guy, and I surprised myself when the first thing I said was: I just want a normal, happy boyfriend that’s well-adjusted and lives a full life. It sounds so incredibly simple as I type it out – but it couldn’t be a more accurate description of what I value most in a partner. And yet, it seems to be the most difficult quality to find in a man in New York City because frankly, most guys I meet are, just plain cranky.

They’re fearful that their time is up and that they’ll never be this super-successful, powerful lawyer/FBI Agent/Basketball Player/Banker/World-Class Musician/Awesome Porn Star/Politician/Actor/blah, blah, blah and now they’re just going to be old and withered, trapped in a marriage, and growing a beer belly. They’re hung up on some girl at some point in their life that they had some relationship with, and they worry they’ll never be able to love like that again. Or they’re burned by it. Or they just can’t f***ing get over it. They’re distressed that life has just dealt them a bad hand and they are stuck in some sort of rut that has them feeling not important, not sexy, not anything. They can’t handle a woman who knows what she wants, they don’t want to be settled down into anything because they’re crippled by the fear of taking the wrong route, they just can’t figure anything out or commit to anything.

The only thing they can honestly commit to is getting laid – because, well, isn’t there always a girl somewhere that will sleep with a cranky young man? Yes, there is. Because I was that girl just a few years ago.

I put up with all of the bull and I wore my frustration like a smile, never demanding too much attention toward myself. I played the part of the do-good, be-sweet girlfriend with hopes that a cranky young man’s downtime would turn into his upswing, where he’d love with everything he had. And he’d especially love the girl who stuck with him through the detriment. I was careful with my words and my expectations, accepting whatever was thrown at me, even if I felt starved for a real relationship with strings and roots and hopes. I developed my own cheerleading squad of one – performing a song and (lap) dance to cheer up my cranky young man every single day, day-after-day, for a year.

And in the process, I forgot about my needs. I put what I wanted aside. I believed so deeply in something imaginary that I couldn’t see realistically what was actually happening. I let friendships fade. I lost all of those magical pieces that make me, me by giving all of my magic to a man who never deserved it or earned it.

Not anymore, not ever again, I reminded myself, crawling into bed, alone, again, with Lucy cuddled by my side. There are far worse things than being single or a little lonely. And dating a cranky young man is one of them. Because all it does is turn you into a cranky young woman.

Instead – I want to meet a man whose outlook matches mine. A guy who has his shit together. A happy man. A man that, like me, is pretty normal, rather positive… and only cranky until he gets his first cup of coffee.

This Valentine’s Day, write a self-love letter to yourself and it’ll be published (anonymous or not) on Confessions of a Love Addict! And you enter yourself to win a prize pack of beauty products and a Home Goods gift card! Learn more here. Submit here.

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I Found Myself a Diamond

My friends know me as the daughter of a fiery, intelligent, mystical, mother.

Though she’s paid the bills with accounting and massage therapy, she spends her free time focusing on those untold ways of the universe. She investigates how the different planets and their position in the skies above us affect our daily decisions, the path we take and the one we choose. She believes  things in nature can mean more than a passing glance and in the perfect, yet incredibly frustrating, timing of everything.

It’s because of the way I was raised to believe in myself and in everything around me that I notice what I consider messages from something higher all the time. When I’m worried or anxious about something – anything – I’ll often find a penny at my feet or on the seat in front of me, and I take it as a reminder to have more trust. On nights I can’t sleep, staring out into the city lights, I remind myself that often when my nerves are high, something really wonderful happens the next day – and I’m almost always right.

It shouldn’t come as any surprise to me that even when I’m not in the most sober of states, I’ll remember my mom’s precious words of advice to keep my eyes (and heart) open to the world and see what it says, but I woke up on January 1, caught off guard.

And yes, terribly hungover.

Much to Lucy’s demands at 11 a.m. to take her for a walk before she barked my head off, I stumbled out of bed, staying far away from the mirror. After the shortest walk ever to retrieve coffee, coconut water and a very-needed, very-greasy, cheese-and-ham croissant, my roommates and I lounged in the living room, all nursing our excruciating post-25-years-old heads that don’t recover how they used to.

Without much to say – or energy to say it – we all aimlessly searched online and scrolled through our phones, laughing at drunken photos and half-hazy memories of ringing in 2014. After a photo of hundreds of balloons lining the ceiling of a West Village bar (I was trying to be artsy, apparently), I saw this photo:

aceAt some point in between toasting the New Year and falling asleep in my party dress, I must have found these two cards, recalled my mom’s instructions, snapped this shot and put them back where they were. Nope, didn’t even bring the cards home. Nope, my roommates had no idea either. Nope, don’t remember seeing them – or where I saw them. Nope, don’t know why I deemed them important, but that’s my painted New Year’s nails and hand, recording my first message from the universe for 2014.

So of course, my first call was to my mom:

“Hey mom! Happy New Year! Love you. Something strange happened.”

“Oh no honey. Are you okay? What happened? Where are you?” She calmly freaked out.

“I’m fine, mom. I found two cards last night, I think. And I took a photo of them. And I think it must mean something, right?” I asked.

“That is really strange. Text me what they are and I’ll email you the meaning as soon as I can. Just have to dig out the Tarot cards. JIM!!! Have you seen my Tarot cards? Where did I put them? Getting old sucks, you are always forgetting things, Lindsay…” she trailed off.

Two hours later, when said Tarot cards were located, here’s what she said:

Ten of Spades (black card): Conflict. Destruction. Loss. Breakdown of relationships. Slander. Hurt. Misfortune. Plans that seemed promising end in failure. Disillusion. Grief. Temporary alliances. Being forsaken. A sacrifice. Withdrawing from the world due to trauma. The apex and end of a matter. Does not represent violent death.

Ten of Diamonds (red card): Freedom from financial concerns. Prosperity. Strong, established family setting. Protection and stability within a clan. Family traditions and gatherings. Having the time to enjoy the fruits of one’s labour. Achieving of worldly dreams. Benefiting from the work of one’s predecessors. Gifts. Inheritance, archives. Celebrations and reunions.

Turns out, I was holding 2013 and 2014 in my hands. Or at least, what I hope 2014 will be (and frankly is so far).

Last year was full of so much hardship, change, struggle and endings. And honestly, I let it get me down for a while: I stopped working out as much, put on some weight, became severely negative (and probably not a great date), felt uninspired by everything, wrote really sad posts and ultimately, thought nothing good was ever, ever going to happen again.

But as the close of the year crept closer, I decided I had two choices: I could either let the baggage and pain of 2013 follow me into 2014 or I could change my life instead of waiting for my life to change.

I picked the latter – and already, 2014 is bringing much more happiness than 2013 ever offered. Instead of counting the things I don’t have, I started valuing the things I do. Instead of thinking a man is going to waltz in and take away all of the hurt from my past relationships and make me believe there’s someone magical out there, I started focusing on myself and doing things that I like to do, the arrival of a man, be damned! Instead of taking seconds and always agreeing to chocolate, I started picking my health, not my cravings. Instead of seeing the bad, I started looking for the good.

It’s always there.

Though I can’t say if the planets came together to bring those cards to me somewhere in this city as the clock struck midnight, I will say that it sure feels that way. Then again – signs can only mean something to us if we believe in them.

And this time, maybe I do. I do believe that 2014 will bring happiness and adventure and security and love and strength. Why?

Because this year, I’m not waiting around for it. I’m creating it.

This Valentine’s Day, write a self-love letter to yourself and it’ll be published (anonymous or not) on Confessions of a Love Addict! And you enter yourself to win a prize pack of beauty products and a Home Goods gift card! Learn more here. Submit here. 

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Call This Girl

Once upon a time on a Saturday night in New York, four brunettes met in the East Village for champagne, whiskey sours and tequila. The foursome knew better than to mix their alcohol – they were all past the age of 21 – but they danced and laughed and accepted free drinks as they were presented.

(They would regret that choice in 12 hours over coffee and bagels, but that’s neither here-or-there.)

Off they went into the irresistible New York night, wearing black but painting the town red with their lips and their winter-burned cheeks. A cab was hailed, a fair was paid, and this Upper West Side lady stepped out into this unfamiliar land that she avoids past- 8 p.m. on the weekends because the commute is just far too strenuous. But the clock almost stroke 12 by the time she left the chill to embrace the warmth of a beer hall…

… in Brooklyn.

A place she frequents more often as her friends flee Manhattan for bigger apartments and smaller rents, who leave the familiarity of the west and the east, midtown and downtown, to explore the industrial, artistic ruins of another borough.

She knew the train ride home would be more than an hour, but when in Brooklyn, one might as well embrace the grunge and order a beer. So in her mini and heels with a blue plunging neckline – looking damned out of place among checkered-shirts and Vans – she wiggled into a table, thinking that as we all get older, so will girls’ nights out, picking the comfortable locations instead of the sparkling ones. Three years ago, they probably wouldn’t have stepped foot in such an establishment, but the atmosphere is calm and mature, sharp and smart, and she felt more relaxed than she would have pinned up against a wall with loud, blaring music, charging $15 a drink.

Maybe it’s just the place she could meet a mate.

A Pilsner pint later, she managed to leave the table – in a somewhat ladylike fashion while straddling a bench- to find the nearest restroom…. quickly. But in her mad-dash in her tall boots, she rushed right past four or five tables, weaved in between giggling girls and ran smack dab into a guy.

A tall, handsome, blue-eyed man with a nice button-up and a nicer smile.

But before she could flash her own pearly whites or say something witty, he beat her to get the first words out: “Wow.  You’re intimidating.”

She gave him a confused look with a half-laugh, anticipating a punch line, and when he just repeated himself, she formed a rebuttal: “I’m not. Not really. I’m very sweet.”

“No, you’re intimidating.”

“Why?”

“I mean, look at you. I’m at a loss. You’re so intimidating,” he said, yet again. And with that, she gave him her best playful grin and tried to walk casually into what she thought was the bathroom door.

It wasn’t.

It was a painted door next to the Ladies Room. (Whoever decided that must have wanted to watch tipsy girls, like herself, attempt to walk through an imaginary door. Naturally, only in Brooklyn would the irony be appreciated.)

A few minutes later, the Lady of Intimidation forgot all about the tall stranger who labeled her a vixen before meeting her, but he didn’t forget: as she headed back to her friends, he was standing waiting for another encounter. After some clever banter and the exchange of the basics (what neighborhood, where are you from originally, what do you do), he inquired about the lady’s number.

And though it was almost 1 a.m., she couldn’t exactly recall his name and she didn’t intend to date another guy who lived across the east river, she decided if he really thought she was intimidating, she’d live up to it.

“You’re not going to remember this conversation tomorrow or me, you know.”

“How could I possibly forget?”

“I think beers number 4, 5 and 6 will probably contribute to the downfall of your memory.”

“See, intimidating.”

“But I’ll give it a shot, give me your phone.”

Then, even though it’s not quite her personality to be so incredibly forward, she saved her phone number under the name, “Call This Girl.”

“So all you have to do is read it and well, follow instructions.”

“I like that. I really like that. I won’t forget.”

And then the girl with her liquid courage, curly locks and flushed cheeks, stood on the tip-of-her-toes, kissed him, turned and returned to her friends, feeling empowered, happy and more like herself than she’s felt in a long while. The next day as she described the brief encounter to her friends and roommates, she discovered that she didn’t really care if she heard from Mr. Tall Drunk Man or not.

She didn’t care if he actually looked at his phone the next day and decided to take a chance on cheeky girl he found a bit foxy (or Tigar-y?). She didn’t overanalyze if she said the right thing or didn’t, if she came on too strong or if not sassy enough. She didn’t hover over her phone (or turn it off), waiting for a text message from a stranger she worked up in her head to be more.

Instead, she just savored one very small, yet one very, very important thing: she got her dating mojo back.

It might have taken more than a year, a few too many cocktails, dozens (upon dozens) of terrible dates, wasted tears and angry Gchats – but on a chilly January night in all places — Brooklyn — she teased the next chapter of dating in New York… and it flirted right with her. 

And perhaps, when the lady tells the city to call her, it might just remember her number.

This Valentine’s Day, write a self-love letter to yourself and it’ll be published (anonymous or not) on Confessions of a Love Addict! And you enter yourself to win a prize pack of beauty products and a Home Goods gift card! Learn more here. Submit here. 

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Here’s Another Way to Find Love This Year (For Free!)

match[SPONSORED POST BY MATCH.COM]

I’ll be honest – I’ve had a love/hate relationship with online dating. I have my profiles live and most of the time, I let the messages come my way instead of putting them out. There are some really clever, thoughtful guys and some rather ridiculous ones (like these) – but the truth is, more and more people are finding love online. In fact – one in five!

At the start of the year, I turned away from app dating – looking at you, Tinder – and I focused more on sites that are more in-depth and can really pair you with someone you might like past a swipe. I’m not alone either, a recent poll on Match.com found that 51 percent of singles’ new Year’s resolutions were to be more social and focus on finding a relationship. Does it surprise you that Match sees a 25-30 percent increase in sign-ups between New Year’s and Valentine’s Day?

registration

Duh – if there’s anytime to get online and start going on dates, it’s now before you lose all of the positive mojo from the New Year.
So, if you’re interested in giving this online dating thing a whirl, take advantage of Match.com’s 3-days free date pass. If you do take the leap, here are some of my online profile tips:

-Make sure to pick some recent photos that flatter your face, body and interests (if you’re a runner, show it, if you bake the best cookies, display them!)
-Write a profile that gives more than basic information. You want to attract men who you not only find attractive, but you could be friends with, too. Don’t lie about anything!
–Message at least three guys. I know, putting my foot in my mouth, but find three men you possibly could like (and who have been active in the last few days) and be forward, honest and sweet. Your goal is to quickly message and get offline. Remember: keep it quick in conversation and get to the first date faster so you can determine chemistry.

Let me know how your dating goes – and I’m happy to read your profiles, just send ’em to me! And if you need some inspiration to take a chance on love – watch this video below (try not to cry!):

[SPONSORED POST FOR MATCH.COM]

match

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The Little Red Dress

After my interview with the New York Post on Thursday about what makes me the most desirable single in the city (Disclaimer: I still have no idea!), the reporter sent me an email about the photo shoot.

Now, I’ve had photo shoots before (thanks to many photographer friends in college) but the idea of having my photo taken for all of the five boroughs to see with a headline about being the most eligible single – that just felt like a whole lot of pressure I wasn’t quite ready for.

Or rather, my closet wasn’t prepared to handle.

Quickly, I texted my friend E, who is  a sassy, talented designer for a small label that sells to big labels, like Anthropologie, begging for her expert advice. We met post-work and scoured the racks of H&M, then the sale section of Bebe and just as we were about to brave the mayhem of the Times Square Forever 21, we stumbled across Cache – a store I haven’t been in since my pageant days in the deep South.

And there it was: the red dress.

E and I both spotted it instantly and I hesitantly looked at the tag, hoping and praying it’d be under $50 and thus, on budget. When the numbers almost quadrupled that, I sighed and reminded myself there was always the wear-once with the tags and return option, should the dress be exactly what I was looking for and I couldn’t resist.

And it was exactly what I was looking for: it hugged in all of the right places, showed a little skin but not too much, a sexy back opening, past my knees and looked great in heels. As I stood in front of the mirror in the terribly hot dressing room while E took a picture to see how it would look in print, my anxiety started to build.

I knew I needed to save money for Europe and watch my spending before I leave. I knew I was making every effort to spend as little as I could during the week so I could splurge on the weekend. I knew there were so many more responsible, reasonable things I could buy with nearly $200 but if there was ever a dress that was made for me, this was it.

Forget a little black dress -I rarely wear one. My color has always been (and let’s be honest, will probably always be) red. I handed over my card, caught my breath and vowed that I wouldn’t keep it – I’d just wear it for this special shoot and I’d always have a newspaper page to remember it by.

Or, so I thought.

When I walked out of the studio to show the photographer my selection, she said two words: “Wow. Perfect.” And as I stood in front of many bright lights in six-inch heels, sucking in what I could, standing up straight, trying to hold Lucy so she faced the camera, smile and pop my foot all at the same time – I did feel rather gorgeous. (And a little uncoordinated.)

I could hardly sleep Saturday night, anticipating the arrival of my first big feature in a daily paper, wondering what the article would say and what I would look like.  I raced at 8 a.m. on Sunday, unable to sleep a wink more to the newsstand a few blocks down. When I saw it, I couldn’t help but jump up and down in the street and buy 10 copies, excitedly showing the not-English-speaking vendor my photo.

After updating every social platform I could, I went back to the red dress, hanging up with pride in the front of my closet, the tags still on, the receipt hanging from my bulletin board. And even though I probably can’t afford it – I decided to keep it. Off with the tags and goodbye to my proof of purchase – I wanted this beauty as a staple.

Because everyone needs a little red dress.

Or a little yellow one or blue one. A little something to make them feel a little (or maybe a lot) good about themselves. Besides – red is a great dress to wear on my next great first date…

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This Valentine’s Day, write a self-love letter to yourself and it’ll be published (anonymous or not) on Confessions of a Love Addict! And you enter yourself to win a prize! Learn more here. Submit here.