October 1, 2013 by Lindsay Tigar - 2 Comments

And Sometimes, You Forget Your…

I considered two things Saturday night at 8:40 p.m., while walking down Broadway: I’ve either gone crazy or I’m actually brilliant. I poured myself out of bed, where I was nestled in a very over-sized t-shirt that draped past my knees, because I realized that I was out of wine on my “Lindsay night in.”

Big problem.

I left in the rush of courage you can only get after a few glasses of red-wine, and with the eager intent of getting to the liquor store before it closed. Though I was still a bit exhausted from the day I had — a dog walk 5K with Lucy (yes, I’m ridiculous) and a free concert in Central Park with Stevie Wonder, John Mayer and more (yes, I’m lucky) — I knew a proper and relaxing evening in required refreshments, and ideally, cheese. Lots of cheese.

I quickly threw on my raincoat and infinity scarf, whipped my hair up and put on flats, grabbed my keys and headed down the stairs. It wasn’t until I was half-way down the block, rushing because the big silver gates guarding the Cabernet come crashing down at 9 p.m., that I realized I forgot pants.

Yes, I’ve lived in New York almost four years, and I forgotten everything from my wallet to my phone, but never, have I ever, forgot to put on pants.

I stopped hastily and buttoned up my red jacket in a hurry, feeling well exposed in front of strangers. A homeless man asked me for some change, a little girl flew past me on her magical scooter and a group of 20-somethings clicked by in their sky-rocket heels, leaving me in the dust of their perfume and cheap nylon. An elderly woman pushed her way across the avenue, unaware of the speed around her, and a man walking his dog didn’t notice a thing, completely plugged into his iPhone’s illuminated screen.

And there I stood, 25, single, pantless, walking to spend $20 on a wine and Vermont Sharp Cheddar on a Saturday night.

I considered heading back to my apartment, but I knew I didn’t have much time to waste. The city never sleeps and it certainly doesn’t wait for you to get your act together to appease to your demands. (Or to put on pants when you forget them.) And so, after checking half a dozen times that my ahem, backend, was not on display, I carefully walked two blocks, holding together the bottom of my jacket, to pick up my goodies.

After texting a few friends that I thought I’d officially hit rock bottom, I plugged in The Princess Bride (my favorite movie of all time), poured some of that well-earned wine and prepared to bury my embarrassment in my down comforter. But thinking about my pantless dance on the Upper West Side, I couldn’t focus on a movie, and instead, I just had a nice, long, hard…

…laugh at myself.

The thing is, it shouldn’t be that surprising that I forgot to put on a piece of clothing. In fact, I’m frankly stunned it hasn’t happened before. From the way I walk to how I work and everything else I throw myself into, I move, really, really fast. I’m always in a hurry to get somewhere — to my job, to finish everything assigned to me, to get to happy hour, to leave happy hour, to write this blog, to publish that one, to be super-duper successful, to train for a half, to run the half, to go on a date, to meet someone, to fall in love, to do this, to do that, to go, go, go.

And with all this going, I often forget about the little things.

Like that even if my friends are spending nights in with men they love (and love them dearly back) on the weeknights, I get the freedom to do whatever I want, whenever I want, without having to consider anyone. Or that my Sundays are often spent lounging in the grass in Riverside Park, sipping coffee, reading The Times while Lucy runs in circles, chasing tennis balls she can’t actually pick up. Or that I can get lost in anything, an incredibly good book, a nice, hour-and-a-half run around the reservoir, the not-so-winding streets, without having to worry about the kids, or the playdates or a house that needs cleaning. Or my ability to spend what I want on what I want, without thinking about mouths to feed or a joint-rent to meet or a savings account that someone else sees. That while I may not know where I’ll go or who I’ll meet, when it will all come together or how it’ll work out, I know that I’ll waste it all, if I rush through it.

And if I keep up this pace, I might be considered a little batty, walking the streets of Manhattan without pants. Or maybe I feel liberated? Free from the reigns of too-tight skinny jeans or yoga pants that have yet to get stretched? The crisp, fall air gushing it’s way across the avenues, sweeping through my raincoat and long, long t-shirt with the old, old dirty black flats?

Nah, pantless in New York isn’t fabulous or flattering or life-altering or something that triggered some powerful message in my life. Instead, it was just kind of, really, fun. And sometimes, that’s better than anything else.

September 18, 2013 by Lindsay Tigar - 19 Comments

25 Things I’ve Learned in 25 Years

It freaks me out — just a little bit — that today, I’ve been writing this blog for three years. This is my 502nd post (wow!) and I just turned 25 two days ago.

I haven’t been too excited about that number. I blame it on my quarter-life crisis and all the things that are terrifying about this age, about this time in my life. It’s a phase that it is completely full of uncertainty. The rules are gone, the plans are fading, there’s nothing that’s exactly right, but nothing is quite wrong. And yet – there is so much going on. So many questions, so much doubting. Way too many choices and never enough time to get everything you want done and figured out.

It’s the part of life that you’re never prepared for, and somehow in all of this madness, I’ve convinced myself that really, truly, this is when all the magic will happen. This is where I’ll learn the most, live the most and if I’m lucky, love the most. When I think back on the times when I’ve been the happiest, it’s also been the times when I worried the most. And when I think about my time in this grand city — that’s let me live here for almost four years — I can’t believe how far I’ve come and frankly, how incredibly lucky I’ve been.

So, instead of worrying that I’m not where I should be or if I’m getting this whole adult-life-thing right, I’m going to be thankful for these 25 years. They haven’t been exactly what I expected, but in many ways, they’ve been so much more. I’m not brilliant, but here are a few things I’ve come to realize:

1- No one gets it.
Really. Even that girl who looks like she has the most perfect life with the perfect guy and the perfect body — she’s lost too. We’re all trying to get it together and seek a little reassurance that we’re doing it right. Truth is, we’re just all trying the best we can.

2- Mama always said you grow into yourself one day…
…and I never understood what that meant until recently. There will be a day when you wake up and you look at your reflection, and you don’t hate it. You’ll actually kind of love it. There might always be some things that you think could be better, but after a while, you stop putting yourself down and you start finding those imperfections quite beautiful.

3- It’s okay to be soft — and to be a little bitter.
When you first graduate, you put up this I-can-do-anything shield with hopes it’ll protect you from all of the things that you think (and yes, will) go wrong. You feel like you’re a superhero flying in an imaginary battlefield, until one day, there’s nothing left to fight for. Because one day, you will have a job and friends and a place to live and maybe a guy you love. And then you’ll relax. It’ll feel really, really great. Then you’ll go into battle again when something changes. Because life always, always changes. But you wouldn’t want it any other way.

4- Sex gets better.
It’s not always going to be hot and steamy and sweaty and vivacious. It won’t always feel like you’re making love and you won’t always want it to be soft. But the more you know yourself, know your body and thrive on your sexuality, the better sex feels. College guys — they really don’t know what they’re doing. Trust me.

5- Your friends are way more important than any guy you date.
And they all serve different purposes in your life. If you are lucky (and smart), a small handful will hold your deepest, darkest secrets and your most vulnerable confessions. With or without men, I can’t imagine life feeling full or rich if I didn’t have the women who make me feel loved. And normal. And accepted. (And sometimes, very drunk off of champagne and wine.)

6- Saving money is really damn important.
And it’s equally as hard to do. There will always be concert tickets, Groupons, restaurant week menus, sweet shoes on Gilt, a whole rack of clothes at H&M that you want to buy. Let yourself indulge, but save some, too. There will always be a time when you need a little extra cushion.

7- Dating is annoying.
But it can be entertaining, enlightening and interesting, too. You’ll learn more from yourself through the dates that go horribly wrong than you do when you have butterflies filling your belly. Keep trying, buttercup. Have faith it’ll all make sense one day. Wine and Gchat often helps.

8- You’ll lose yourself out there a few times.
There’s a lot going on in your 20s and a lot to figure out: where will I live? Where will I work? Who will I live with? Am I actually hungry right now? Do I want another drink? Should I have one? Can I really stay out until 2 and get up at 7? You’ll bicker with yourself a lot and sometimes, you’ll make the wrong choice. But as much as you get lost, you’ll find a new way to get back home.

9- Family is more wonderful than you ever thought.
Seriously. Mom and dad really know what they’re talking about. And dad had a lot of fun sailing the world in his early 20s, and mom has dating horror stories that put mine to shame. They’re really amazing, so supportive and so incredibly far away. Cherish them. Admit that you miss them and call them more.

10- You get braver as you go.
I thought moving to NYC was the craziest — and possibly stupidest — thing I could ever do. I didn’t have much money, a place to live or employment, but I went with it. And it all worked itself out with a lot of Ramen and prayers. But the bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed Lindsay that arrived on Manhattan soil then, sincerely has nothing on the confident, independent Lindsay now.

11- You’ll accept that not everyone is going to like you.
There’s always going to be a bully somewhere: your job, your mutual friends, if you have roommates, your apartment, even. You don’t have to please the world, you just have to make choices that make you feel like you’re making the world a better place. The rest of them? Forget ’em. Karma is really fun, promise.

12- Your maternal instincts start to show as you get older.
Honestly, I’ve always kind of been the “mother” of any group of friends (big surprise, I know), but over the past few years, I’ve grown more patient. More understanding. And not able to sleep off hangovers like I used to be able to.

13- Dentists suck, but having great health is mandatory.
Even though I pay more than enough for insurance, the 7-year-old in me still wants my dad to hold my hand while I sit in the dentist chair. But seriously, there’s a reason you’re insured and a reason why so many people need insurance. If you can take preventive measures, do it. The co-pay isn’t that bad and neither is getting free toothpaste.

14- You’ll start to workout because you want to, not because you want to be skinny.
Mmm, well that’s partially a lie. But seriously – if you’re not a runner, don’t run. If you giggle through yoga, try kickboxing. Exercise is a great way to relieve stress, but don’t do something just to burn calories. Do it to make yourself stop freaking out 99% of the time.

15- You might compare yourself to, um, everyone.
Your friends. The ridiculously tall and thin models in the Meatpacking district. The petite blondes who have guys dripping off of them. Your mom when she was your age. Your friends who are already married. Your friends who have babies. Your friends who have bigger, fancier titles and paychecks. It’s okay, it’s all part of the game. Just remember, if you’re comparing yourself to them, they’re doing it, too.

16- You’ll start to think fondly of where you came from.
I found myself a way out of the deep South about as quickly as my high-heeled shoes could carry me. Now, I barely where heels — and never when commuting. Now, when the city is especially noisy and smelly and mean to me — I close my eyes and remember the simplicity of North Carolina. I don’t want to move back, but I also never want to forget the roots that reared me.

17- You’re going to date the wrong guy.
In fact, you might date the wrong guy over-and-over again, on-and-off-again, time-and-time again. You might even sleep with him more times when you’ve been broken up than when you were together. You might grow to hate him, but you’ll hate yourself more for settling. But as trite as it is, you really do have to know what it feels like when it’s wrong to know when it’s really, really right.

18- You’ll learn to love your own company.
Brunch is great, so are happy hours. Girls’ night with endless sushi and wine. Beer fests and grilling in the backyard (um, back perch, I mean?). Long, lounging hours on the Great Lawn. Work events with free swag and food. You’ll enjoy group and friend dates most of the time, but sometimes, your favorite nights are spent running the reservoir, reading at the dog park and curled up in bed with Netflix. Or, having a dinner-for-one.

19- Honesty will be your best friend.
And it’ll be how you pick your best friends — who will be truthful with you? Who will tell you what you need to hear, even when you don’t want to hear it? Who will offer to come over after a particularly awful day? You’ll learn how important it is to surround yourself with people who honestly, truthfully care about you.

20- College isn’t the best time of your life.
Sorry, it’s just not. It might be the time when you have the least amount of responsibility (yes, even with a million term papers, a part-time job and a stoner boyfriend), but it will not be when you’re the happiest. It sincerely gets so much better.

21- Your taste will change nearly every month.
In men, in wine, in food, in clothes, in things you like to do, in places you want to go, in people you want to meet. You’ll figure out you like Thai food only to discover you kind of like French food more. You might be in love with a blonde but find yourself secretly attracted to a redhead. It’s okay, we all have tastes, but no one’s taste always stays the same.

22- You’ll think more about your lady parts.
I don’t feel like my ovaries are anywhere close to producing children, but I do consider what health choices I make and how they will effect my future kids. I don’t just keep myself in shape for me, but for those rugrats that’ll one day wake me up every three hours.

23- The world will seem so small, and yet so big.
I never knew how much traveling would make me a better person until I started doing it. Blowing a grand on a plane ticket is so much more satisfying than a few months’ worth of going out drinking. You’ll feel like you’ve accomplished the whole world, only to find another place you simply have to go. Keep using that passport, those stamps are worth the cost.

24- You’ll be scared a lot.
That you’ll never get what you want, that you’ll never meet who you want to meet, that you won’t be able to have all the things that you want to have. If you’re a bad puppy mom, if you’re a good enough friend, if you’re doing things the way you should. You might find yourself scared more times than you’re settled, but facing down your fears makes you sassier. And stronger.

25- You’ll constantly forget how awesome you are.
But don’t. Because you really are pretty damn great. And you should love that about yourself.

A few weeks ago…

…and when I first moved to NYC.

August 28, 2013 by Lindsay Tigar - 4 Comments

You Know That Guy

All of my friends know him. And probably a little too well. They know his shape and the way he moves in his sleep, all of his best moves in bed. They know the way he likes his eggs and his go-to drink of choice. They could probably recite both his personal and professional resume, without having to dig way back into the memories they keep. Or the ones they’ve imagined so vividly, they almost seem so real, they’d go on record to defend them.

All of my friends know that guy… and so do you.

We all have one: that guy that was the hardest one (ever, ever) to get over. He’s the one who got under your skin when you were too young, too naive, too inexperienced to know any better. He’s the guy who introduced you to something at a pivotal point in your life. After a bad breakup, post-huge move to a brand new city, following the worst year you’ve experienced. He could be the first guy you slept with where you actually understood — and omg — felt a go-numb-in-your-toes orgasm. He’s the guy that treated you terribly, possibly cheated on you, left you hanging on the edge of possibility for months (or years), couldn’t meet any of your needs, couldn’t step up to the plate, called you up at midnight and randomly showed up at your door, so drunk he could barely stand. He’s the guy who knows you so well that he knows how to push every button, linger on each and every heart string and for lack of a better phrase, emotionally torture you. And tangle your lives together, long after you’ve separated.

That guy might not mean the harm he inflicts (though he could be rather manipulative at his core), but he always finds a way to stick around. He might actually love you in the silly, twisted, strange way that he can, but the love you deserve is bigger and frankly, easier than a chaotic relationship (and the on and off months of sex that follow). Without realizing it — because I bet it happened rather quickly — you’ll wonder how you lost yourself in this man. In all of the questions and the embraces and the fever-filled texts and emails and voicemails and mornings waking up naked, hating yourself a little more

But try as you might, with every ounce of dignity you have, you pull yourself out of it. You find the strength (and let go of the crushing fear) to walk away, promising yourself there must be a greater love out there for you, somewhere, somehow. You will refuse to settle. Or maybe that guy left you. Perhaps for someone else, maybe for another country. He could have pushed you to your limits, until the breaking point was simply non-negotiable. However it ended with that guy – it didn’t just end the second you deleted him off Facebook or blocked his email.

It kept going on. Because you let it. Because you wanted to feel something instead of nothing. Because the (select few) good times where everything felt right, where his arms held you tight, when you caved under his façade – are so much easier to remember than the times that he hurt you. Over and over again.

Over and over again, you’ll play through it all. Over and over again, you’ll cry and then you’ll stand up. You’ll say you won’t do anything and you’ll do everything you swore you would never do… again. You’ll give into the fear that perhaps there isn’t anything better out there, and he’ll play off your terror in a way so subtle you won’t detect it until someone points it out. That guy will haunt your romantic dreams long after he’s gone, long past the time when you were together, in a scary, confidence-busting way. And you’ll watch him do it. You’ll probably sleep with him. You might even find a day where you give up that anyone will ever mean as much – or make you feel so much – than that guy. Because that guy has you addicted to the story. To the drama. To that fragile piece of silver lining that make you wonder that maybe, just maybe, it could all work out one day.

That guy is a pretty obvious one for me and two years since we “broke up” – his emails still sit in my inbox. His phone number appears in my voicemail. He’s still here on these pages and occasionally on my mind more than I’d like. I blame it on a lot of things, like that he’s my last point of reference in a relationship. That he was my first (and only) adult love. That we really had something special.

But really, he’s just that guy for me.

He’s just that one guy that we all have to get past. And even though I have a pretty fantastic life, there’s nothing like clinging to the past that can bring a girl down or make her lose her thunder. If you ask people who found a way to release that guy from their life, they’ll tell you about how they met someone else and it got better. Or how they finally were tired of the constant production. Or how they had to block everything, threaten until they were out of breath and ignore every tempting invitation. Or how they finally realized they were never going to get that guy to be anything close to what they wanted.

We all have that guy, in whatever shape or form, age or stage he comes (and ultimately leaves). And for me, the biggest breakthrough, the thing that’s helped more than anything else on moving on past that guy is reminding myself he’s not the last guy. And if I can move from North Carolina to New York, lose my first job to find the dream job, find a way to survive and thrive in a city that gets a kick off knocking you down, then I can let go of that guy. I can leave him in the dust, in the torn notes, the pages I’ve penned, the hours, the days, the years I’ve lost and in the empty promises that were never filled. In the love I wanted so badly to feel in return that remained rather unrequited, and simply, never enough.

Because that guy can do a lot of things, including breaking your heart so many times you lose count, but he can’t break your hope. Unless of course, you let him.

August 22, 2013 by Lindsay Tigar - 21 Comments

You Can Be a Bitter Bitch

It came out after a bottle of white wine a few strongly mixed drinks.

I could tell that after she said it, she questioned if it was the right word choice or if she should have been so frank. Our conversations are based on the best fundamental I think two women could ever build a friendship on: utter, complete, sometimes-too-deep, honesty. But when you just had another sucky date with yet another definitely-not-for-you guy, it might not be the thing you want to hear.

“I’m so optimistic! And I’m putting myself out there! I’m doing all of the right things and it’s just not working! It’s so unfair,” I blurted out in a dark, loud bar in the Flat Iron district. With lazy eyes and a careful smile, she said the big B word that no girl – single or not – wants to hear.

“But Linds, you do realize you are a little bitter these days,” J said slowly, taking a quick sip of her Jack and diet.

Even though somewhere, deep down in this overly-idealistic, terribly romantic heart I know she’s right, the word hit me like a bag of bricks. I’ve spent my dating career (if you’d like to call it that) and the links on this blog trying to be exactly the opposite of bitter. I do everything I can to push my spirit high and let my freaky hopeful flag fly high and proud, putting all those naysayers to shame. I promised myself that no matter what the future held or how many men I’d have to date before I found my mate, I’d never believe that forever-and-ever wasn’t possible. Surely, if I trusted the universe and all of its powerful ways of tying two ends of fate together, then my reward would be a tall, handsome man with a loving heart and heavy savings account. Right?

But two years later — and especially after the last few months that have sincerely been void of any pleasurable success at all — I have been a bit down. And if I’m as honest with J and this blog as I am with myself, then I need to admit: I haven’t given up completely, but I’ve been doubting far more than I’ve been believing lately. I’ve thrown all expectations out the window and most of my dreams about what I think my next relationship will be have been all-but crushed by my utter lack of interest in anyone. I thought that maybe I was just a girl who knew exactly what she wanted – and wasn’t willing to settle or wait around (Mr. P taught me that valuable lesson) – and that I was more than a little picky, but what I really am is someone who is dating. And perhaps failing at it. And definitely kind of hating it.

And maybe getting a little bitter about it.

After one last round with J, the clock struck way-past-midnight and I grabbed a cab to take me up the west side highway all the way home. And like I’ve done too many times to count in my New York life, I rolled down the windows to feel the cooling summer air, ripe with smells I no longer can distinguish, and I cried. Even though I sincerely had nothing to cry about, and even though tears don’t even faze me much anymore, I let it all out. I cried for all the reasons I’m angry at myself for being angry about dating. I cried for the men who pissed me off and the ones who looked so right on paper, only to turn out so wrong. I cried for all the ways I’ve tried to be available, for all the times I’ve gone out on a Saturday night when I didn’t want to, for all the men I gave chances to that I shouldn’t have. I cried for all the things that everyone always tells you when you’re single and that no matter how good-intended they were, no phrase, no reassurance has ever made me feel any bit better.

But more than anything, I cried for the only reason that I’m so freakin’ frustrated. And that even though I swore I’d never become one, I’m somehow a bitter bitch about the whole damn thing. I might hate it, and as my grandmother would say, being bitter isn’t the most becoming look a lady can wear – but sometimes, it’s the only thing that fits.

There are many ways to write relationship advice and multiple ways to go about finding the right person. You can read this blog and do a Google search on anything at all, looking for the right way or trying to figure out the right time or how to do the right things that will get a man interested in you. You can put yourself out there and you can keep going out with guys until one turns out to be more than just a guy. You can have tantrums on Gchat, on the phone with a friend from home or while sitting next to your best friend in a bar downtown at 2 a.m. You can read self-help books, make an online profile and play by the rules or throw them out completely, and nothing – not one little thing – will change your annoyance. You’re still going to be annoyed after you have five first dates that amount to nothing. And you’re going to question yourself. And the type of men you select for yourself. And you might find yourself knocking down that shield of optimism and greeting negativity instead.

You might find yourself sitting pretty like me, trying your best to keep your head held high and your calendar somewhat open, even if your hope is a little lost. But if you do find yourself in my shoes, I think you should own it.

Let yourself let it all out and say all those things in your head that you fight, let those “what if’s” come out to play and let your imagination lay low. Get mad and get upset, reject a free drink from some guy you’re not interested in and peace out after one round with one guy you’d never want to see again. Say no to dates because you just can’t stomach another one, and instead, stay inside and try that absurdly hard recipe. Tell your friends and your family that you can’t take it anymore and be a little jealous of the ones who have seemed to find their perfect person. Roll your eyes at the couples walking slow in front of you on the way to work and come up with all the ways being single is actually awesome. (Because sometimes, it totally is.)

And then after you’re finished playing the role of a bitter bitch, stand up and take off that hard, scary, sad exterior, and even though it’s harder than anything you’ve ever had to do, try to believe again. Even if it’s just for one night, for one more date, for one more minute. Put that bitter bitch to bed and try to find yourself again. Just like you gotta believe he’s out there, you have to remember you’re out there too, happy and thankful that you went through all the men – and all the bitchy parts of yourself – to find one another.

Or at least, to find your way away from bitter and back to (somewhat, maybe, possibly, kind of) hopeful.

August 13, 2013 by Lindsay Tigar - 5 Comments

The Guy I Met at the Dog Park

The sun radiated over the Hudson River, warming my face and creating shadows across the pages. I tried to look up to catch a glimpse of the sunset, it’s endless weaves of orange and yellow hues luring me in, but the light was too bright, my eyes too sensitive. This was surely the best time of the day to be at Riverside Park, a place I frequent if not for its quiet beauty but for its proximity to my apartment. The dog run is just a few blocks away and on evenings like last night, when I was too tired to run and to curious to just sit at home on Netflix, reading with a latte while Lucy plays is just about the perfect end to a hectic workday.

I didn’t put any effort into my appearance, instead, I just slipped off my work attire and melted myself into sweatpants I’ve had longer than I’ve been with any boyfriend. I pulled my hair into a crisp, loose bun and with a quick dab of Chapstick, I was out of the door and in the park by 7:30. While the sun played hide-and-seek in between the trees and stinging my eyes, I cursed myself for not bringing sunglasses, and worried that my lack of view would make it impossible to save Lucy from the occasional mean dog who mistakes her for a plush toy.

Scanning the dirt field to ensure her safety, my eyes watched a shadowy figure enter the park. I couldn’t make out any features, but I could see the width of his shoulders, the length of his legs. He threw a tennis ball and a black-and-white puppy chased after it, and through the rays of sunlight, I could make out a slight, yet gleaming, smile. I immediately look to his left hand, searching for a symbol of commitment, but hoping for a sign that he’s single. I watch the dog scatter around the park, clearly not much more than a few months old, and as if she could read my mind, Lucy wanders over to the dog, happy and eager to make a new friend.

As I usually do, I hold my breath while waiting to see if the dog of the handsome owner will be kind toward my girl, but I relax when I see them start to play and smile as I hear the stranger with a face I haven’t seen yet, come and sit down at the bench next to me. He brought a book too, though I can’t make out the cover. He glances over at me and grins. I return the gesture. With my legs curled up underneath me, I shuffle just enough to make my stretchy everyday pants look somewhat attractive, and I return my focus to the book I can no longer concentrate on since there is a possibility just a few feet away. He calls after his dog – Cecilia – and Lucy follows closely behind, most literally chasing her pal’s tail. Without hesitation, I see my white fur ball hop into this man’s lap, and though I apologize for her sudden breaking the rules of the dog run, I also make a mental note to give her some extra treats for being such a great wingdog.

“Oh I’m so sorry! She’s too friendly for her own good,” I say, quickly standing up and walking to retrieve her.

“It’s fine, really. This one is a trouble-maker too…,” he responds, looking at me for the first time. His eyes are blue. My heart clenches onto a fragile piece of hope it hasn’t felt in a long time. Don’t let your mind create romantic visions, Lindsay. Don’t do it. You’ve only just met a man, he means nothing. Not yet. Maybe not ever, I remind myself.

But it was too late, I could feel the fantasy starting to brew:

They met at the dog park on a beautiful August day in 2013. She wasn’t feeling her prettiest, but then again, her mother always told her that she’d meet someone when she least expected it and especially when she wasn’t trying at all. He saw her when he first walked in but she was devouring her book, barely looking up and he had thought she didn’t notice him at all. He loved the way she seemed so comfortable and confident, like she came to this park every single day, just to read, perhaps to play. The dogs must have known it first, before either of them could sense the chemistry that was so easily evident between them. Once she stood up, he knew he’d have to ask her out. When she looked into his eyes and finally saw his face from behind the sunlit cloud, she hoped he’d at least offer to buy her a drink. And he did. Five minutes later, they were sitting at the Riverside Park Café, looking out onto the river that wraps around the city they’re not from, but a place they both love more than anything. It had taken long enough to find one another, but here they were.

“… she’s still a puppy, actually. Trying to train her and it’s really tough,” he continued, breaking me out of my daydream and back to reality, where Lucy was kicking dirt on my leg while licking my feet.

“Oh, do you take her to PetCo? I really enjoyed the program when Lucy was her age,” I offered and he nodded along, squinting up with the sun in his eyes.

“I’ll have to look into that. You must be a regular here, huh?” He grins, placing his hand above his brow to look at me.

We talk about the area and raising dogs, and something tingles inside of me, even though I really do know better than to read too much into meet-cutes. He gets up and we walk around, chatting about our lives in the city, and throwing the ball that Cici chases and Lucy then chases after Cici. I can feel the tension grow, and though I try my very best to never be desperate, I desperately plead with the universe to make the sunset last longer so the darkness doesn’t come and swallow away this beautiful scenery, in this beautiful span of time, where for the first time, in a long time, I’m actually entertained talking to a man.

“Mark!” I hear as his attention changes quickly, and I realize we hadn’t exchanged our own names, just our pets’ names. I brace myself – and cross my fingers – that I’ll see a sister or a mother when I turn to face whoever is calling his name. She’s a beautiful brunette, wearing the same running shoes that I have. She looks pretty, even post-run, and Cici jumps up to greet her, and she tells her to sit in between giggles, just like I would if Lucy did the same. He goes up and embraces her, and then introduces me to his…

..fiancé.

She shakes with her left hand – possibly because she might feel a bit threatened – and I admire her sparkly diamond. He tells her all of the helpful advice I gave him: where to get their dog groomed inexpensively, joints that allow dogs to sit at the bar stool next to you, where to get the best deal on training pads and waste bags. I nod through the conversation as his bride-to-be excitedly thanks me for all of the help, and just as quickly as it happened, they walk away, hand-in-hand with Cici… into the sunset.

Okay, not really – it was mostly dark by then, but it sure felt that way.

I knew I had two choices in that moment: I could get discouraged and disappointed that my almost-date turned out to be taken or I could remember that not everything is ever as it seems. Yes, they’re engaged, maybe they’ve even set a date. Perhaps he’s uncertain about their future and they don’t actual click in all areas of their relationship. They could argue every day and have mismatched sex drives, she could have laid down the law of the ultimatum, forcing him into engagement after several years of dating. They could be college or high school sweethearts that would rather get hitched than to figure out the dating life post-university, or he could be a terrible boyfriend that she’s settling by marrying. There could be a million things wrong with their relationship or nothing at all. But no matter of how it’s going or how it’ll end up or who those people are, I’ll never know.

And they’ll never know much more about me.

To Mark, maybe I was just an opportunity to talk to a pretty girl other than his girlfriend, or maybe as a new pet owner, he could relieve some anxiety from someone who has it – at least somewhat – figured out. I could be the symbol of freedom that he sometimes misses, no matter how satisfied he is with his relationship. He may see me as a younger version of the life he once had or wish he had, where he could just sit by himself in the park, passing time without being pulled away or distracted by anything than your own timeline, bedtime, deadline. He may envy the power of independence or long for one single day without wedding planning or trying to decide what to cook for dinner or being nagged to take out the trash. He may see some value in my current status that I’ll never see until I no longer have it.

Or it could have just been a simple, short and quite meaningless conversation on a Tuesday night.

But regardless of what it meant or didn’t mean, what it symbolized or not, the truth is that no matter what part of the pond you stand – the single or the taken side – the grass always looks a little greener. At least every once in a while, anyway.

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