Category Archives: Step 1

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Getting Naked in Soho

Yesterday, after taking the pup for a quick jaunt around our block, I hopped the downtown train to make an appointment that had me a little jumpy. But no really — it was a trampoline exercise class that brought back childhood nostalgia along with a quick fix for my champagne hangover from the night before. I quickly discovered that while I’ve always had quite the bounce in my step, when I try to actually put some steps to that bounce… it’s not exactly graceful. No matter — I found myself sweating more than I thought possible when it’s under 20 degrees outside, and once the class ended, I graced the streets of Soho without muffs or gloves to get an iced coffee.

When the wind hit my flushed cheeks, I inhaled and smiled at the dirty, yet fascinating concrete landscape before me.

Since I’ve been living in the fog of cold, dreary days and the cloud of a warm, promising someone, I haven’t had much time — or really energy — to just walk around the streets I moved hundreds of mile to walk on. And so, carrying around gym clothes and a book I’ve been trying to read for a month without much progress, I decided to forget about the frozen sidewalks and have a day date with my very first love.

I tried on a dozen puffy down coats because I know I need one, but can’t seem to fall enough in love with one to actually fork over the cash to bring it home. Then I browsed clearance black boots in search of a replacement pair for the ones that my lovely dog not-so-innocently chewed the zipper (thanks, Lucy). I spent a good thirty minutes redesigning my bedroom in Bed, Bath and Beyond, filled up a cart and determined I could find a way to budget it into my savings before concluding that I liked the way my space looked and put it all away. I lost myself in the Container Store because for some odd reason, organizing gets me excited, and I landed a pair of expensive running pants on sale for $2. And then, I walked across some avenues and got naked.

No, but really.

It wasn’t technically in Soho, but at the Soho House — a swanky, members-only establishment in Meatpacking — but saying I stripped down to nothing in Meatpacking just seems very terrifying and kinda dirty. And while I’d love to say that my baring-it-all adventure was caused by a lovely combination of friends who encouraged me to let it all go and some sparkly something to make me feel at ease, it wasn’t that type of situation. Instead, it involved a fancy gift certificate and a massage therapist who knew just how to knead out the soreness in my very tired legs and shoulders.

It doesn’t seem like much of a story, I know — but when I walked out of my relaxing oasis into the women’s changing room, sporting a fuzzy robe and slippers, I caught a look at myself in the mirror and couldn’t believe what I saw.

For the first time, probably ever, I saw natural beauty.

Beauty that wasn’t made by Maybelline or lined with liner or pinched with pouty lipstick. Instead, it was me. With some flaws and lines, some scars and teeth that definitely aren’t aligned symmetrically and flushed cheeks from nearly falling asleep from an hour of rubbing. I’ve worn makeup nearly every single day since I was 13, and though my skin isn’t entirely clear yet, with the help of Accutane lately, it’s been rather radiant. I’ve been so amazed with the results and the changes, that I decided I would try the makeup-free thing at the spa. So, I must have looked a tad obsessive, standing there looking at myself, but I realized that in my pure state of just me, I was actually, just fine. Better than that actually — I was, and am, just lovely.

With that confidence, I headed to the steam room, where I decided I wanted to go… robe-less. And though no one came in for me to compare myself to, I know I would have felt comfortable if they did. The past six months, I’ve worked really hard to get myself to the very best me that I can be — both emotionally by letting go of the past and imagining a future that’s better, and physically, by making a commitment to running and putting things in my body that are good for me. Or, in the case of my acne-prone flesh, doing what it takes to feel pretty, literally, in my own skin.

And you know what? Sitting there, naked at the Soho House, feeling the sweat everywhere, I felt so incredibly refreshed… and beautiful.

That feeling, though wasn’t just because of a toned body or a complexion that’s clearing up, it was also from dedicating myself — and the pages of this blog — to learning how to love myself for who I am, regardless of what I have and what I don’t. Who I’m dating or not dating. If everything is perfect or everything is unsure. I still deal with bouts of insecurity and moments where I doubt anything I see — but finally, I’m really starting to see the changes I’ve worked for since I started this journey. The transformations aren’t huge breakthroughs or major events that I’ll remember the date of, but it’s moments like that one, that make me see how far I’ve come.

While I will always have a long way to go, I really couldn’t imagine a better ending to my much-needed time with New York than catching the train home, relishing in my daring bare of a day.

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You Should Go Running Today…

…for the families of Sandy Hook. You can donate any amount you want and run or walk whatever distance you can. Email me your photos and I’ll post them. Send me your running time and you could win. It’s only been a month since Sandy Hook and help is still needed to recover.

Learn more about the Sandy Hook Remote 5K here — and seriously, get up and go for a run! It’s only going to do good.

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The Men I’ve Never Met

He saw me from across the street on 14th and 7th, just as I got out of the subway and wrangled my headphones out of my purse to catch the rhythm of the street on my way to work. I didn’t even notice him, even with his colorful scarf. Even though he was particularly tall and certainly handsome.

My thoughts were focused on the deadlines I needed to meet before noon, the emails I was writing responses to in my head and getting to the officebefore the clock struck girl, you’re late. I wasn’t feeling attractive either – considering I was sporting tennis shoes with my black tights, houndstooth coat and pinned-up hair. Due to a running faux pas the evening before, nothing felt comfortable except my dusty running kicks, so I tried my best to not feel like one of those New York commuters that I swore I’d never be. I turned up Pandora to a happy song so I’d at least walk like I was sassy and stylin’, even if I was actually far from it.

You can imagine my surprise when I felt a slight tap on my back, and I hesitantly turned around to meet a beautiful pair of baby blues on a chiseled face that I couldn’t believe was talking to me — looking like this. I smiled, awkwardly I’m sure, and he returned it as he said, “I think you dropped this.” In his hand I saw one of my leather gloves, the ones I just got for Christmas, and I felt my cheeks turn crimson. “Oh my god! Thank you so much – I just got these,” I said as I took it and quickly stuffed it back into my black-holed purse. “Do you work around here? You look so familiar,” he asked as he continued to walk in the same direction of my job. Feeling relived it was 9 a.m. and not 9 p.m. and there were dozens of people around me, I told those HE COULD BE A SERIAL KILLER!!!!! fears to settle down and talked to him, casually. Comfortably. Easily.

Magically.

A few weeks into our relationship, we’d talk about that moment — when he saw the girl he’d noticed forever. How we took the same train sometimes and on random mornings, and we were so close he could have reached out to touch me but never knew how to stir up a conversation, and didn’t want rejection to tear down the sweet image he had of me. So when he saw that glove fall from my pocket to the ground, he felt like it was in slow motion — like something out of a silly movie with a perfect happy ending — finally giving him the perfect excuse to say something. To hear my voice. To see if my heart was as beautiful as the rest of me.

The taxi horn woke me out of my trance, just as Pandora demanded my attention to an ad I had no interest in. Another ridiculous fantasy about a guy that doesn’t exist, I thought, shaking my head motionless to myself and sighing out in mild exhaustion. My daydreams and the music that accompanies them gets me through the morning and the afternoon commute. I’ve planned elaborate meet-cutes, extravagantly sentimental proposals, full-on relationships and many running-into-my-ex-looking-stunning  scenarios in my head. The man with the glove isn’t a man I’ve actually met– but I’ve dreamt of him nearly every day.

For whatever reason, these tiny tales of hope give me a little something to hang onto. Maybe its faith or the idea that somehow, somewhere, someday — there will be a man who will fall in love with me. Just like that. Just that simply.

But how can that happen if I spend all my time hopping the morning train to cuddle into my illusions (and possibly, delusions) of what this grand ole’ relationship will actually be like instead of actually really getting out there and finding it?

If I keep falling in love with imaginary boys — do I prevent myself for meeting real ones?

There really isn’t a great harm in having good, positive — even romantic — thoughts about love. I’ve mastered the fine art of weaving together plot lines and dramatic beginnings and endings — I mean I am a writer by trade, after all. But having this hyper active imagination that latches onto visions of love can make dating a very unrealistic. There is no perfect way to stumble across my fate, no glove that slips out of my reach only to be found by someone who matches my exact perception of attraction. The way to meeting someone isn’t dreaming them into creation — it’s having enough courage to snap out of never-never land and take a giant leap of faith into the scary world of dating.

It’s only here, in this odd, often puzzling city of love triangles and dating disasters that men are merely humans, full of imperfections and shortcomings just like the rest of us; that plans don’t always execute on the time schedule that we’d prefer; that you may not find the absolute dream guy…but if you’re lucky. If you’re really lucky — you may just meet something better. You may just fall for something more.

You may stop falling for the men you’ve never met — real or a product of your daydreams — and instead, fall for the best kind of man that’s out there: a real one.

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Guess What? The Blog is Baaack!

I try not to get specific about what I specifically do for a living.

It’s hard — because I’m really excited about my job, even a year and a half after starting at iVillage. My days are filled with fun new stories to chase and interesting topics to discuss — but they aren’t exactly the conversations men particularly want to have.

I’m not sure what’s worse actually– telling a dude that I (like to) research and write about marriage, getting pregnant and having babies… Or that part of my job description requires me to call in vibrators to test or edit a slideshow where legal prostitutes in Nevada give (kinda awesome) sex tips. Add in the fact that I have a moderately-successful dating blog where I claim I’m addicted to love — and my freak flag tends to fly a little high.

Guys are often either really intimidated and think I want a family right this very second, get it in their head that I could possibly write about our date (as if!) or they ask way too inappropriate questions about sex right from the get-go on the very first date because apparently reporting about orgasms makes you the expert on them.

Naturally.

I’m not one to blush– I can really talk about anything and be quite comfortable (even that one time I explained some sex terms to my senior editors)– but I’m not one to talk in-depth to a near stranger about mating tactics. Especially a stranger that I assume, since he asked me out, could be interested in dating, (and yes, possibly mating with) me one day.

So I’ve been leaving out the details and my last name, when I’m just starting to get to know someone.  I let it slip when I feel comfortable that they might like me for me — and not for my exciting job and  interesting area of interest — and I see how they handle it. It’s not until after a while that I give enough info for them to Google me– it’s really not hard to read about my entire dating history on the Internet, and shouldn’t they learn it from me first?

But with the start of this year — I’ve not only been dating more (six dates already), I’ve also wanted to write more. And not particularly about the dates (none really impressed me enough to earn a spot on this blog), but just because I’ve missed expressing myself through words. Though I know it could scare them away, I’ve told every guy exactly what I do, exactly why I love it and exactly why I don’t give a damn if he gives one about it. Well maybe not in so many words, but I’ve been so concerned with not making someone feel threatened by my job that I’ve left out my passion. And that’s what makes me, me. I would think, it’s an attractive, alluring, intriguing part of my personality, and if I can move from North Carolina to New York and not only make it here, but love it here — then surely I can meet someone who isn’t freaked out about what I write about.

And so, I’m back.

Maybe not every day, but my goal is three to five blogs a week again. I haven’t been absent just because of men — I’ve been busy with everything else, too — but I was hesitant of interjecting new “characters” because Mr. Possibility became such a big part Confessions of a Love Addict when really, it was supposed to just be about me. Maybe the saga of what we were kept you all reading, but I hope the blogs about figuring out the dating world, believing in yourself beyond any shadow of a doubt, and those vulnerable, honest posts that make us all feel human, are the real reasons you come back to LoveAddict.

I don’t know what the new year holds — but I have a good feeling about it. And it feels so good to do this again. To share my thoughts, to be open about what I’m going through. To get it all off of my very-heavy chest. To read your comments and your tweets, and to get back into a community that I’ve always appreciated. And really missed.

So I hope I can win you back — and maybe I’ll even go through the 12 steps again. It never hurts to fall in love with yourself — over and over. Right?

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Last Single Girl Standing

Waiting for my doorbell to ring the day after New Year’s, I anxiously anticipated the arrival of one of my dearest best friends, M. We were ordering cheap Chinese, exchanging Christmas presents and catching up about the 10-plus days we spent apart – something we never, ever do except during the holidays.

She’s a girl who is as much fun as she’s dependable and honest – always giving you the support you want with a side of healthy reality that you need. We’ve been through the trenches together, had a knockdown, drag-out, three-hour-long fight in my bathroom — telling each other what we really think — helped each other move and build furniture, pick the other one up when they couldn’t walk home (whoops) and brought pizza when a breakup was enough to break us. New York has always felt like home to me, but it wasn’t until I found my partner in crime – and for sharing margs and guac weekly – that I really felt like I could settle into my city. There’s something about having a best friend that lets you let down your guard and know that even if the guys suck, the job is tough or the tummies pooch – you have someone who will love you unconditionally, make sure you get over yourself and remember how great you are, too.

Maybe it’s my hidden jealous side that I try to keep at bay or just the fear of losing something that’s precious to me – but I was nervous about M coming over that night. I knew we’d have a great time because we always do – yet I also knew I was about to receive a piece of news that I didn’t quite want to hear. And not because it was bad news (it was in fact exciting and amazing) but because I knew it would change things.

You see, M has always been my single friend.

The gal who encouraged me to dance a little more, stay out a little longer, give that short guy a chance or walk out of a date if it was bad (and meet her for martinis after). The one who would let me analyze everything to death and talk it into the ground, and then match my stories with ones as terrible as my own. If not more awful at times. The one who was there to swap our silly dating troubles, edit each other’s online dating profiles and talk about how weird it’d be when one of us got a boyfriend.

And weird it is.

I haven’t met her new beau — we’ll call him Mr. Bear — but I’ve never seen her so bubbly and giggly, and yes, because it’s M, a little uncomfortable with the whole thing. Since I knew it was coming (something in my gut just told me so), when she arrived — grinning from ear to ear — I went for it head on:

Do you have a boyfriend? I quizzed directly. Coyly, she tucked her hair behind her ear and nodded, Yes, I have a boyfriend. He asked if it was for real — and it is!

A real relationship is exactly what she needed and though she’ll hate me for saying it on this blog – something she’s been wanting for a while. She’s flown solo for a long time – five years! – and I knew her bright, shining “one day” would come along sooner than later. I also knew it’d take a special guy who could be tender with her while also challenging her in the way that keeps her intrigued. When we were tipsy off of wine one time – we made predictions about the guy we’d date next: she said my guy would be one of those goofy, slightly nerdy, but handsome and tall and unbearably kind kind of guys. I said she wouldn’t like her guy right away (she didn’t care for Mr. Bear at first), but that his charm, his sweetness and the way they connected would bring them together. And make her eventually give in.

I like being right – but I can’t lie that when my suspicions of her new relationship were confirmed, I felt a little disappointed. Maybe disappointed isn’t the right word per se – maybe more like: Oh god! I’m the last single girl standing! What if she disappears into the couple nook and I don’t see her for months because she spends so much time with him? What if she changes from the outgoing, fun girl that makes me a better, more relaxed person into a girl I don’t even recognize? What if she starts doing double dates with all of our friends with boyfriends and I’m forever the third wheel?

What if I lose my best friend?!

But when I looked at her – blushing and probably a little nervous to tell me about her new beau –considering I’ve been in the market for one of my own for a while, too – I swallowed my pride. And instead of seeing my fears and the envy I felt boiling – I felt something different: happiness. This man has brought her something that I can’t, that I wouldn’t want to bring – and for the first time in a long time, she looked at ease. She looked like she was bursting with stories to tell, incredible new experiences to tell me about, romantic encounters that of course, she has to share with her best friend. (Especially a friend who loves love to a disturbing, addicted degree.) I saw in her what I miss feeling myself: hope. Anticipation. Excitement. Wishful thinking. Love.

And so, I stopped thinking about what I don’t have (yet) to be a great listener to someone who has always listened to me. Because though she’s my best friend, her relationship isn’t about me and the choices she makes because of it aren’t up to me, either – it’s a new unchartered territory for her to explore with someone she could one day really, truly care about. And while I may wish for something similar of my own, I more so wish for continued glee – and a very long honeymoon stage – for M and Mr. Bear.

So when do I get to meet him?? I asked, matching her smile and giving her a much-delayed hug.

I may be the last single gal standing of my group of gals – but I’m proud to stand by them. And – I guess — their boyfriends, too.