Category Archives: Step 3

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The Nice Girl

Since I’m really trying to turn over new leaves and try new things this year, I decided vamping up my online dating profile would be a solid first step. Sure, dating isn’t a priority but I enjoy going out with guys and meeting new people in general, online is an easy way to take pressure off when bar-hopping with the ladies. Let the guys I may want to date stay online and the guys I want to dance with hang out at the club, right? Sitting in my new fluffy bathrobe, exhausted after forcing myself to start running again, I sent the link to my friend K to have her give suggestions. After reading, she asked why I wanted to change it, and I said: You don’t think it sounds too nice?

She replied, But you are nice.

Ugh that word. Nice. You’re so nice. You’re such a sweet girl. You’re a doll! It’s all so irritating. I don’t want to be nice. Her words nagged me. They buzzed about my head and allowed my brow to scrunch, though I knew my mother would say it causes wrinkles and I shouldn’t do such a thing to my skin. But I was annoyed. Very annoyed.

Surely she meant no harm and was just being honest – I am, indeed, a nice person. I think of things before others do, I try to be the best friend I can be, I send hand-written cards for the holidays because I love to picture the instant smiles from others when they receive real mail, I always give gifts with meanings, I pause to let the person walk in front of me, I give up my seat for the elderly and give half my sandwich to the homeless. I volunteer with kids who want to write because I’m passionate about helping children and literacy. I hold the doors open for people I know and those I don’t. I get cabs when I know others are struggling financially. I try to be considerate even when someone is inconsiderate. I’m even nice in relationships – I usually don’t really care what we eat, so I eat what he wants. I leave hidden notes in places he’ll find throughout his day. I learn to bake his favorite goodies, regardless of how long we’ve been together. I’ll return text messages timely and I’ll give back scratches without much persuasion. I may even sit through an incredibly sports-something-or-another if it’s important to him.

She’s right. I’m nice. But when she said it – I automatically hated it.

Noting my frustration, K asked me to describe myself in three words. Irritated at my “nice” label but trying to look past it, I typed: ambitious, thoughtful and optimistic. I stared at them on the Gchat screen gazing back at me. I didn’t include sexy or spontaneous. Or anything about adventure! I’m starting to travel and do things alone, should that be included? What about something about attitude? I can be a bitch if I really try! Or when someone royally pisses me off like Mr. P, oh my god, he can definitely bring that side out of me. Are those really the words to describe me? Really?

I typed to her: Doesn’t that make me sound boring? With her usual elegance, she replied, Thoughtful means you have the skill of making sure cards magically arrive right on time, ambitious means you moved here all on your own and made it happen without fearing the worst, and optimistic means you’re trying online dating, you believe in people, you believe in luck, you believe in fate, and you’re excited! That does not make you boring, that makes you, you.

I didn’t let go of my irritation that night, I went to sleep believing no one would message me — the nice girl. Or the guys that did, would be so intolerably irritating or nice guys that are waiting until marriage for sex or sport that button up with khaki look that I despise, I would curse myself a little bit more for being nice.

Staring up at my ceiling I decided how I wanted my profile to read: I’m so incredibly happy and satisfied with my life that I’m standing here in a black dress, drinking champagne and laughing, not caring what you think or if you want to go out with me. I want it to say: I’m sassy and independent, don’t mess with me unless you have big enough balls to match my courage, and the ability to wow a real woman. I want it to be like this: cool, confident, sarcastic, sexy and totally unavailable unless it’s a really, really incredible guy. I picture myself dripping in diamonds with a slender frame, red, red lips, standing in sky-scraper heels on a rooftop with Manhattan as my background, with a look that says: Don’t f*** with me.

But let’s be honest – that’s just not me. I am nice. A nice Southern girl who moved to the big city. Right? Or maybe – maybe – I’m confusing nice with boring. Nice isn’t boring – it’s…nice.

I am happy and satisfied with my life. I do wear black and drink champagne with my friends, not caring what a man thinks or doesn’t. I am definitely sassy in the right circumstance and I was raised to be an independent thinker. I’d like to think my ballsy courage is one of my greatest traits, and currently, I’d say I’m pretty unavailable unless a dreamboat comes sailing along. The thing is, even if I’m all of those things, I’m still a fun girl…with a heart. The girl who will say what she thinks, but kindly. The girl who is strong enough to walk away but will feel a little twang of guilt for having to do so. The girl who helps others but also remembers herself. The girl who dances on tabletops but also makes sure her friends don’t tumble while they’re joining her. The girl who is undeniably strong, but equally undeniably sensitive, too. I do lead with my heart instead of my breasts. I say what I want, I know what I want and go after what I want – but I don’t walk all over people to get there. I’m not that model-esque thing standing in the corner of an overpriced club downtown, I’m more the girl who hangs out at a lounge in the West Village, eying the guy with blue eyes and crazy, curly hair. And while I may first be attracted to his mystery and his sex appeal, or his comfortable confidence that’s not too arrogant, what will keep me attracted to him is how thoughtful he is. And the ambition that drives his optimistic view on life.

Maybe nice girls and nice guys finish last – if so, I might have a long way to go. But I don’t think being nice is a turnoff, I think being boring is. And they’re not the same thing, though it may be easy to confuse the two. I may not be all of the things I think make someone cool, and I may have more sugar-and-spice than frogs, snails and puppy-dog tails – but one thing I’ll never be… is boring.

Because if I was boring – I wouldn’t have woken up to a few messages in my inbox the next morning and two dates planned this weekend. Looks like nice girls aren’t so bad, after all.

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Someone Like Me

The night I broke up with Mr. P, my best friend M had made the commute from the Upper West to the Lower East to keep me company since I knew no one at the party except Mr P’s sister. She arrived ready to dance and drink whiskey while I sipped on my hot tea, fighting the onset of an awful cold.

When the clock struck ten, two hours past the time Mr. P asked me to arrive for his friend’s birthday, I gave up hope he would show and any sadness I felt turned into bitter hostility. Too angry to move, I sat firmly in between his brother-in-law and an old friend, both of which expressed concern for Mr. P. In return, I shrugged an innocent grin, attempting to disguise my frustration. Seeing my blatant annoyance, M grabbed my hand and made me dance in the little black dress that was wasted on the evening. It’s your birthday weekend! she reminded me. You should be enjoying yourself!! I couldn’t help but smile and groove with her demands, especially since she wouldn’t let me even if I tried.

After a few songs, I returned to the table to hydrate when I caught a glimpse of Mr. P entering the bar and significantly intoxicated. He stumbled his way to me, muttered halfhearted apologies and laughed at his lateness. I responded with silence and rejoined M on the dance floor who mouthed: Are you okay? I shook my head No but continued to sway my hips, so M continued too, and there we grooved without saying a word, though saying everything, as best friends usually do. When the music faded into Adele’s Someone Like You, we looked at each other and it was clearer than it had ever been before that the last straw was breaking, or passing out on the bench at a dive bar downtown — either way I wanted to look at it, the answer was there. I’ve never been one to let pop culture define much of anything for me, but the words rang too true and too bittersweet for me not to take note. M hugged me and we danced and sang the whole song before I tapped Mr. P awake to try to talk some sense into him. Or at least give him the option to make up for his mistake. When he denied my offer, I refused the relationship.

I wish I could say that was that and I’ve easily moved on and let go of him without much hesitation at all. I wish I could declare my complete independence and that I’ve started dating someone I’m crazy about. I wish I could say I never think of him or respond to his emails or calls. I wish I could say I’m stronger than what I really am, less prone to stinging heartache than I’ve been before. But the truth is, that song still makes me sad. And it’s not the only thing that does.

When I stumble across places we frequented together or when I find something funny I think he would like. Or when it’s cold in my room or my family asks about him or I run into a mutual friend who still, four months later, didn’t realize we split. And for a while I was letting all of those things, all those places, all those reminders keep me from doing or going. I’ve gradually started reclaiming my New York and the stuff I love by dissociating it with a relationship or with the idea of a love that never was nourished enough to bloom. Recently though, those steps forward have become more like long, strong strides.

When discussing an upcoming solo ski-tubing trip with my friend K, she mentioned hand-warmers and I was instantly brought back to last Christmas when Mr. P bought $100 worth of hand-warmers for his family members. My immediate reaction was to express my distaste for them and how they bring back visions of a happy Mr. P I sometimes miss. Being the practical gal she is, K attempted to convince me that something meant to keep me from freezing has little to do with a sour relationship and a lot to do with survival on a mountain. A few hours later when I caught the train to the gym, I thought about K’s valid point and then chronicled some of the things I’ve stopped doing since I broke up with Mr. P simply because the actions remind me of him: cooking stir-fry (his favorite), wearing lingerie (no one sees it but me), buying yogurt (we used to sit together on the couch in the mornings eating it), wearing the coin necklace he gave me that I love and I even feel odd glancing at my Blackberry on the subway because it’s something he always did.

Really Lindsay? You don’t do all of those things because of some guy? Seriously? It’s time to do things for you. 

And so after my run, I stopped by the grocery store for rice, peppers, chicken and yogurt and I went to the Victoria’s Secret semi-annual sale because one of my 50 things is investing in matching sets. When I got home, I put on my new lingerie, sported the charm I love and cooked enough stir-fry to last me for days. He may have dictated my life while he was part of it, but now that he’s not, any ownership of memories or things, places or dishes have now switched back into my hands.

Mr. P taught me some great lessons but probably the best one is something he never sought to teach: how to stand up for what I want in love. He knew his weaknesses and his inability to emotionally commit, and when I finally saw it too, I realized how little I stand up for myself when I’m deep into a relationship. And that was my greatest downfall – I was so busy trying to find someone so perfect that I did everything I could to be the perfect person they wanted, and forgot about what I really wanted in my pursuits of happily-forever-and-ever. I let things that have nothing to do with a man have everything to do with him. I allowed myself to compromise what really mattered in my heart just to hold a fraction of his. And the pay off was nothing special or different – it was just another story to tell, another failed courtship to put in the books and build myself up from. Another reason for my friend to drag me out into an anonymous crowd to dance away my aching as I try to forget the shadow in the corner.

Adele may hope to find someone like her ex and a part of me wants to find parts of Mr. P in someone else too but the main thing I’m looking for is a man who is someone like me. Someone who is thoughtful and considerate, mature and ambitious. Someone who doesn’t need fancy dinners but likes them, someone who wants to travel and create a home at the same time. Someone steady and stable but surprising in the ways that matter. Someone equally as romantic and dependable, stubborn and generous. Someone who is no where close to wanting a relationship but still believes in the powers of fate he’s yet to understand.

Someone who is looking for someone like me.

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The Year I Learned How to Live

It’s usually in a split-second right before I leave for the day. It’s when I’m reaching down to grab my keys that sit in a tiny basket next to my door, when I smooth over my jacket and toss my hair a final time before the wind takes over. It’s when I press my lips together and lean into the mirror to make sure every asset is colored or highlighted, covered or shiny. It’s when I take a moment to really look at myself and admire…

…my own beauty.

There seems to be a fine line between arrogance and confidence and it’s one that I dare to teeter between constantly. I wouldn’t say my looks are remarkable but I’ve been conscious to remind myself that I’m beautiful. Many women – especially in New York – are completely put together: clear skin, long tanned legs, large pouty lips, bright eyes and teeth aligned by perfection. But I’ve often found the people who seem the most attractive to me are the ones that radiate beauty because they’re good people. Even so – I still tend to work on my outer almost as much as I try to maintain my inner.

In a city where pressures are plenty, it’s easy for any woman to lose sight of herself. It’s easy to let things go or let busy schedules conflict with the things that bring us the most joy. Sometimes pampering and relaxing fall low on priority list, and spending money on things that seem rather frivolous in the long run. Remembering how important it is to keep that same frame of mind circulating day-to-day throughout the day that I feel in the mornings. Before the grime and the stress has a chance to take its toll on me.

And since I’ve spent the majority of the last years focusing on advancing myself or getting to where I wanted to be, and I’ve finally achieved the success I wanted so badly – I think it’s time to enjoy myself. To really indulge in the life I’ve created. To be thankful of where I’ve landed, of the luck I’ve been given and the people I’ve been blessed to find. To take some more liberties that are just for me. To be smart about my money but also spend it because I have it – and even be a little selfish with it because I’m at a point in my life where I can be.  To make the things I see everyday more beautiful and more like places or things that other people would want to see.

So what am I doing? I’m buying fancy lingerie. I’m redecorating my room. I’m running like I used to. I’m buying the organic fruits and veggies because my body appreciates it when I do. I’m drinking more water – with lime or cucumber. I’m flying my mom up to see my city. I’m calling my dad more. I’m making more of an effort to travel. I’m letting myself do the things I want to do without worrying about what it’ll mean in five years. I’m going to let myself be free. I’m learning Spanish and going to Spain. I’m investing in dermatology treatment so my skin leaves adolescence. I’m going to feel gorgeous walking in a bikini along the beach this summer. I’m going to take my vitamins, like my mom says. I’m going to get regular facials and massages because I work hard and deserve it. I’m going to actually learn how to meditate.

I’m going to surround myself with beauty and believe in the beauty inside of me. And not because I want to attract a man or because I want to measure up to some ideal, but because I’ve been strong and determined to get to where I am and it’s time to savor the splendor.

It’s time I learned how to live and here’s how I’m doing it. Join me?

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Ten Years in the Making

You can do it, Linds. You can do this! I reminded myself walking up a white staircase into a large white room decorated with home décor accents from Family Dollar. It was a little newspaper in the “downtown” area of an even smaller town – but for me, it was my first real gig as a journalist.

Having just moved to a community where the closest Wal Mart was 30 minutes away and the only attraction was a barbeque pit and a sparkling man-made lake, I felt out-of-my-element and frankly, lost. To ease the idle time at age 15, I started reading the county newspaper and noticed a void of teen content. Tapping into my self-starter mentalities, I casually mentioned my observations to my mother who gleefully suggested I pitch to the editor of the newspaper.

Well who would write it? I asked. You, silly! She suggested. Hmm…

And so after some string-pulling and a four-hour shopping trip to buy my very first suit set (it was pink corduroy, sadly), I landed a meeting with the Editor-in-Chief of The Clay County Progress. Just tell her what you want to do. That’s all you have to do. And walk in these heels – don’t fall!! I said over-and-over while waiting in a “lobby” next to a water fountain, flipping through my “portfolio” which was really just a few pages of things I’d scribbled together and essays from school. I surely couldn’t bring in my diaries, though that’d be a more credible resume booster if I wanted to be a columnist.

When she finally called me in, I handed her my colorful binder (purple with letters cut out of magazine headlines that spelled: Lindsay’s Writing Portfolio) and proposed a weekly teen column that discussed the young adult perspective on everything from war to love. I continued to describe myself, making sure to throw in words like “hard-working” and “creative” like my father suggested. Don’t tuck your hair behind your ear, don’t do it. Just leave it. No, it’s not itching. Just leave it alone, Lindsay! I thought while clutching my fists under the table while she asked me questions. Smile, I encouraged myself. Maybe she likes you!

Twenty minutes and a trip to the bathroom later, I jumped into my mom’s car where she sat anxiously waiting: Well? she asked. I’m a columnist! I screamed. We went to get ice cream sundaes to celebrate and I reveled at the fact I’d get a whole $10 a week for writing. I could hardly believe someone was wiling me to do something I’d do for free and that I’d see my name in a newspaper that people actually paid money to read.

It was amazing – and I was hooked.

From there, I went on to co-lead the high school newspaper, intern for a local women’s magazine, then I brought that same ridiculously unprofessional portfolio to college where I started as an intern reporter and moved up to an Associate Editor. During my Appalachian State days, I managed to land an internship at Cosmopolitan (where my NYC love affair became undeniably serious) and wrote a blog for Seventeen.com. When I wasn’t promoted to Editor-in-Chief at the college newspaper, I was blessed to be offered an Editor-at-Large position at ChickSpeak.com, and it was there that I fell in love with the beautiful land of cyber-style writing. I love to hold my magazines and read them on the train, but my heart is intertwined with the web.

All of those experiences bought my one-way ticket to New York City (along with several restaurant and retail jobs) where I tried my skills out in the business writing world. And then of course, this lovely little blog deemed me a “Carrie Bradshaw”-like heroine in New York (though I could never afford her apartment or her shoes).

Lastly – and most amazingly – all of that hard work paid off this year when I landed the dream job. Nearly ten years (almost to the exact date!) have passed since I pitched my first column and now, I’m working, editing and writing for NBC. I never thought I’d be this remarkably happy at a job, but I am. I wish I could put into words how thankful I am, but no amount of gratitude could ever express it.

A year ago I wrote about what 2010 meant to me and what it represented. It was the year for New York, the year for many firsts, the year for great strides, big chances and slim paychecks. It was when I gained my city sense, when I tried out urban dating, when I started to become my own person, when I figured out (or rather solidified) that New York was definitely the place I wanted to live.

But 2011 has meant something different. It marked the end of a decade – ten years in the making of what’s made me, me.

It’s been about finding me in every aspect of my life. It was the year I decided I would be brave enough to fall in love, regardless of the outcome. It was the year I dedicated to writing – posting 1,000-word entries for nine months out of the 12. It was the year I met people I know will be my best friends when our boobs reach our knees. It was the year I learned how to survive on my own, completely cutting financial ties with my family. It was the year I went after the things I wanted, the things I came to New York to find. It was the year I let go of what was dependable and good to find the incredible and the great.

It was the year I got to where I wanted to be: a strong, independent 20-something, working at a place she loves, surrounded by friends who inspire her and doing the things that make her happy, with or without a man.

It seems impossible that so much time has passed or that I’ve already written so many articles and blogs that I’m more Google-able than I’d like my dates to know – but I’m proud of my work. I love that someone, somewhere has read something I’ve written and has learned something. Or felt less alone or less crazy. Or has been courageous enough to leave a relationship that wasn’t healthy to find hope for one that will be. Writing about love isn’t like being a journalist on the front lines or reporting on the latest political advances – but it has its own place and purpose in the world.  And for now, it’s a place that I belong. It’s a purpose that I found a home in. It’s where I was always meant to be.

So thank you 2011 for changing me. For allowing me to make a lot of mistakes to get to where I am now. For teaching me how to love myself unconditionally, through jobs and breakups, love and a lot of luck.

I’m not the person I was in 2010 and thanks to 2011, I have a good feeling I’ll be one hell of a woman in 2012. Just wait and see.

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I Miss Me More

On Christmas eve, just before I sat down to a lovely meal prepared by my father, I received a text from Mr. Possibility.

I was expecting a message of some form from him around the holidays — maybe even a call. I didn’t know what style it’d come in or if it’d be bittersweet or heartfelt. Since much of my 2011 was spent with him, it was difficult not to think of him in my memories of this year – so naturally – he would contact me at the holidays. But standing in my childhood bathroom, curling my hair and sipping on cheap wine from a Southern grocery store, seeing his number (no name, it’s not saved anymore) light up my iPhone wasn’t a screen I wished to view.

Knowing my friend L would soon arrive, I took a deep breath in, decided my hair was pretty enough and went to my bedroom to read what he wrote. I sat down on my bed next to bags of clothes and the four shoeboxes from my shopping spree and looked over at the blooming rose my father left my bedside for me to see when I returned to North Carolina. I smiled at the sentiment and cursed myself for being even semi-taunted by a man who would never measure up to my thoughtful, loving dad. Trying not to remember how Mr. Possibility laid on this very bed, on these same sheets, with the room radiating with the intoxicating smell of summer just a few months earlier, I read what he had to say.

A won’t stop talking about you. Or how she wishes you were here for Christmas. She wants to come to your house. It’s so cute. 

Well, that wasn’t quite what I expected – but somehow, it hurt more. It wasn’t a message about Christmas or the magical feelings this season brings, but about his niece. His adorable niece who I fell in love with. As much trouble as its been to let go of Mr. P, it’s been just as much work to separate from his family – especially the two little girls I grew to feel like an aunt to. They even called me that when we’d visit a few times a month: Aunt Lindsay! You’re here!! 

Before I had a chance to respond to his text, I noticed a voicemail from his sister, that really was a Christmas wish and a sweet “I love you” from four-year-old A. I played her sweet voice a few times before typing “She misses me!” to which Mr. P responded, “She’s not the only one.” It was then that L’s car pulled up and I left my phone far out of reach, far away from where I could be tempted to say things only wine and twinkling lights could make me silly enough to believe.

The eve came and passed, and I managed to refrain from mentioning my tension or how my heart felt frozen when I heard A’s voice or thought about the family I had grown to love along with the man I loved, was moving on from me too. The closest of relationships share those dear to our hearts and when the affair ends, so do those family ties. As much as I had enjoyed and cherished becoming part of his clan, I know that with the passing of time, phone calls lessen and memories of a temporary Aunt will fade when a permanent Aunt is in the picture. But those – those – are the thoughts I simply can’t entertain. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

On Christmas Day, my mom and I felt a little antsy being stuck in the house with non-stop musical tunes and my grandmother’s sweet (and sorta irritating) ramblings, so we went for a drive. I wanted to see the mountains I never get to gaze at and she wanted to see me – so we drove around winding roads, catching up, laughing and doing our very best to avoid the topic of my departure – it’s a subject that isn’t friendly after spending a week together. As we’re going along the old highway I used to speed down, she asked me how I felt about Mr. P and the phone call from the previous night. I told her my grievances, how I feared my ability to really let go and love so unconditionally again and how though I knew I made the right choice, I felt like I was giving up a part of the me I created in New York so I could discover the life I really wanted.

She then asked bluntly, Do you miss him, honey?

Without much consideration and with little hesitation, I said: Yes, but I missed me more when I was with him. She smiled the grin that says: I-know-I’ve-been-there-too and reached for my hand. I was as honest as I could be and the truth laid flat in the winter air – as much as you can love someone, if the relationship just isn’t right or the person is selfishly motivated, you end up losing more by staying with them. And while I miss the companionship, the talks, his family that started to feel like my own, the shared dreams and intimate connections that I’d never share with this blog – if I would have not stood for what I needed, I would have ended up needing to really find myself again.

The best kind of love is the kind that brings out the best in you. It’s the kind that soothes your soul while it startles it. It entices you to be a better person and to believe in yourself more, while still being selfless with the person you’re committed to. Love is patient and it’s kind, but to find that perfect rhyme – you can’t sacrifice your happiness. And that person who cares, that person who is right, would never allow you to do so. Just like they would never let you miss out – or start to miss yourself – by being with them.

Less than a mile away from home I said, Maybe he showed me he loved me by letting me go Mom. Yeah, he misses me. His family does too. I miss all of them. But if we continued, we would have ruined whatever we ever had or any chance at friendship. So maybe he loved me enough to let me go. Right?

Without skipping a beat or missing the right turn into our street, she said, Or maybe, sweetie, you finally just stood up for what you deserved and he knew he couldn’t give it to you. It’s time to stop missing him, stop missing yourself and go out there and find someone who you’ll never have to miss. 

Amen, Mama. Amen.