Category Archives: Step 4

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The Love That Could Be: Mr. Possibility

So, without further ado, let me reveal that someone has walked into my life. Or rather, I stumbled into his.

Being the short gal with a love for high heels that I am, I was walking down the aisle of a bus from the airport back into the city when the bus driver so rudely took off before I had a chance to sit down. I went plummeting towards the ground, dropped my bag, but managed to catch myself – and when I looked up, I locked eyes with a blue-eyed beauty to my right.

However, he seemed rather uninterested or intrigued by the clumsy gal in six-inch Jessica Simpson heels who almost stumbled to her death. Instead, his friend, to my left asked if I was okay, and I simply nodded and took a seat in front of blue eyes. Then, apparently, is when he become more inclined to chat up a conversation. “Hey, it’s alright that you fell. It is your first time in New York but you’ll get used to the public transportation,”he  assured me.

I tilted my head, peered over the seat and humbly admitted, “Well, actually, I live here.” To which he replied, “Oh yeah, well then that’s embarrassing.” From there we discovered we both lived on the West Side, had similar backgrounds, and he revealed he had a weakness for smart, witty women. I don’t blame him.

Once we reached Grand Central, we took the same train to our respective homes and he asked for my card. I gladly gave it to him and to my incredible surprise – he emailed me by 10 a.m. the next day. What he wrote was simple and we started emailing back and forth for a while, until he grew tired of the 70-deep email threads on Gmail, and we started Gchatting. From there, we learned more and more about one another, and eventually, we decided to have a real conversation in person, and I vowed not to stumble. (Though, I have tripped quite a lot in the time that’s passed).

And since that day, there has been an easy, forgiving, sincere, honest, and healthy growth of intimacy and trust just between us. And not just in a “relationship” sense, but we’ve both transformed our own lives and mentalities as we’ve gotten to know each other. In a time of change, progress, and healing – he’s been a constant.

He is a New York native (I keep meeting those), works in the business sector at an office with a breathtaking view (and close to my job), enjoys the simple things as well as the extravagant ones, and he hopes to create a family that’s as successful as his career has been. Like me, he’s a saver, and we both share the same affinity for food that is absolutely awful for us. He’s not a runner, he isn’t dark haired and eyed like most of my past flames, and he doesn’t quite fit into my “checklist” – but he’s shown me a new side of myself, a new way of looking at partnership, and most importantly – I haven’t obsessed about him. I don’t freak out, I don’t analyze minutes between texts, I don’t worry (much) about him disappearing. I don’t stalk his Facebook and I think I’ve only Googled him once or twice. I don’t do any of the things I once did when I started liking a man – and yet, I like this one.

At the point when I met him, I had unfolded a new chapter in my life. I had turned the page on this blog and climbed over many mountains in this journey. My focus could not have been further away from meeting a man and especially someone who has the opportunity to capture my heart, and ironically enough, Mr. Possibility is right there waiting in the bay of defining himself, too.

He’s a little older than me, been around the block of love and the block of work more times than I have, and he’s reached a crossroads where he knows he is capable of so much more and he’s ready to go after it. If only, he knew exactly what it was that he wanted (I think maybe I’ll help him figure that out).  And for me, I’m at the start of what I hope will be a promising tenure as a writer, new to the city he’s known his whole life, and challenging myself to be secure, independent, and happy, with or without a man.

So neither of us, are really, ready for a relationship.

And while I’ve met men in the past who were not attainable (remember Mr. Unavailable?), this is the first time that I’ve been completely honest not only with a man about where I’m coming from and what I want, but it is the inaugural time where I’ve also been honest with myself. I told him from the get-go that my first priority is this journey, is this process I’m going through, and that nothing, would stand in my way. His response? Complete encouragement and support of the blog. In return, I guide him through his own grievances, listen when he needs to let it all out, and lift him up when he gets stuck in a rut.

That said, I’m sure the question remains: what am I doing with Mr. Possibility and what is he doing with me?

We’re enjoying the companionship and the comfort of one another. There are no expectations, there is no pressure, no reason to hurry or to rush. No price to pay or description to meet or title to place or exclusivity to insist upon. It is simply just riding the tide, exploring the waves of feelings, and not purposefully going towards the shore. He really is, for all intents and purposes, a peaceful, easy feeling in my life. Being around him, wrapped up in him, or smelling his smell is not hard and not too scary.

Because, I with my blog, and he with his past, have no inclination of how long this union will last. Or where it will go. Or how we will both feel. But for once, I’m okay with not having any idea. Because even if he was to leave or it were to fall apart or he or I were tempted by the fruit of another – I would be hurt, but I know I would survive. I also have this unyielding feeling that regardless of what happens, I’ve made a friend for life.

And the difference between this man and all of the men I’ve been with in the past, is that even if there was not romantic chemistry, or even if we didn’t connect on a level I have never felt with someone before, or if there wasn’t all of things that make for a great relationship – I would still choose him as my friend. He would be someone who I would want to hang out with, who I would want to set up with my friends, who I would trust with my secrets, and want to sit next to eating popcorn and watching a movie. I guess, it never really occurred to me how important it is to not just be smitten with a love interest, but also, just simply, to like them.

Sometimes, the like is more powerful than the love. Even when love is a possibility.

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Avoiding That Girl

We all know those girls.

You know, the ones who define themselves by the men they are dating or in a relationship or sleeping with. Every single word out of their mouth or text message they type is about the Mr of the week, of the month, of the year. They are the girls who we never know as single women and wouldn’t classify as independent of self–sufficient. When we make plans to hang out with them or grab a drink or schedule a phone date, we know the majority of the conversation will be geared towards their love interest. Even worse, we also anticipate the dreaded question of “Well, are you seeing anyone yet? Geez, you’re always single, girl!”

These women are part of our core group of friends and though they may irritate us, we also love them and respect them for who they are and how they function. We know how to handle them, how to cut them off, and how to smile and nod while effectively tuning them out.

How do we master the art of dealing with such women in question? Probably through experience – because  no matter how hard we try or how much we say “we’ll never be like that”  or consciously fight against it – inevitably, at some point in our lives – we become that girl. Not perpetually and not fitting every distinctive quality, but some of our actions become similar to the exact woman we don’t really want to be.

Somehow, when we first start dating a guy or feel that click or ignite that spark – something inside of us becomes obsessed. We analyze every little thing he does. We linger on his every word. We think so far into the future that we’ve decided we’ll be the lady who would love him even if he starts to bald. We imagine how the next holiday would be with him. We save text messages, voicemails, and emails, and even if we’re not, we play hard to get in an effort to keep him around.

And of course, as we’re dragging ourselves through the dating trenches – we have to have a team of ladies to confide in. Even if they’ve never been in a related situation, we want to know their opinion. Even if they hate the guy we’re seeing, we hope to entice them to change their mind. Even if they are so fed up with us chatting it up about Mr. Dude – we keep going and going.

I never thought I would be that girl and it wasn’t really until Mr. Idea that I realized that when I like a man, he becomes the subject of most of my conversations. When he is infiltrating my heart, he also becomes a toxin in mind, making it impossible for me to come up with anything of substance other than what little foundation I’ve found with him. When I try to think of something interesting to say or a new topic – I usually try to relate a dating story of some sort into the mix. For whatever reason, people are entertained not only by love, but by the trials and the disasters that get us one step closer to “I do.” Or at least we’d like to think so, right?

Ever since I started this blog and this journey, I’ve found myself purposely attempting not to talk about men as much. When people ask who I’m dating or what I’m up to or how my life is playing out – I steer clear of the “well I went on this really terrible/amazing/ridiculous date” conversation, and dive more into non-love, non-romantic topics. However, I still have found myself detailing the newfound friendship with Mr. Unavailable, and recently, the magic that could be with Mr. Possibility (you’ll meet him soon, promise!).

But, the major difference between how I use to obsess about men and how I handle it now, is that while I may talk about someone who intrigues me, I also know when to cut myself off. When I’m knee-deep into attempting to rationalize my feelings or my actions or the kiss I shared, I’ve learned to put a stop to the polluting thoughts and make myself go down a different conversation path. And when my friends, who are ever-so supporting in all I do, ask me about Mr. Possibility or Mr. Unavailable, I will respond with an adequate answer, but I’m careful to put all chatter to bed before I let it run away from me.

And somehow, by switching gears and ensuring I don’t become that girl who I don’t want to be – I’ve found more peace in love. Because not saying it out loud or listing every action or reaction or touch or fear, makes it seem not as intense. And without that intensity, there is not that pressure, and I’m allowed to just experience dating. I don’t have to report back to my friends mid-date if it isn’t going well and if I get nervous about something, I console myself instead of including four of my closest gals. It’s not that I’m keeping them in the dark, it’s just that not everything needs to be a discussion in the light. Sometimes, men and moments are meant to be intimate.

That intimacy, after all, sure does feel pretty darn good without all the headaches of obsession.

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When You Stop Looking

I once read somewhere that the reason men are constantly portrayed in movies and in books as observers is because women are so alluring to watch.

Some study completed some place by some group determined that men are captivated by women and more keen to watch their movements because yes, they are visual creatures, but also because women are constantly touching themselves. And no, I don’t mean like that (although, I’m sure the men may imagine that scenario a time or two), but us ladies are always doing something to attract the wondering eye of a guy.

We flip and run our fingers through our hair. We lick our lips. We straighten our clothes. We pick lent off our coats. We re-situate our intimate wear. We cross and uncross our legs. We apply gloss or balm. We make sure our skirt isn’t riding up. We zip up our boots. We take our feet in and out of our heels when they start to hurt. We tuck a single strand behind our ear.

I’m sure men do some of the same things, but the women just don’t seem to notice. I’d like to accredit it to the fact that we’re too busy with our own movements to get swept away by watching another person – and really, if we’re honest, men aren’t as pretty to gaze after.

I hadn’t really witnessed or believed this finding until a few days ago, as I was riding the train down to my job. I always feel my most beautiful in the mornings (or after a nice run or making incredible love) – so when I stomp my way to the subway at 7:15 each day, I feel powerful and stunning. As usual, there was no seat available on the downtrain train, so I was forced to stand. I removed my iPod (currently obsessed with “Firework” by Katy Perry, for the record), placed one hand on the rail, and started reading the paper in the other.

I become so engrossed with an article that I lost track of time and once I looked up to see I was one-stop away from my destination, I had to scurry to put up everything and prepare for the walk. As I placed my paper in my bag and went to put my buds back in my ears, I glanced up and saw four different men watching me. And not just the creepy dudes who you pray will stop gawking at you because you get uncomfortable– but men who were at least moderately attractive, within ten years of my age, and dressed nicely.

Embarrassed that I was being studied and nervously wondering if I had something on me, I cautiously looked down and attempted to hide the tiny grin that was making its way across my face. As soon as the train came to a stop, I rushed out and prayed my cheeks weren’t as red as the sweater dress I was sporting. I still felt incredibly flattered and taken aback as I walked the six blistering blocks to my job (damn you, New York winter, damn you!) and it made me think about this idea behind looking.

We’re told, as the members of the Single Women Army of the World, that when we stop looking – we will find love. When we are completely free of any obsession, any depression, any insecurity, and finally, beautifully, easily, just simpily happy with ourselves, we’ll find that man that we’ve dreamt of. Because if we’re not looking, if we’re not wondering or dreaming or hoping – he will magically appear out of the framework and become some surprising element in our lives. When we tell the story of how we met, apparently, we’ll say: “I wasn’t even looking for a boyfriend and here came Mr. Right, I didn’t even know what hit me!”

Well, maybe as women, we don’t gawk on the 1 train, but are we constantly emotionally searching? In the eyes of a stranger behind his classy Whiskey or Scotch? Or the man with the blue eyes who walks his dog at the same time each night that we return from the gym? Or what about the guy who gets his bagel from the same vendor, and we constantly cross paths as I walk back from Dunkin’ Donuts?

In the quest to find true love and our lifetime partner, do we ever really take off the binoculars and rest? Is there ever a moment when a glance doesn’t seem like a possibility or the sight of a reoccurring face that we start to recognize, become a sign of fate? Is it a reasonable request to call off the search team, raise our red flag of defeat (or just of pausing), and just let go of desiring happily ever after we meet our husbands?

Ask me three months ago and I would have easily debated this idea – but now, after reaching step 4 (and feeling close to step 5) and becoming more and more comfortable in my own two high-heeled feet – I really have stopped looking. I don’t lust after each attractive man who crosses my path. My future doesn’t reveal itself in the eyes of a stranger as he passes me, and if some dude works up the courage to hit on me, I don’t match my name with his last, and I certainly don’t feel rejected if he doesn’t pick up my bar tab.

Because instead of looking for a knight-in-shining-armor who will “rescue” me from my single life – I’m embracing it. And frankly, I’m starting to quite dig it. And instead of searching and pleading and enticing a man – I’m challenging myself to find who I am. Discover what it is that I need, that I want, that I deserve, what I’m capable of achieving. To believe without hesitation or reservation that anything and everything I desire will be mine, if I just believe in a simple and reassuring thing – myself.

So even though four men whom I will never see again (and I’m sure were amused by my embarrassment) were watching me, possibily undressing me with their eyes, or wondering what it would be like to share a dinner or a bed with me – my thoughts were far away from dreaming of a life with them. Instead, I was focused on going to my job, listening to my song, reading an article that interested me – and had I not of needed to exit the train – I would have never noticed them…noticing me.

Maybe when they, whoever “they” represents anyways, say the best things come to those who are not looking, really mean that the most amazing experiences are the result of not necessarily ceasing looking – but rather, gazing inwards. More about falling in love with yourself instead of an image you want to create in your mind or a box on a checklist you want to complete.

Not looking doesn’t mean you close your heart or close your eyes, it just means your priorities change. Instead of becoming a “we” the utmost goal to meet – loving the “me” you are  becomes much more important. And if we’re honest, reaching self-love is an obstacle that’ll bring more happiness, more joy, and more peace than any man could ever deliver. No matter how long or how lovingly he looked our way.

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In My Hands

Because temperatures in the city are extremely low, winds are terribly unforgiving, and my lips are dangerously getting close to being chapped – I have felt like a big round fluff of layers for the last couple of days. Sitting on the train yesterday, I started to unwrap myself, from my jacket to my scarf and my muffs, all the way to my gloves. As I pulled off my black leather best friends, I started gazing at my hands.

Now, I’ve always been told I have my mother’s hands and it is true. If you put our hands next to one another, pull her 50-year-old skin back a bit, they look identical. It makes buying her jewelry insanely easy and quite entertaining, since I get to try it all on. Nevertheless, at that moment, I started thinking about my hands and all of their many purposes.

I looked at the scars – one from a car accident that changed my life and my perspective on the human spirit (forever making me believe in angels and a philanthropic mind), another from a little too intense tickle fight with Mr. Idea, and a final one from getting too close to a withering candle. Unless I pointed them out, these scars are not noticeable, but to me, they represent the experiences that have taught me lessons and a very special man I’ve loved. These same hands have held a tennis racquet for years, danced across piano keys since I was seven years old, and held on tight to monkey bars. They’ve made their home on a keyboard or around a pen, stringing together words to release stress or inspire masses.

They’ve shaken hands with editors from all sorts of magazines, strangers I was introduced to only once and never laid eyes on again, and dozens of businessmen who I was instructed to network with. They’ve been kissed by my father my entire life and a handful of men who were into that romantic-type of thing. They’ve been rejected when extended for a dance, and they’ve denied certain pairs that reached out to them.

They’ve been decorated in every shade of nail polish, manicured to-the-nines, and also ridiculously filthy. They’ve kneaded dough, caught baby cousins as they were falling, and been lathered, rinsed, and lotioned countless times. They’ve joined with my best friend as we happily and drunkingly skipped down streets, safe in each other’s grip. And they’ve held her up as strong as they could in the most devastating moment of her life as she stood before everyone who came to pay their respect to her late mother.

They’ve intertwined with men starting on the first date, only to unlock at the final goodbye. They’ve been grabbed in the middle of night and placed on a hairy chest. They’ve traced the outline of a face that I never wanted to stop looking at. They’ve brushed the lips of a mouth that seemed too perfect and too honest to ever say anything evil or misleading. They’ve reached, they’ve pulled, they’ve grabbed. They’ve gripped the back of a lover in a moment of urgency and slipped away only moments later.

They’ve been held and tested, declared sacred, and they’ve challenged sincerity. They’ve felt that flutter of hope the first time a possible-someone wanted to hold them, and they’ve wiped away the sadness when trust became destroyed. They’ve cleaned messes and created them, been swollen in the mornings, and tired from typing at night.

I would say with my own two hands, I can do just about anything. And they’ve already been through quite some touching, quite some feeling, quite some healing. But at the end of all of that doing and going, leaving and staying, they’ve remained pretty much the same. They have new scars, veins that push up more than others, and of course, they will attract some wrinkles in the years to come -but they are still in tact.

They say that everything is in our hands – in our power – we have the ability to make anything happen in our own will. They say we are the masters of our fates, the captains of our own souls, and all that is, all that was, and all that will be is a result of our own doing. Our choices in partners, in dances, in cooking, in moving, in shaking – are all up to us.

And the beautiful thing about it is, though our hands won’t keep us from feeling that lovey-dovey optimism – they will break our demise if we start to crash. They will be dependable when we need them to fix something and soothing when there is no one there to run their fingers through our hair.

But most importantly, because they belong to us, because we make the choices, and we guide our lives in and out of handshakes, hand holding, and handymans – we get to decide when we wash them clean of whatever it is we please.

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Our Greatest Fear: Mr. Disappear

Once upon a summer mid-morning, I met a guy at the retail store I was working at in between freshman and sophomore year of college. He wasn’t outlandishly beautiful – more like the Southern-traditional type with light-hair and light-eyes, and a little twang to make him a tad-bit sexy.

Being the go-getter gal I am, I approached him, and as he watched me casually drop subtle hints of my attraction – he responded by flirting in return. Within ten minutes, he had my name and my number, and a date was soon to follow. Let a few weeks pass by and Mr. Disappear and I became an item that was syndicated by Facebook and everything.

While we lived two hours away from one another, the fireworks bursting between us were too intense for us to ignore, so we vowed to just make it work. I made the first trek to his town and we enjoyed a weekend of snuggling, kissing, and going on mini-adventures to restaurants and amusement parks. All the while, he showered me with compliments and long lists of reasons why he adored me. In the weeks that followed, we spent countless hours on the phone, constantly exchanged text messages, and he did what he said he would do when he said he would do it.

I was a little afraid (alright, maybe a lot) of falling for him, but I allowed myself to because he gave me no other indication that I should do anything else. I accounted my fear of crashing to old emotional wrecks I’d barely lived through – and deemed that he deserved a fair chance.

So, we moved forward with the relationship – easily, forgivingly, and ever so openly. We never had sex and never took it too far, but I could feel the walls around my heart crumbling, and though my barricade was faltering – I felt protected by the promise he made to me in our intimate moments.

One weekend, he was supposed to come to my college town to spend a few days with me. My roommate was kind enough to go home Friday through Sunday so we could have the whole room to ourselves (remember dorm living?). Unknown to Mr. Disappear, I had planned on finally doing-the-deed with him because I felt comfortable enough to trust him and knew that giving that side of me to him, would feel right and feel wonderful with my newfound confidence in our union.

On the Friday he was to arrive, I had a class until 12:30 in the afternoon and we had planned on him being outside my residence hall around 1 p.m. As soon as my professor let us out, I sprinted towards my room, while my friends in the same lecture called out after me “Have fun!” I opened the door, automatically changed into sexy lingerie and put on a tight wrap sweater dress that showed off my every curve. I added some extra curl to my already-wavy hair, touched up my makeup, and dabbed a splash of my expensive, luxury perfume in selective places. A friend of mine who was over 21 at the time had supplied me with a six-pack of Mr. Disappear’s favorite beer, which I had stashed in my mini-fridge to surprise him with – so I checked on those to make sure they were getting cold.

I finally got around to looking at my phone and realized I hadn’t heard from Mr. Disappear yet – so I sent him a text making sure he was alright, while silently saying a prayer for his safety traveling up the mountain. Then, I sat down at my computer, checked my email, and then my Facebook. I noticed I had a new message, and never one to let any inbox get cluttered, I automatically opened it.

When I noticed it was from Mr. Disappear, I swear I could physically feel my heart break. I read through the message quickly, which was easy because it was simple and short, and read: “I’m not coming this weekend. I’m sorry, I can’t. Don’t hate me.”

My first reaction, of course, was to call him. Shaking and my heart running away from me, I dialed him and his phone was shut off. I called him again, and it went straight to voicemail. Then, I started to panic and my stomach turned into deeply embedded knots –and I called my mom. When I heard her voice on the other end, I completely fell apart and any sentence I tried to make was indiscernible. The only thing she managed to say other than “Breathe” and “Calm down” was “Come home.” In haste, I threw a random assortment of clothes, my cosmetic bag, and one pair of shoes together, and rushed out to my car, tears violently splashing down my cheeks.

I’m not sure how I made it home without crashing, but the minute I reached my driveway, I ran into my mother’s arms, felt my body collapse, and then headed to my room to sleep. And sleep is what I did all weekend. I also called him several times in the day and night throughout the weekend, and his phone never returned on. He also didn’t respond to a text or to any Facebook messages. When it was time for me to head back to school for a newspaper meeting on Sunday, I blocked him from my account before I drove, and with a sullen-stance and sweatpants on, I made it through deadline without crying.

That night, he called and gave me a range of excuses that included “I just wasn’t ready for a relationship” and “Things were moving too quickly” and “You’re just too wonderful for me” – all of which did nothing but make me more depressed and angrier. I replied by calling him a coward and to be honest, we haven’t spoken much since.

I wouldn’t include him on a list of men I’ve loved or men who have meant the world to me. But he did have an everlasting effect and it is one that this journey is attempting to rid of. I’m sure this issue is rooted from more than Mr. Disappear – but in my book, he’s the one who intensified it.

I’m afraid of being left. Of being abandoned. Of letting myself love without boundaries, without hesitation, and with the fruit of hope – and then having this person I trusted with so much…just walk away. And even worse than breaking up with me is completely disappearing to the point where it feels like I don’t matter, like anything we shared, or anything that was special and unique…was really just an illusion. Just a dream that turned into a cruel nightmare.

Ever since Mr. Disappear, I’ve had this irrational (but maybe rational?) fear every time I start liking someone new that they will just get-up-and-leave. That for whatever reason – that I will become not “good enough” or things are will be “just not right” or “I’m not worth staying around for” – and then, any investment I made into the relationship would become obsolete. The men who followed Mr. Disappear did everything in their power to reassure me that they would stick around through the thick-and-the-thin, the good and the bad – but to no avail, I haven’t been fully comfortable with a man ever since. Even if Mr. Disappear wasn’t a man who I loved, he was a man who left – and as great as love feels, when someone decides to leave, it hurts to the same degree.

Going through this journey, I’ve discovered how many people, men and women alike, have this fear of abandonment and I believe it’s due to the fact that to be in love, to feel magic, to explore relationship-territory, you have to be vulnerable. You have to let yourself take a risk and you have to trust in the unknown. But just like a child learns not to touch a hot stove after they’ve felt the initial sting – once you’ve been burned once, you’re hesitant to extend your hand out again.

I’ve also realized that no man, no blog, no woman – can make taking that dive any smoother. I’m still going to hold my breath, bite my tongue, and take a while to let someone in. I’m still going to have an alarm that goes off in the back of my head that begs, “Well what if you never hear from him again?”

However, this step process to gain self-love has taught me something about listening to my rational side instead of my emotional one. And when that fear of being left enters my mind, I think: “Alright, Lindsay – so what if you never hear from him again? Would your world come to an end? Would you go home crying to your parents? Would you put your life on hold?”

And now, at my age and in my city, the answer to all of those questions is no. Because I’m no longer that 19-year-old girl who wants nothing more than to be loved by a guy who she was smitten over. I no longer make a man the center of my world. I no longer depend on a guy to bring me fulfillment and happiness. While I would be upset if certain dudes disappeared – I know myself better and I surely know what I deserve in terms of love, and thus, while I may crack, I won’t be broken.

Because no matter what – even with a ring, even with a title, even with saying those damned three little words we all desire – nothing is guaranteed. A person can always leave. But if you’re lucky, and if you’re smart – you know that regardless of who comes and goes, who breaks promises and who keeps them, at the end of the day, at the end of the path, there is always one person who will never leave you. And that’s yourself. So, if you can depend on that constant, on that relentless love, then you can go forward to the next partner, the next fling or even The One – and know that if they do decide to disappear, you’re still never alone.