Be polite and courteous, but speak your mind in the right, gentle tone. Challenge and critique but not about the important things and certainly not the emotional ones.  Don’t push too hard too soon or too fast, don’t ask for anything, wait for him to ask you instead.

Let him make the moves.

Be aloof and airy, relaxed and racy — but don’t be reserved and don’t be overly confident. Be ballsy in a way that’s not threatening, don’t make him feel inferior to a woman. Show how you feel through touch and temptation but don’t give it up before three dates. And once you do (because you should, or he’ll think you’re a prude), don’t talk about it, don’t act like anything changed at all — even if for you, it all did. Know how to go down and go up, up and down, be great at what you do, in and out of bed.

But make sure he’s on top — when he wants to be.

Remember the little things and let him shine in the limelight — while you casually, subtly support him from afar. In fact be casual about how you feel, how you have sex, how the relationship progresses. But you can’t call it a relationship.

Even if you spend every night together, even if he tells you how much he cares, even if you go on multiple dates each week, even if you know it, he knows it and everyone you know, knows it– don’ t you dare say it.

Until he says it first.

So in the meantime, avoid being too available. Wait thirty minutes between texts, never be the last to respond —  and don’t text on Friday and Saturday night. You’re busy, remember? You’re actually incredibly busy and satisfied with everything. Your career, your friends, your life, your looks, you’re settled and you’re secure. You don’t need a man. You don’t want one, they’re just kinda nice to have, when you are feeling a little colder than usual. He doesn’t need to know you like the way his scent lingers on your sheets. Or that you like hearing his voice.

No, you’re not even that interested.  Really, you’re not. You could take it or leave it — your feelings aren’t involved yet. They won’t be unless his are.

That’s why when he sends emails that are cryptic and confusing — you can’t analyze them obsessively with your friends. Don’t be obsessive period, actually or try to read in between the periods of silence and the random moments that make you think he really likes you. Don’t over think it and don’t hold him accountable for his actions or his words, or the fact that his schedule is growing more conflicted, and time together only works around what works for him. Be understanding and go with the odd, eerie way he pursues you. That’s what his job is, he’s the man.

And you, you’re the perfect girl.

So be sweet. Leave little notes (that don’t make him feel pressured, but are sexy) that he will stumble across later and think of you. Be caring and kind, generous with your intentions without revealing them at all. Show him just how much he means but make sure those memories you’re making aren’t meaningful. They aren’t stages to the start of something that could be great or steps to the next big thing — they’re just…things.

Silly little things.

Have lots of those. Quirks and perks, interesting things that will intrigue and fascinate him. Things that will make him try to decode every last thing you say. Things that will make you seem like a gorgeous enigma that he wants to figure out. You should be like a scattered puzzle, with mysterious pieces sprawled out on the floor, mysteriously waiting to be put together.

Broken, jagged pieces- you don’t have those though.

You have no checked baggage and no fees that carry over — regardless of the new change you decide to fly with. You have no past, no former lover who was better in bed, no one who has ever made you believe a million impossible things, only to tear you apart in the demise. Those fragile parts, that only get tender when you sense the scent of something and it scares every last single piece of you into tiny little parts you didn’t know you could still feel.

Those insecurities, that vulnerability. Keep it to yourself. Don’t let that freak flag fly or he will be terrified to be anything more than your friend.

With benefits.

He’ll be happy to keep you sexually satisfied. To text you late at night when the darkness turns into loneliness and reminds him of the empty apartment he will come home to. When he wants to spoon you into oblivion  until his shape and your shape combine to form this amazing, passionate mold — even if it reeks of Scotch. A mold that’s complete and comforting, one that turns both of you on without engaging the most important organ of all.

Your heart.

That dicey thing. It beats and it leaps — way far away into imaginary dreams you drew in notebooks your mom has in the attic miles and miles away. It keeps believing and giving and hoping and praying for something better. Something existent. But if you tell him you want such dangerous things, you’ll watch him run. You can’t share those deepest desires and those timeless reminders of things you once thought were part of the course of your life, and now you’d just feel lucky to ever find.

But you. You perfect girl.

You who doesn’t intimidate or overstep. You who keeps those emotions to herself, off of your sleeve and out of his reach. You who can laugh on cue at things you doesn’t find funny, act interested in things that are frankly, plainly boring. You who doesn’t ask for anything but secretly hopes for it all. You who knows exactly how to play a game that you’re gotten good at — even if you wish you didn’t have to be a player in it. You have the right words, the right moves and you go with the right, painfully, slow pace that makes you neither exclusive or nonexclusive.  You are left wondering what you are, where you’re heading, if you’re on the same page or if you’re in completely different libraries. But you can’t ask him what he feels, so instead you give yourself away — to let him lead the way. No matter how long it takes.

Until one day — you realize that you’re not that perfect girl…because she doesn’t exist.

Because the perfect girl does want more. She’s confident enough to say she values commitment. She is honest with herself, with her heart, with the man she’s dating. She wants love. She wants the real, unquestionable, easy, uncomplicated kind of love. The kind of love that forgives her for being herself. Who likes that she says what she thinks and for demanding what she wants. That lets her walk or run at her own pace, no matter how swift or slow — and doesn’t make her feel bad about it. That realizes that a perfect girl who pretends she doesn’t feel things she does, or doesn’t want things she deserves, or doesn’t desire someone who desires her just as she is —  is a game of pretend that she’s grown out of.

Because she wants the kind of man who can stand up and stand by her side — and loves that she’s imperfect. Because he sees those so-called imperfections as human. As valuable and beautiful. As things that make him feel free to be the perfectly, imperfect guy that he is, too.

In matching gloves and coats, they kept their padded hands interlocked, laughing at their lack of flexibility and dexterity as they twirled and whirled around the rink. The snow had stopped, but the air was cool enough to transform their breath into puffy white gusts, enhancing their lust with every movement they made. I watched them dance across the ice, imagining what they must feel like, where they’re from, if they were in love or just starting — or rather, trying not — to fall. They were just tiny figurines in a world that was right at my fingertips — or 30 floors down — and yet, whoever they were, felt miles and miles away.

It was my first Christmas in the city — and it was everything I dreamed it’d be. Brightly-colored windows and sparkling streets, festive cocktails and events that called for girls in blue dresses with white satin sashes, and snowflakes that definitely stuck to my nose and eyelashes. New York was merrier than ever, but I, was not.

I had been writing this blog for just a few months and Mr. Unavailable had yet to turn into Mr. Possibility — though by then, we were having back-to-back sleepovers, both figuratively and literally. And so, when he asked if I wanted to hang out for an hour in his office while he finished up some work on a late Saturday evening, I obliged. While he was busy doing whatever it was he was doing, I found my way to a bay window in one of his partner’s offices and I curled myself up to the glass, overlooking Rockefeller.

And though my heart was full of hope for the things to come, as it always has and will be, seeing the city unfold in the cold made me incredibly sad.

I was working at a business magazine that never really fit me, I was in the tiniest of apartments in a not-so-great part of town, I was seeing someone that I was never convinced would turn into anything more, and though I knew I made the right choice in moving to the North, I was afraid that all I ever wanted — all that I came here to find — was unattainable. The job, the place, the life, the man — were those all things I put on a Christmas wish list that no one, not Santa Clause or Donald Trump (they’re one in the same, right?) — could shimmy down my chimney?

Don’t fall out, Tigar! And hold still. Mr. P said and interrupted my negative parade of thoughts. You look so pretty sitting there, what are you thinking? he asked.

In as few words as I could muster, I explained my frustration and he carefully reassured me that I’d capture everything I came here to chase — but that it takes time. And that in a year, everything could be completely different and extraordinarily better.

I’d rather not admit that he was ever right about anything, but in this case he was — a year later in December 2011, I found myself a building over, in 30 Rock, celebrating with my colleagues the lighting of the infamous tree. This time though, Mr. P and I had been broken up for a few months, and I was still pinching myself that somehow, miraculously, I landed the job I really wanted. That Christmas, I didn’t have to sit in someone else’s window to see the view, I didn’t look longingly at the crowd and wonder when my happiness in New York would begin — instead, with champagne in hand and two friends by my side, we toasted to the year ahead…

 

 

 

A year that is now almost over.

And one that’s been full of many surprises and travels, great and terribly bad dates, weddings and new friendships, fun projects and challenging experiences, difficult commitments and farewells that seemed premature, even if they were very necessary. But more than anything in 2012 — the one thing I’ve felt the most is a sense of completion. The feeling that I can give myself a moment to breathe, a second to enjoy the fact that I came and conquered, that I’ve managed to be secure and happy in a place that is mostly, neither of those things. And by the ways of the blog — or maybe just growing up — I’ve also found that peace within myself that I needed. The peace to be alone so that one day — I’m hoping! — I’ll find someone who is also at peace with himself, too.

Reading posts this time in 2010 or 2011 is like reading words from someone else — a girl that exists somewhere down inside of me, but has changed so much in such little time. I’m not overlooking Rockefeller this year since the holiday party isn’t at 30 Rock but I will go visit. To watch those playful skaters and see their cheeks rosy and their hearts overflowing. To see the lights reflect against each other, and to light a candle for everyone I love at St Patrick’s, just a block away.

But there’s no need to be above it because I’m not admiring from afar, it’s not out of my reach, it’s not some far-fetched, romantic idea that exists only in those dreams I let myself think about alone in bed. I’m not the woman who needs to long, instead I can stand in the crowd, shivering in the 30-and-below weather along with everyone else, enjoying the evening. Enjoying the splendor that is Rockefeller in December. Because, there’s no envy in my eyes or in the darkest spots of my soul — even if I haven’t found quite everything I came to New York to find, I’ve managed to seek out most of it.

And if time is the measure of change, the maverick that makes everything move and twirl, dance and whirl — then maybe next year I won’t stand along the flags in the crowd. Maybe next year, I’ll be one of those skaters, hand-in-hand with the right man. Or at least, a man I love.