Category Archives: Step 4

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My Date with Freedom

New York is in its most amazing prime: fall.

The leaves are changing, the weather is ideal for a light weight everything, and each sight you see is just absolutely gorgeous. To celebrate the majesty of the season, I decided to take myself on a date. If I am falling in love with little ol’ me, part of the romance is treating myself to a day with me, myself, and I.

After a three-mile run, I dressed up in a tight black sweater dress and high-heeled brown boots with my leopard print pashmina, and headed to the subway. For days, some little voice inside my head had been telling me to go to the Met; so, for once, I listened.

When the train arrived at 86th street, I headed through the park, around the reservoir to look at the changing colors and the beauty of the sun reflecting against the water while the wind tousled my hair. Every single direction I looked, I was captivated by how perfectly peaceful the city can be -even with so many people constantly surrounding you.

I walked slowly and freely, observing and taking in everything around me. I turned off my iPod, I put up my phone, and I embraced the simplicity and the stillness of just being alone. I didn’t have to talk to anyone, discuss what to do next, or where to go: I only had to speak to myself. When I wanted to stop and stare, I stopped. When I was bored, I continued. When my feet hurt, I sat down. When I wanted a water, I got some. And of course, I took pictures of the skyline.

As I walked through the park, I saw beautiful babies in strollers and toddlers playing catch with their dads. I saw couples holding hands and stealing a kiss. I watched tourists figure out their next move, and New Yorkers push their way through them. I heard languages of every kind and sirens in every direction. I brushed by friends giggling at a share secret and artists bargaining for a fair price for their original design. I witnessed a homeless man begging for a dime and runners brisk by me without missing a beat. The park’s energy was vivid and real, unforgiving, and relentless. It was superbly New York.

Once I reached the Met, I carefully wiggled my way between crowds, made my donation, and explored the vicinity. I walked through centuries of artists, rooms from long ago, and sculptures that once lived on four different continents. I smiled at strangers, half-way examined my map, and continued through each room thinking of all the people who have seen, touched, and been part of every single piece in the museum. I admired a couple vigorously discussing a piece of art before turning to each other and smiling, and the gentleman kissed his wife’s head.

And of course, as I crossed into the medieval room, I found a knight-in-shining armor. I tilted my head at him and decided that since I was on a date with myself, it wouldn’t be polite to dream of the man who once was in that suit. And then again, I thought I wouldn’t want to because it looks very stiff and painful –not quite something I’d like to snuggle up to.

Once I reached the top floor, I realized how tired my feet were getting, and that the sun was just beginning to set. I looked through the window and watched the trees dance in the breeze, and for a moment the world paused. New York felt like home just as it always has, but the peace of it started to settle in my soul. And when I feel good in my soul, I always want to have some lovely red wine to sit well in my tummy.

So off I went, back through the park, crossing landmarks and even more strangers. I walked passed bridges and lovers, pennies on the ground, pigeons hopping along, and faces of every shape and kind. I didn’t touch up my makeup and I didn’t feel cold or lonely -just confident. I walked until I was on the West side near my train and found a cute Italian restaurant that looked to the east.

I asked for a table for one outside and a kind Italian man brought me a menu and a gracious smile. I ordered a tall glass of wine, a tomato and goat-cheese salad with bread, and ate every single bite while I read an old book I’d been meaning to read for weeks. I listened to the wind and the conversations around me. I observed the people walking by: families and friends, women with babies, women in heels. Men with collared shirts and running clothes, children laughing and playing in the streets. Elderly couples bickering at each other, women drinking Starbucks, and smoking cigarettes. The city was embracing its people and as an observer, I took full advantage of the presentation. The diversity is beautiful.

The date ended with a walk back to my apartment, just about ten blocks, and I thought of how truly blessed I am to live here. To live in the one place I’ve always, always wanted to live. And for the first time, I realized how lucky I am to be single.

Before the cute little girls in pink jackets who will call me “Mommy”. Before the man who will come up behind me and wrap his arms around me and whisper in my ear. Before the ten pounds that will most likely come with age. Before the canes and the wrinkles. Before the bills and the heavy decisions. Before I no longer can call this city my home address. Before I must consider another person with every single choice I make, road I take, or direction I go. Before there are loads of laundry and dishes to wash that aren’t mine. Before there are soccer games and retirement plans and houses to keep up. Before there are in-laws and anniversaries, birthdays, and graduations. Before I am part of a ‘we’. Before I am a mother. Before I am a wife. Before I am menopausal. Before…the rest of my life, I have one of the most precious gifts anyone can ever have, and many have fought for: freedom.

The freedom to just be. To just go. To walk or to run. To stop or to play. To wonder or to discover. To believe or to question. To cry or to smile. To wake up and travel or sleep in and to stay. To hope or to disdain. To achieve or to succumb. To be…

…me.

It was the best date of my life. And I know, with my whole heart without any doubt or insecurity, that I’ll call the next day. And me, will still be there waiting.

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It Was the Spring of 1985

Back in the late Spring of 1985, a woman named Kim and a man named Jim met at a bar.

Because it was the 80’s, Kim sported a black jumpsuit on her tiny (but sexy, of course) 120-pound-frame, and Jim wore an all white outfit…with the buttons undone to show his tanned chest.

It wasn’t exactly the ideal night for either of them –Jim was the DD for the evening and Kim wasn’t getting asked to dance like she usually did. They were both enjoying the scene and the company of their friends, but it wouldn’t go down in the books as an incredible night out.

It would however, be the night that fate played both of them an interesting card.

Jim saw Kim from across the room and as the tales will always tell –he just knew. He knew whoever this woman was, whatever her status or name or style, that she was the one who was designed for him. He knew he would marry her.

Kim however, wasn’t too keen on the idea. After dancing with Jim, she found him cocky and arrogant, and of course he was a damn Yankee from New Jersey, while she was a sweet and sassy gal from North Carolina. Kim’s friend saw the spark between them and without informing Kim first, gave Jim her phone number.

Every weekend from May until about November, Jim called Kim and asked her out on a date. And every single time, Kim had plans –and yet, Jim would call back in a week just to see if maybe she was free. One night, Kim saw a shooting star and for some reason, thought of Jim, and like clockwork, he called the next day to ask her out. Finally, because something told her to just give him a chance, she agreed to go hiking on the parkway.

And there, on top of a mountain, Jim put his arms around Kim…and then she too, just knew. Right there in front of her and on her answering machine was the guy she had waited for, for so long. The guy who against all odds and all her rejection, just knew he wanted her and only her. A month later, Jim proposed, and in February of 1986, the two got married in a little church on a little budget…with lots of love.

Now, 25 years later, they are still happily married and very much in love. Together, they have flipped several houses, traveled, and seen the worse of the worse, and passed the most difficult of trials. Yet, at the end of the day or the end of a very long battle –they still fought for one another and for the love they found in that bar and on that mountain.

And of course, they had one daughter –a 22-year-old writer with her mother’s spunk and her father’s charm, living in New York City.

My parent’s love story is an absolutely amazing one and it’s one that I hope I’ll have one day. I got lucky that my parents are both independent and strong people, and when they haven’t been, I have watched as they have held each other to support them. I admire both of them for their courage and their ability to forgive each other with such honesty, such sincerity, and such unconditional love.

Being an only child, you really get a firsthand and bird’s eye view into the marriage of your mom and dad because you’re around them all the time. I’ve learned a lot about what it means to truly, full-heartedly, and completely love someone by watching my parents and how they handle situations that came up.

While I won’t get into my father’s illness just yet (which is a huge part of my love addiction in some ways), I will say that the period in my family’s life was awful. It pushed not only my father, but my mother and I to the furthest point we could go. It brought us together, it broke us down, made us realize our strength, and tore us apart. And after the ordeal finally came to a close –there was a lot of picking up to do.

What amazed me was how easily and how kindly my parents just…fell back to one another. Sure, the six-year period of ups and downs was not forgotten, but instead of holding a grudge or being angry or upset, my mom welcomed, embraced, and celebrated my father’s health. And my dad made a promise to spend the rest of his life making up the time they lost.

So, if step 4 is about going back and digging into my own relationships, I think merit has to be given to my parents. To the shining example of love and endurance and trust that they embody. To the two people who I truly believe can do anything.

Thank you, mom and dad for teaching me what true love is and to never strive for less than those sparks. You’re with me wherever I go, always.

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Washing the Walls of Relationship Residue

My childhood bedroom is covered, nearly wall-to-wall with memorabilia. I’m notorious for hanging up inspirational quotes, pictures from magazines, old photos, letters from friends, New Yorky items, and all kinds of this-and-that. basically, I like to be surrounded by things that give me hope.

The last time I was home in June, I traced the walls with my eyes, reading and looking at everything that I hung up because I decided it was significant. I thought of all the things that once graced the space and I removed to make room for something more important. From gymnastic ribbons and poetry awards to Central Park postcards and brochures about Columbia –the walls that surrounded me reflected my growing pains and triumphs. Over the years, my tastes changed along with my goals and perspective –but some things I never cleared off the baby blue walls: love quotes.

Literally, they were (and are) everywhere: on index cards along the border of the ceiling, highlighted in black frames sitting on my bookshelf, scribbled on notebook paper and placed next to my bed… the list goes on and on. It seems as if, regardless of when and why I changed, my admiration for love never went away, and I always needed to be encouraged to remember it (or rather he) is still out there.

I haven’t had a ton of love in my life, but I’m under the belief that quality is much more important than quantity. I’m also 22 years old and I don’t think it’s realistic to say I’ve been in love countless times. Of these relationships, some  have been deeply rooted and lengthy, while others that still are significant to me, only lasted a matter of weeks. But of course, to each their own.

Like love quotes, wall hangings, photos of people I haven’t spoken to in years, and broken heels –I don’t let go of old relationships easily. And I hardly, unless forced, throw things or people away. So needless to say, a large part of my addiction to love is really an addiction to the past. Most of my struggle is not only believing there is a tomorrow (or that I’d be okay without ever finding love. Gulp.), but realizing flames that burned out months or years ago did so for a reason.

Before I can move forward in this journey, I realize I need to go back to the very beginning, and discover what parts of my thinking and analyzing past relationships needs to be corrected. In many ways, I need to alleviate myself of any longing, questioning, hoping, or fearing that’s leftover from love.

I really have to wash away relationship residue so I can have a clean slate for whatever is to come.

So, I’ll need to go back and think about Mr. Curls, Mr. Faithful, Mr. Rebound, Mr. Buddy, Mr. Fire, Mr. Fling, and Mr. Idea. There have been a fair share of additional Mr.’s on the roster over time, but these have specifically impacted me and my love addiction. And while all of them will hold a special place in my heart (and some have pieces of my soul), I have to still let go of a few…no matter how hard it may be.

When I think of my childhood room, I think of all of these guys. I think of talking on the phone in middle school with the chord wrapped around me and making love for the first time with my first love. I think of dreaming about going to college and having a friend become more unexpectantly. I think of crying more than I ever thought possible right before leaving for the best summer in New York and the coldness of an up and down relationship. And I think of the intense sting in the core of me after sharing such intimate parts of myself with someone who ultimately didn’t become what I envisioned he would.

Now, that room is in my past. Eventually, it won’t even be my room anymore, but a room in my parent’s house that once harbored all of my belongings. When I go home for Christmas, I’ll strip down the walls and clean it out to make room for a new transformation…and I’ll do the same to my heart.

Lucky for me, when I come back from dismantling my childhood room, I will enter an apartment that holds no memories or reminders of lost love. It’s a place that’s just me and only highlights the long journey I made to make my dreams my reality.

Yet, on a dry-erase board when you first walk into my apartment, there is a simple quote that says, “She packed up her potential and all she had learned, grabbed a cute pair of shoes, and headed out to change a few things.”

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Just Go With It

And so, I decided to be spontaneous. Yesterday was an incredibly stressful and long day -I spent 10 hours at a trade show and then went to the gym (like a crazy person, as my boss said), and then…Mr. Sushi texted.

It started casual and then we realized we were both free, and he asked if I wanted to grab a drink. I agreed, but only after I made sure he was throwing an appetizer in the mix too because I was starving. We met near Columbia and the conversation was effortless, and the food was great (the sangria even better). I found myself having a very nice time…and trying much less.

As I said before, I am the master of the first date. I know what to say, how to say it, what to look for, and where to spot it. But this time, after all my progress, I let my guard down a little. I just let the conversation go and I didn’t try to take control. I listened to what he had to say and he asked me questions in a natural flow. It was easy and it was simple…and I’m not exactly sure what I think, but it was one of the best first dates I’ve been on in a long time.

I’m not picturing a wedding in the Hampton’s or picking out the names of our imaginary children, like I usually do. And that’s good. In fact, that shows me that I’m actually gaining sincere and true confidence in myself. It proves that my carriage is not in front of my horse, but behind where it belongs. Or maybe it shows that I’m not smitten yet -either way, I think it is a positive result.

Mr. Sushi walked me home, kissed me at my doorstep, and apparently, we’re watching his favorite movie on Monday with a bottle of wine and takeout. My guess is that he’s a fan of the kisses and wants more, which for my trying-to-not-be-addicted-to-love self could be a good or a bad thing. We’ll see (and of course I’ll update you).

Step 4 is about going back and figuring out where problems originated and I think it’s a healthy discovery. A few of my ex-boyfriends have been contacting me this week (I think my higher power likes to play with me sometimes), and honestly, it has gotten me a little down. I’ve felt that longing and that intense sadness, and I’ve missed them. But – it is because of my newfound security and (if I may) bravery, that I’ve been able to overcome these thoughts.

Nevertheless, even though Mr. Sushi is a possibility, what’s more important to me is finding self-love. So no, I’m not cold, I’m just focused. I like where I am at in this process and I love the person I’m becoming (or maybe just finding?). With or without any of the past loves or any loves-to-be – I want to know that at the end of the day, the journey, the story – I can always, always, always, depend on myself.

I want to know that if his movie sucks, the wine is awful, and he picks some icky takeout place, that I won’t be disappointed, but instead, like I have been lately -I’ll just laugh and call it another one for the book (you better believe there is a book!). I want to know that I can just go with it.

Just simply, effortlessly, and sincerely – just go.

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Am I Becoming Cold?

A few days ago I was asked out on a date.

While out to dinner at one of my favorite NYC restaurants, my friend, S, and I were hit on by an adjacent table of 10 guys celebrating…who knows what? Saki bombs and sushi rolls were plenty, and so was the level of annoyance. However, there was one guy, who I’ll call Mr. Sushi, who was a little different and stood out from the pack of immature “men.”

Mr. Sushi is nearly 30 (which is fine by me), tall, and has a good career. He just returned from a three-month trek around the world to discover countries, places, and people he has always wanted to see. He lives in the Upper West Side, originally from New Jersey, and we both share a love for this tiny little diner near Columbia (his alma mater).

Once he asked for my number, I told him, “Now, you better wait the allotted three days to use it, ok?” He laughed at my attempt at a joke and promised he’d put my digits to use. As my friend and I stood up to leave, he stood up too, to hug me. As we embraced, his friends started chanting “Kiss her! Kiss her!” A little tipsy from the evening’s spirits, I couldn’t figure out for the life of me what they were talking about, and Mr. Sushi couldn’t either –until we looked at each other and it clicked.

Then, the hole-in-the-wall restaurant caught on and every table joined in saying “Kiss her! Kiss her!” Mr. Sushi leaned down to my ear and said “We have to or we’ll disappoint everyone…and never get to come back here.” I agreed, and there in the middle of everyone, he dipped me and kissed me. Yes, there was a little tongue.

The next morning, I realized how little it bothered me. I told my mom about the exchange, she got excited (mainly because he’s a Taurus) and she asked me about it the following day, when he had yet to text. I thought the kissing-in-the-middle-of-the-restaurant was a cute story, but I wasn’t a nervous nelly because he didn’t contact me.

And once he did, three days later (of course), I was surprised to hear from him (mainly because I kind of forgot). He asked me out the following night, but I already had plans, and unlike the former me, I didn’t break them just to go on a date. I gave him my availability and he worked around my schedule. After the exchange, I left it alone, and it didn’t consume my thoughts.

Progress? I’m not getting my hopes up –which is good (right?). Or was I just not that into him? And is it bad if I don’t get my hopes up period anymore?

I’m praying this process doesn’t take away my lavish optimism and admiration for love. I still want to desire falling in love and having that once-in-a-lifetime romance, but I don’t want it to overpower my thoughts and my confidence. I want to be completely content and in love with myself, but I still want to get excited about possibility with someone else.

Is there a happy medium? Or does being un-addicted to love mean you lose that hopeful whimsical nature? Can I be okay with not being in love or having a relationship and still get those incomparable butterflies-in-your-tummy feeling?

Should I be getting excited about this date or is it bad that it doesn’t faze me at all? Am I becoming cold? Or is it just the weather?