Category Archives: Step 4

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It’s Not So Bad

My last day in Puerto Rico, I woke up to find sand in my sheets and a little tequila hangover — both souvenirs from the night before. Along the beach closest to my resort, there were three tiny huts that passed as bars and after realizing they were where the locals go, I vowed to eat dinner at one for a true Puerto Rican experience.

As I was sitting alone with my Mofongo, reading Condenast Traveler, sipping a Mojito and listening to the ocean, the table across from me — two girls and a guy — waved me over to join them. (Here’s a snippet of the man, trying on my shoes!)

That gesture is what I loved most about PR and about traveling alone: everyone is so welcoming and accommodating, and they can’t stand to see you by yourself, so they don’t let you. I didn’t know if I’d get used to flying solo for four nights and five days, and luckily I didn’t have to- every place I went, the beach, the pool, the local shops, the resort grounds, the bus, I made friends. Everyone called me courageous and a little crazy because they couldn’t believe I would choose to vacation with only my company, so they kept me company to ease their (and my) mind.

I found a North Carolina themed bar on top of the Intercontential with two gals from D.C. I met by the tiki bar while chatting up Pedro, the bartender with a crooked, crazy smile. I heard about the woes of professional soccer – or really, the lack of financial opportunity – from my 20-year-old massage therapist who’s currently going through a “rough patch” with his girlfriend. I helped the guy who made the best iced coffee I’ve ever had plan his proposal to his lady of six years (it’s on May 20th!). And then there was the friendly older man who sat next to me on the bus and asked if I’d tell New York “Hola” for him, since I only live about 20 blocks from where he grew up. I met three sets of Honeymooners, from Texas to Brooklyn. An older, drunken man playing the guitar on the cobble-stoned streets of Old San Juan asked if I’d be his wife, and when I politely declined, he offered his equally intoxicated friend instead.

I sat on the beach at nighttime, covered in sand and feeling the warm water tickle my toes, talking to a Puerto Rican cardiologist with deep green eyes about literally healing a heart. I walked with three families and a couple through the tropical rain forest, and a little girl with blonde curls fell asleep on my shoulder on the way back. I listened to a woman with age spots and wild white hair read her favorite poem in Spanish, and then do her best to translate that it advised when you let go of something or someone, you should do it with love, not hate. Then there was the man who made pottery at the resort and let me spin the wheel, and another woman with piercing blue eyes who told me the locally-made bracelet I selected would bring me luck. And the couple I shared the breathtaking moment when walking by the colorful, historic buildings downtown, a rainbow appeared across the Puerto Rican sky.

I thought about these characters, trying to figure out the lessons I was supposed to learn from these chance encounters, while watching the clear sea splash to the shore that last morning. While I had met and experienced so many adventures in my short time on this island, I was worried I wouldn’t find the inspiration I came looking for. Traveling to this unfamiliar place, I hoped I would find something inside of me that made me believe again – maybe in myself, maybe in the universe as a whole, or maybe just in love. I didn’t come to Puerto Rico to find myself or to rediscover the person I once was, but to let myself be still, be on my own, and let whatever was to happen, happen. That, and get a tan – which quickly became a difficult task with my Irish roots and the fact that I can barely stand still, much less lay still for hours to bake in the sun. But at ten in the morning, sipping coffee to wake me up (and rid of that tequila) I was determined to at least come back with a sunburn, so people would believe I actually went on vacation.

However, as it often does, the tropical rain came without warning, and at full torrential force. I watched as the tourists threw towels and hats over their heads and ran to shelter under the palm trees or the security of their lofty hotel balconies. The Puerto Ricans, though, ran in the opposite direction – toward the ocean, letting the rain be a playful turn in the afternoon, not the end of it. I hunched under my umbrella with my soaked towel draped across me half-way looking out at the scattered scene, while partly trying to keep dry. Though I was trying – very hard – to find my Zen before leaving PR and to discover peace in this place, I couldn’t help my annoyance at the weather. The sun was now entirely hidden, and I worried that I’d be forced to spend my last day here, cooped up in the hotel, ordering room service and watching movies in Spanish with English subtitles.

Just as I was about to follow suit and race back to the room, a Puerto Rican man with a Corona-belly walked past me to join his family in the water, and said:

“It’s not so bad!”

I’m sure he was just encouraging the embarrassingly pale lady he noticed hiding, but those four little words were exactly what I needed to hear. Did I really care if the magazine and cover-up in my beach bag became saturated? Did I have makeup on? Did it really matter if the rain-and-wind mix made me a tad chilly for ten minutes?

Or really, did I have anything in New York to escape from? Is a tender heart that’s been a bit bruised or the stress of a full and robust life anything to really complain about? Or are those things, these unexpected — and sometimes difficult – parts of existing that really make life worth living? Aren’t the times when you’re aching or you’re afraid of the unknown that really, your soul is just awakening? That you’re discovering what you’re made of? What you can do without the help of anyone else, without speaking the same language of strangers, old lovers or friends who know you best?

Why was I hiding under that umbrella, convincing myself that the day I had planned was now ruined? Why did I let myself live under a similar shelter in New York – staying away from anything that could really hurt or put me out of my comfort zone, keeping anything that could make me vulnerable far out of reach? Isn’t it time to just…live? Time to let the weather take whatever course it’s meant to take?

So I dropped my bag, towel and sunglasses and ran to join the locals in the angry waves. The rain stung at first, but then the water felt even warmer than before, and the spirit of those in the sea was joyful because they know a little rain never stops anything for long. It always passes. You just have to be brave enough to let it fall. Brave enough to let it hit your skin and wash away all that you thought you wanted so you can find something you didn’t know you needed. Like a swim in the tropical rain on a tropical island, all by yourself.

And you know what? He was right. It wasn’t so bad after all. It was actually, beautiful.

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Single Is As Single Does

After a brisk three-mile run on Central Park North Thursday evening, I stopped by my local grocery store to pick up two very specific things: olive oil and barbeque chicken. My roommates and I have recently discovered kale chips and now we’re all making them – almost nightly – so olive oil has been quite the popular ingredient (if you don’t know how to make kale chips, read this. No seriously, do it – they’re amazing and super easy. And you know, good for you). I blame my craving for bbq on my Southern upbringing, but when the deli on theUpper West Sideoffers it, you know it can’t just be for the transplants. Plus, the patty I selected was heart-shaped, how could I resist?

Listening toFlorence& the Machine as I heated up my chicken and tore off tiny pieces of greens before smothering them in garlic salt and oily goodness, it hit me:

Wow, I actually like being single.

For a lot of folks – and the majority of my beautiful, independent friends – this concept isn’t a revelation as much as it’s fact. But for me, the girl who notices with poultry is loving-looking and still cries at the predictable sweet happy-ending even when she’s seen it countless times, noticing the comfort of being a minus-one is quite the accomplishment. It took me a year-worth of writing blogs, one terribly difficult heartbreak that still aches most days, and lots of self-encouragement and reassurance to get to this place.

Or if I’m honest (which I always make my very best attempt to be), it took a hell of a lot more than that. It took drunken nights in college, pining over guys in polos I thought were awfully adorable (though were really quite pathetic), trying to be the cool gal who could keep up with them beer-for-beer. It took staying in relationships that were already dead-end before they began, because I was so desperately afraid of never finding love or being unloveable (as one guy told me once), that I decided to devalue my self-worth so I could hold the title of “girlfriend.” It took many, many instances of being a bad friend because I was so jealous that someone could find what I wanted so badly, and for whatever reason, I could not. It took me standing in front of the mirror nit-picking my body, my face – my everything – because I imagined men wouldn’t like me or find me beautiful if I wasn’t perfect.

It’s all of those reasons and ones that I’m unintentionally (or maybe intentionally) forgetting that I started this blog in the first place – one giant gesture to myself to love who I was, sans man. But that was in September of 2010, and now we’re nearly half-way through 2012, and I finally made it.

I finally did it.

In that time, I met, fell in love and broke up with a man who couldn’t love me back in the way I deserved or wanted. In that time, I moved apartments and created an entirely new circle of friends, some of which I’ll know and love the rest of my life. I left the starter job to find the dream career, and received way more attention from this URL than I intended. I went up and down a few sizes, found a workout routine I really like, and experienced my first Brazilian wax. I became a New Yorker (by my own definition) and I discovered each borough, except Staten Island, which really, doesn’t count anyway. I grew and changed, took ten steps back and a few forward, said things I regretted and bit my tongue more than I should. I sacrificed my beliefs and standards, and then stood up for myself, over and over again, day-end and day-out.

I’ve done a lot, and for that I’m really proud of myself. But what makes me the happiest isn’t a fancy title or a nice apartment, going to places I couldn’t afford but now can, or the fact I’ll be on my first solo-trip to Puerto Rico in a matter of days.

It’s that I learned the most difficult lesson (for me anyway), there is to learn: single is, as single does.

Like anything that’s worth anything – the way to success or to self-fulfillment has more detours and less straight-and-narrow directions. The route is curved and complicated, frightening and at times, as much as we try to avoid it, self-destructive. Learning to be single is less about buying for one or figuring out how to sleep in the middle of the bed, and more about perception.

However you see it, whatever image or definition you give it, that’s what it’ll be. And how it’ll feel.

Sadly, for most of my 20-something life, I’ve closed my eyes and fearfully envisioned myself as a pasty-white, wrinkled prune of an old woman, nursing my ten cats and waking up to a cold bed, morning after morning, disgustingly alone and so beyond bitter that I’m apathetic. I’ve worried that by the time I met the right person, I would no longer look stunning in a wedding gown, or worse, my ovaries would be way past their expiration date and babies would be out of question. I’ve defined being single as not good enough or pretty enough or smart enough. And then again, as being too strong-willed or independent, too much of this and not enough of that. Really, just that I wasn’t able to be loved for reasons beyond myself that I couldn’t change.

But that’s not what single is like – at least for me now, six months after the end of one possibility, and finally dealing with the hurt that came with a slow demise. Today, single means opportunity, and even more possibility than I’ve experienced before. It means I get to be on my own schedule, do what I want without considering another person each and every single moment. It means not having to answer to anyone or anything about my choices or my plans. It means I’m blessed to meet and enjoy other people – for brief periods of time or longer – and learn about what makes me happy. It means I can explore and navigate the city however I see fit, and that if the mood strikes me, kiss a stranger – or two – or not. It means that I’m thankful for (instead fearful of) this time flying solo, because the reality is, even if I don’t get married until 35 (Southern people, drop your jaw in unison), I’ll still spend the majority of my life promised until-death-do-you-part with someone else. It means that love could always be closer than I think, or further away, but that it doesn’t quite matter because I’m content here. I’m content now. With just me as my companion, with the life I’ve created, with the woman I’ve become. I didn’t do it all by myself and I’ve been luckier than most, but more than anything, even in those dark moments where I only put myself down, I still believed.

I’ve always believed in what I was capable of and what I was made of: lots of fiery passion and determination, an insatiable curiosity and a rose-colored imagination that always sees the best in people and in situations. And though I’m satisfied with where I’ve landed and where I’m at in this moment — sitting at a laundry mat before dinner with my fabulous gay husband — I’ll always still be the girl who believes in herself, but also in love and that one day I’ll find a person who feels the same way.

But for now, single is as single does. And single is what I’m damned proud to be. Finally.

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Those Days Will Come

Riding back from Sunnyside Sunday morning after a night spent conquering blocks in four inch nude heels that weren’t mine, I watched the city get closer.

And I remembered when it felt — and was — so far away.

Nothing hurt more than the sight of reality when I returned from my internship in NYC during college. I traded the incredible views and interesting people for classes that I didn’t want to take and homework I couldn’t make myself care about. In a particularly depressing afternoon when I flipped through photos from my Manhattan summer adventures for about the 100th time, I called my mom in desperation, complaining that I was stuck on campus when I belonged in taxi cabs and coffee shops, writing and loving, learning and exploring in a place where the view wasn’t mountains, but skyscrapers. She did her best to console me and then sweetly warned: “Don’t wish your life away, those days will come but these days will end.”

I didn’t heed her cautionary advice then but I understand it now. Now that this city is my home and I’ve yet to return to the college town I took for granted most of the time I was there. And as much as I can’t believe it– I do miss those days. They’ve come and they’ve gone, just like high school, just like the days when dreaming of being a writer was just a dream. Just like my first year in New York. Just like my second. The days when I was a new soul on these old streets are included in my memories, just as much as the afternoons I spent dozing in the vast green of  my multi-acre backyard, imagining of the life I would one day lead.

A life that is very much a reality now, even if I still pinch myself and tap my heels three times just to make sure I’m really home.

I go to sleep with the city on my skin, hearing the same familiar sounds on Amsterdam outside my window. I take a train each morning
where, against all odds and population estimates, I recognize faces. I sit close to people every day that I may never see again and the people who mean the most to me here, I didn’t know five years ago. Not even two years ago. I pay New York taxes, I’ll vote here in November and next year, my license will be from the Empire State. My step will never resemble a saunter again – though I do know it is an art – and I can’t imagine living in a place where bagels were not an option. I know my way and the way has brought me far– letting me fall in love and out of it, both with men, myself and this zip code.

So much behind me, so many days I’ve lived and people I’ve known. So many who have entered my life and left it, a handful who I hope I’ll never have to learn how to let go of. So many lips I’ve kissed and hearts I’ve felt. So many I’ve wished I could hold longer than I was allowed to.  Countless boxes packed with things I’ve now donated and books I can’t give a summary of if I tried. Clothes and clothes (and clothes!), some I never wore, some I wore until my friends made me throw out. Frames with rotating pictures based on time and place, relationship status and mood. Things I thought I wanted until I had them, but couldn’t find the receipt, notes from friends and family, cards from those I’ll never see again.

Postcards that remind me of where I’ve been, journals that illustrate how I got here, and clippings of where I hope to be. Of what I hope to find. What I imagine I’ll create and who I’ll love. Of the stories I’ll piece together, and the ones I’ll write without even knowing. Of the days I sometimes, desperately want to come.

Those days where I have everything figured out. When I know exactly where I’m going, how to get there, and that it’s the place I want to go. Those days when I’ve already done the dirty work of dating and mating and relating, and I’ve somehow managed to come out on the other end, only slightly wounded and barely bitter, ready to love someone and let them love me in return. Those days where weekend plans seem fancier and pricier because my budget can allow. Those days when my savings actually amount to something, and so do the recipes that I’m no longer attempting, but perfecting. Those days when I’m free enough to travel the world but stable enough to afford it. Those days where nothing seems more beautiful or more perfect than waking up the sound of tiny footsteps racing down the hall on a Saturday morning, and together, the man I promised forever-and-ever to, we make pancakes like we did when we first moved in together.

I used to worry that those days never come.

That I’d never get to New York. That I’d never be an editor. That I’d never grow boobs or learn how to drive a  car or run a mile without passing out. That I’d never know what it felt like to be in love with someone. That I’d never be kissed. That I’d never be confident in my own skin. That I’d never roam the city like I owned it. That I’d never be anything more than a hopeful spirit that flew her way North but never quite landed. That I’d never be comfortable living one-hundred-and-ten percent on my own. That I’d never find everything I was looking for, or really, even know where to look.

But those days did come. Those days are now. And those days – where money is fluent, where love doesn’t feel like a Ferris wheel, where children are wished for (not something to try and avoid) – they will come too. And if If the last ten years are any indication, they will be here before I know it, before I have a moment to think or get too settled.

And these days will end. So why not enjoy them? Why not be single and full of life? Over-pouring with overpowering optimism that you can only have before you learn one-too-many hard lessons? Complete with energy and passion, ready for the next adventure, the big change to come, the first solo trip that only happens once? Letting love find its way to you while you focus your attention on other things – on things that you love, which ultimately, brings you right back to the very thing you were allowing to fall into place?

Besides – if you spend all your time waiting for those days that’ll come, you’ll never enjoy these days you have.

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I Let Myself Let Go

I let myself miss you today.

I rolled over mid-morning, groggily hoping you would be lying next to me. I kept my eyes tightly shut, and behind them I saw your mouth slightly open. I smelled your skin so close to me. I imagined the sunlight from the west cascading over your bare chest. I imagined the weight of your arm across my naked body. I ran my fingers in sweet circles around your face, until you wrapped your hand around mine and buried me in your grasp. You kissed the side of my head and wished me to sleep for just a little longer. Just for another hour.

I let myself miss you today.

I heard you call from the kitchen to wake me up. I felt the wind come through the open bedroom door. Happily smelling bacon and eggs, I wrapped the sheet around me and hobbled to see you standing in boxer briefs in front of the stove. You turned your head just enough to meet my grin, and you wished my morning well. Satisfied from the night spent with you, yet hungry for the energy I lost while love making, I sniffed my way toward you, kissing your back and letting you seep through me. You rushed me to the couch, where you brought me orange juice and a meal, and together we watched whatever we could find, ignoring the set as we talked over it. I sat Indian style, you sat so close our knees touched and for no reason at all, you kissed my makeup-free cheek and called me beautiful.

I let myself miss you today.

I split that pitcher of coconut mojiotos you love so much, watching you chew on the sugar cane as you talked about the political spectrum I’m really not that interested in, but I’m interested in making you happy. I let you have the last dumpling. You kept your hand permanently on my knee in that little booth in that little corner of that little bar in Little Italy. I watched the dimples cave around your mouth. You didn’t even catch your breath before you complimented my blues in the sunset, and you said those three words that I’m so insanely terrified I’ll never mean again with anyone else. I squeezed your hand – and then your crotch – and you smiled, feeling that closeness. I watched your mischievous side come out and I instantly couldn’t wait to play with it.

I let myself miss you today.

I asked if you preferred the green or the red peppers in your stir fry, and you stuck your tongue out at me in response. I scrunched my nose to protest and grabbed each, commenting that we’d have colorful food, and you’d like it. You put another vanilla yogurt with Crunch in the cart and I pushed it along, thinking about the dinners we’d cook, the nights we’d share. I imagined your hair graying and that gym-made body turn into a beer-full tummy. I wondered what we’d say about these days, the ones where New York was our playground and everything felt right because we were side-by-side. I considered if I’d always love you this much, if it was possible to love anyone more than I did on Aisle 2 of the Krasdale, watching you debate two boxes of rice. You turned my way and asked my opinion. I went with the brown to keep you healthy, and in return, you rubbed your cheeks against mine and said those damn words that I wish I could hear just one more time.

I let myself miss you today.

I ran from the uptown station to my apartment, feeling the chilly April rain bounce off my skin. I turned the key to the place I share with four others, and collapsed into the bed I used to share with you. I couldn’t pinpoint where they came from or why, six months later, they still come at all, but they fled anyway. I tasted their salty solutions as they rested on my lips and I covered my face in embarrassment. I knew I had washed them dozens of times before, but I buried myself in the sheets, somehow determined to smell you again, or at least to remember. I thought of all the parts of myself I can’t repair, the feelings I can’t replace, and the me that I can’t recreate without you.

You weren’t here today, but you were with me. In these dirty streets and in their dazzling illusions of perfection. In that skyline view that you first showed me as I stood up through your sunroof on the BQE. In those bittersweet pictures where our eyes matched, along with our heart and our hopes. In those fragrant flowers on the street, in those drinks that I need to be a little stronger these days. And especially on these rainy days, where I wake up and decide that today, I’ll let myself miss you. I’ll let myself remember when we were happy and so was this city, both in the shine and in the downpour. And then before the night comes around to bring me another dawn, I’ll let that furious faith dissolve.

And then I’ll decide that today, I’ll let myself… let go. Because while I can’t forget, and certain Sundays (or Tuesdays), I may go back to another time, there’s only one place for you and I, now. Maybe it’s on those streets, in those drinks, in those memories or in those days.

But it’s not in the new places I find without your guidance or company, not in the cocktails I toast with my friends, not in the life I’m creating for myself, and not in this day. Not in the day I decide to let you go. Even if I miss the you I thought you were.

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Heart Off the Market

A few blocks from my work at a press dinner, I attempted to explain my blog to a new friend. As I casually classified these pages in the “dating, love and sex” category of the blogosphere, it occurred to me that it’s been a long time since I’ve written about any of those things.

To be a dating blogger, I haven’t written anything juicy or entertaining in quite some time. A new reader who stumbles across Confessions of a Love Addict — probably hoping to read something that’ll make them feel less like a crazy girl and more just-going-through-a-phase – wouldn’t find comfort in my recent posts.

Instead, they’d discover how six months later, I’m still partly nursing the wounds Mr. Possibility kindly left for me, some of which still feel as fresh as they were when the yellow chariot whisked me away from the location of our messy breakup, that still seems like a crime scene to me. They’d find beautiful love stories about a city that is quite wonderful, but not much about the men who roam in packs of bachelors, seeking something they’re not sure they want to find. They’d find stories from the past and hopes for the future, but nothing more than a scripted – or cryptic – sentence about the days I’m passing now.

They’d find nothing about dating because…I’m not dating.

For the first time (maybe ever) I have no desire to dive back into the field of eligibility and swim to find the next available man who will win my attention. My online dating profile still attracts messages but I don’t respond – often rolling my eyes at the notification as it pops up on my phone. I still get hit on by half-drunken men at bars, as well as sober dudes in hipster glasses who pass my way and stop to tell me I’m lovely. I smile in gratitude and continue on, happy for the compliment but uninterested in sitting through a dinner – or even a drink – with yet another stranger who could become a lover, but most likely will ultimately return back into the stranger I met on the street or at the bar.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not wearing black in depression over my lack of a dating life or bitter about the future. More than I believe in anything in this world, I believe in the capacity of the heart – my heart – to feel love. I don’t doubt that I’ll be romanced again one day, that I’ll feel all of those all-encompassing, thrill-inducing magical emotions that are so hard to digest at the time, and even harder to wash away post-relationship. I still catch myself imagining coming home to a lush apartment on the Upper West Side with my two children in tow, excitedly waiting the arrival of an adoring husband who will stop by the market to pick me up flowers on his way home from work. I will never lose my faith in love or my hope for all that it can really be one day, but I’m not aching for it.

There are simply just other things that occupy my mind right now. And things that I’d rather be doing than dating.

I’m happily keeping busy at work, continuously challenged by a job that loves me back as much as I love it. I’m trying – and failing – to save money for my trip to Puerto Rico, where I look forward to turning off every piece of technology and relishing in the quietness of a vast ocean. I’m running almost daily, finally wiggling back into the skinny jeans I rocked last summer. I’m signing up for adventures out of the city, looking into trapeze classes and reasons to explore New York more than I already have in the years I’ve lived here. I’m finding comfort in nights in by myself, watching television that’s bad for me and drinking wine that makes my heart better. I’m going to jazz concerts and singing karaoke, doing this and doing that – but wanting nothing to do with dating. Even if the lack of sex can be quite frustrating at times (but that’s for another post, another day.)

The truth is, if given the choice of running or drinks with another investment banker, I’d pick hanging out with the treadmill or Central Park West. If  my friends invited me to dinner and dancing, I’d much rather see them than joining a new man for a lavish four-courser by his work on a Friday night. Should there be an exhibit at the MET that I really want to see , I’d prefer the company of a gal- or just of myself – than another guy….who turns out to be just another guy.

Even if the perfect man, who says everything just as I want to hear it, who knows how to touch me, who has similar goals and is tall enough to make me stand on my tippy-toes and curl them at the same time – came waltzing into my life, I wouldn’t notice. And I wouldn’t be interested, either.

Because sometimes, you need a break from all the chaos. From the clashing of wine glasses and the first dates that feel like interviews (or worse —  second and third dates that feel like the first). From the process of getting to know someone without being convinced you’re interested or smitten with their attention. From applying lipstick when it doesn’t get kissed off, from pulling out the nicest heels for someone who doesn’t notice the shape of your legs. From the texting war, the waiting of the three-days and the anticipation of the very first kiss. From it all.

So for now, my heart’s off the market. It’s doing its own thing, keeping to itself and letting the rest fall into place, just as it should, just as it will anyway. This tough little heart will find its way somewhere one day — and maybe to someone too — but today, it’s just finding it’s place… in today.