Category Archives: Step 5

by - 13 Comments

Beauty, Blessings & Bird Poop

This weekend, I was in a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad mood.

When I left the office on Friday, I went out for a drink with a man, who was so incredibly boring he doesn’t even deserve a Mr. title on this blog. As he selfishly discussed himself and his only question to anything I told him was “Oh, well, will I be on the blog? I could be Mr. Dreamy,” -I thought of the many ways I could have a dramatic exit, shouting out words that for the time being, I’m censoring.

After letting him know I was busy, for, oh I don’t know, forever – I caught the train uptown, listened to angry-rock band music, and avoided eye contact with any other straphangers. By the time I made it to the grocery store, picked up a miniature pint of ice cream and two rom coms, I was beyond frustrated and annoyed – I was flat out sad.

Cuddled up in my bed, watching a flick I already know the plot and ending to, I wondered what was wrong with me. Here I was, on a Friday night after a so-called “date” – protecting myself from the cold and perhaps, from the stress that can sometimes come with going out for the night. I looked outside, across the way into the windows of buildings beside me, and decided I needed to make a genuine effort to be hopeful and put-together the next day, as spending one night of the weekend in bed was acceptable, but not two.

Needless to say, I didn’t put forth too much of a fight and even cancelled plans on my friend J – further making me feel miserable for being unreliable. But for whatever reason, the only thing in the entire world, in this big beautiful city, I had a desire to do was to curl myself up in bed again, far away from anyone and anything.

Realizing I was home and alone on a night I should be mingling, flirting, or at least giggling with my friends – I took out a fancy bottle of wine I received as a gift from my publisher’s wife, and decided to uncork it. I had intended on saving it for a celebration when the next monumental change happened in my life, but where there’s a thirst for Merlot, the only medicine to hit the spot is Merlot.

By glass number three, I had almost forgotten I was doing a 12-step program. I started examining myself in the mirror, pulling and tugging on what I thought was ugly, sucking it in, trying on jeans I already knew didn’t fit, and sighing, when low-and-behold, they didn’t zip up. I attempted to clean my apartment, while condemning myself for only doing laundry once a month and barely cleaning my dishes more than once a week. I then decided to get ahead on my freelancing and blog posts, but ended up lingering and nit-picking at my sentences, before concluding I just wasn’t as good of a writer as the day before. And then, the temptation of Facebook became too much to resist, along with that fourth glass of wine, and against my better judgment and lessons I’ve learned over the last five months – I stalked every ex-boyfriend I’m still linked to. After seeing one-kissy face too many, I started dreaming of all the things I’ve ever wanted and then worrying that I’ll never have them. That I’ll never reach my goals, that I’ll never work for the magazine I want to work for, that I’ll never have a nice apartment, that I’ll never own $700 shoes, that I’ll never (yep, here it is) fall in love again. As I thought of everything I desired, I settled on the fact that what I really needed right then and there was….a man.

A tall, muscular, loving and funny guy. One with a great story. One who amidst every other woman who walked the world, he wanted to stand side-by-side with me. And as I hid under the covers, pedicure socks on and all, I closed my eyes and imagined what it would feel like for him to wrap his arms around me, whisper “Baby, I’ll keep you warm,” and fall asleep with the stubble on his chin and the stickiness of his breath tickling the back of my neck.

This of course, got me to thinking of the last man who slept in my bed and I started wondering what was wrong with me that I didn’t accept Mr. Possibility’s offer for an all-expenses paid, week-long trip to stay with him while he’s overseas. I mean, the weather there is 70 and above, the beaches are warm, he’s staying in a multi-million dollar hotel that’s fancier than anything I could afford. Plus, I’d get to see him every single night, eat more shrimp than I can fathom, and did I mention the suite had one of those Jacuzzi tubs? Before drifting to sleep, I slightly came out of my negative Nancy mentality and remembered another gal’s possibilities had been on those sheets, and though it would have been wonderful – I’d rather have my dignity.

By the time Monday rolled around and I was stuck in the office, unlike most of Manhattan, I still couldn’t shake my unhappiness. With our next issue going to press on Friday and interviews, and deadlines between now and then, I had more than enough to focus on – but yet, my mind was scattered. I kept concentrating on all of my shortcomings and wondered if I was doing enough. Are there more ways I can promote the blog? Can I help people in areas I’m not touching on? Are my blogs getting worse? Is this where I should be in my career right now? Am I saving enough money? Should my run time be better? Is that a new zit on the side of my cheek, I mean, really?

When the clock struck one and I needed to hop the train to meet a mentor for lunch, I walked slow (which is unlike me) and everyone who crossed my path was victim to my notorious death stare that I can never seem to hide, even when I try (not that I was, though). As I listened to her give me advice, support, and praises, I kept telling her how nervous I was and how I didn’t know what to do. After nodding her head along, watching my glass (and attitude) continue to turn half-empty, she simply said: “You know, you’re on this journey to self-love and you believe in it – so why don’t you believe in yourself, as much as you believe in the process?” She had a point, but I still couldn’t shake my mood.

And then, as we were saying our goodbyes outside, I felt something fall from above and hit my pink peacoat, the side of my head, and my ear muffs. I look to figure out what it is and stick my leather gloves right into a nice, warm, splatter of bird poop. When she reassures me it isn’t that bad, I defiantly cut my eyes at the bird, who looks down, with his little happy bird face and twerps. Before I can figure out how to reach him and ring his neck, I hurry back into the café to clean myself off, in a huff.

As I’m wiping my hair, rinsing my gloves, thinking of dry cleaners in my neighborhood, and watching my eyes well up with tears I think, “Well, it’s appropriate isn’t it, Linds? You’ve been shitting on yourself all weekend, so of course, a bird is going to follow in your footsteps.”

And with that, I smile, shake my head, gather myself together, put on my current musical obsession, and head back to the train. Because sometimes, you just have to laugh at your ridiculousness, forgive yourself for having an off couple-of-days, and keep in mind that the point of a journey isn’t the destination, but the steps along the way. That even when you don’t feel lovely or like things are going in the right direction, there is always beauty and blessings to be found around each corner, if we remember to look for them.

There also happens to be bird poop, as well. But from what I hear, it’s a sign of good luck. Right?

PS: If you’re a fan of Confessions of a Love Addict, please take this survey for a chance to win beauty goodies!

by - 24 Comments

This is My Stop

After living in the city for a while, there are certain tricks you seem to master when it comes to public transportation. As an avid train rider (buses kind of scare me), I’ve learned exactly which part of the track to wait at, so when I get off at my stop, I’ll be the closest to the exit. I’ve grown accustomed to standing, without holding the rails, unless I absolutely have to. If I’m lucky, I always try to sneak a seat at the edge of the bench for more room and to make it easier to weave through a crowd of people to leave.

And, like every New Yorker you’ll see passing time before their ride arrives, I stare down the tracks, waiting impatiently for the train. Somehow, we’re all convinced that if we keep glaring down the dark passageway as we pace in our little areas or bravely lean up against something we probably shouldn’t – not only a train, but our train, will appear faster. Some people, who are far less afraid of falling than I am, basically project themselves to the very edge, just hoping to see a glimpse of the headlights. I’m not sure why this is necessary but no matter how long between swiping my Metro and stepping off the platform, I spend the majority of the time just gazing down the tracks.

Admitting the nature of my wrongs – I must confess that though I’m meant to be a leading lady, I’ve mostly been a lady in waiting. A woman who though she had a good head on her shoulders, her feet planted confidently in the ground, and all of the hope in the world bursting inside of her – she still felt like she was waiting for the pieces to fall together. I was glaring down at my own darkness and emptiness, unsure of when the next great thing or life-altering adventure would come pick me up and take me to my final stop.

Really, I was waiting for my love train to arrive.

This attitude made me an active observer of my life, instead of a participant. Though I was alive, I was not living because I felt like something was missing. And that if only I could catch the sight of the one thing I thought would fulfill all of my desolation, then I’d see the light at the end of the tunnel. That even if I couldn’t actually see the man, if I could rest assured that he was in fact coming, I wouldn’t have to keep waiting for him to get here. I could sit down, relax, and know that within at least an hour, he’d be by my side, and I wouldn’t have to fear falling in love, or to the ground, because he’d be there, no matter what.

But now, as a woman who is less afraid to stand on the brink of tomorrow – I realize there is no need to wait. Haven’t I been more than capable of finding, boarding, riding, and exiting all of the many transitions I’ve experienced? Haven’t I enjoyed the company of myself and content from the buzzing streets of Manhattan? Haven’t I found joy in the laughter of my friends, the surge of inspiration that comes from simply seeing my own byline, or the bravery that blooms from taking chances you know you’d regret if you never did? And even though it is scary and it makes vulnerability necessary, haven’t I been secure enough to open myself up to possibilities and my own desires, regardless of the outcome?

Haven’t I been using my $100+ a month subway pass to ride the love train for a while now? I mean, don’t I love my life? And aren’t I learning to love myself? Haven’t I been at my own stop in my own life?  I’ve never needed a man to show me how to get myself from point A to point B – so why would I put on hold all of those things I want to do, places I want to see, and opportunities I want to take, for fear that if I do, I’ll miss the next train to happily ever after?

I don’t want to feel like I’m waiting for my ducks to be in a row, for a ring to be on my finger, for security to be in my heart because I can trust it with someone else – but instead, I want to celebrate the freedom I have to just be me. To simply, selfishly, live my life.

I want to go. I want to see the world. I want to move and run and travel and do. I want to speak Italian fluently. I want to have enough money to give it away. I want to volunteer for months. I want to learn to meditate. I want to go to a restaurant and not look at the prices before anything else. I want to take a cooking class. I want to take dance lessons. I want to have a foreign affair. I want to order an entire meal in another language. I want a puppy. I want French toast.  I want to go to JFK and ask where the next flight is going and hop on it. I want to own pretty things. I want my name to be recognizable to the women who think they are not good enough, pretty enough, or interesting enough to have a man. I want them to know they don’t need one. I want them to realize, from me, there is no need to worry, no need to hurry, but to just trust the process. I want them to trust themselves. I want the city to beat me up a couple times, just so I can come back and prove my honor. I want to fulfill all of those things on my bucket list. I want to move from this damn apartment. I want to go to some smoky jazz club and drink champagne. I want to stand on the top of a mountain hundreds of thousands of miles away. I want so much more than I ever thought I wanted.

I want more than simply what the presence, the arrival, of a man can give me. And I know now that I don’t need to anticipate him or prepare for him to come into my life. I can and what’s more, I want, to do so many things…utterly on my own.

Because we all know, somewhere in the deepest corners and hidden crevices of our hearts, that our train will eventually come. Even when it is 3 in the morning and we’ve been waiting for thirty minutes, and our patience is growing weary – when we are busy focusing on other things and least expect it, we see the lights reflecting against the tracks, and feel the relief come over us.

And sometimes, that train happens to be a local one, when we need the express. Or it is going uptown, instead of downtown. Or maybe it is even out of service and passes our stop completely, and we glare at it as it disappears into the night. Nevertheless, we remember, that when in doubt, when we’re exhausted of the lingering, if we need to or if we just want to, we can forget about the next arrival, go above ground, throw our hand in the air, hail a cab, and go wherever we want.

P.S. If you’ve linked to Confessions of a Love Addict, let Lindsay know for the “Support” page. Email her.

by - 30 Comments

The Jungle of Having Single Sex

When my mother decided it was time to have the “talk” about where babies come from – she steered away from an actual discussion completely. Instead, she handed me a book, told me to read it, and should I have any questions, she’d be happy to answer them. So, I laid on the grass in the middle of a Carolina summer as a rather inquisitive 10 year old, read every last word on every last page, and the only confusion I had was quite simple.

“Mom, he puts it there?” I asked. “Yes, sweetie,” she replied. “But why would anyone want to do that?” I doubted, and she reassured me, “It is a natural thing. You’ll see.”

And so, I did.

Being a single gal in the city, as your versions of Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte will tell you, also means being a woman with needs. And as much as we’d like to cross our legs, pat our lips, and say with intent we don’t think about such naughty things – the truth of the matter is sometimes we really want to have mind-blowing, no questions-asked or excuses-made…sex. Perhaps girls just wanna have fun, but sometimes, we just wanna have sex, too.

But for many women, myself included, there may not be such a thing as “no strings attached.” Try as we may (with the encouragement of our good friends tequila and vodka) to be nonchalant sexual vixens, there’s something about exposing ourselves emotionally and physically that makes us leech onto the partner watching. There are some Samantha’s out there who have the ability to be more casual about the whole she-bang, but even the Sammie’s get their heart (or pride) damaged a bit from time-to-time.

I’m not sure if it’s due to the journey, me growing up, or just the reality of an “adult” relationship – but Mr. Possibility is the first man who I’ve been able to sleep with and not let my emotions get the best of me. Admittedly, there are definitely some feelings there – or I would have never cared about  his explorations overseas – but when we made the move from platonic to sexual, instead of thinking “Oh my God, if I never hear from him again, my number just went up for nothing! What have I done? Does he actually really care about me or was it just sex?” – I realized that regardless if anything ever came to be with us, I enjoyed an experience. And if he never called me back, I’d promptly write him off as a dick (no pun intended), move on with my life, and have at least a great New York sex story to tell my friends.

Now, I’m not suggesting we all run around our respective cities (countries or small towns) and spread our legs to any man who is intrigued – but why do we always hold ourselves back from encounters because we’re afraid of a walk of shame that may never lead to a walk in the park? If we’re friends with someone, if we know someone well enough, if we trust them, and we see potential for something more – shouldn’t we see if the connection is in every area? Or maybe if we don’t even see possibility in romance, but the chance for a raving romp, why don’t we allow ourselves to act upon it? Why can’t we decide not only what we want in a relationship, celebrate our singleness and sexuality, but also give ourselves enough credit to demand incredible sex (instead of lack luster). Maybe even more importantly –  why can’t we excuse ourselves for having desires that are totally normal and dare I say it, healthy.

There seems to be this thin line between taking up for ourselves, choosing our independence, and our dignity, and giving ourselves enough freedom and forgiveness to discover those sides we keep hidden away – for fear it won’t look good or we’re feel awful in the post-orgasm haze. I mean, in an earlier post, I talked about how my mild make out session with Mr. Unavailable made me feel a tad bit dirty and entirely guilty for something that’s not even really…bad.

Am I, or was I, placing a double standard on myself? I had wants and I fulfilled them, so why should that be something to be ashamed of? Do we think that men are the only ones who are brave enough to navigate the jungle of having single sex?

Yesterday, I went on a photo shoot for my magazine at a new modern, luxury bowling alley in the city (yeah, believe it) – and each room represented a different part of New York. Some of the cover shots were in the “Times Square” room which featured neon-lights that read “Pussycat” and a red curtain. The idea was to have the business owner straddling the two lanes, holding two bowling balls, with the lights lit behind him.

To get the lighting accurate, the photographer asked me to pose in the frame until she got it right. Of course, because it said “pussycat” and with my last name, she asked me to act like an animal and be sexy, just for fun. So in my red sweater dress, I posed, clawed, and made seductive faces, and we both giggled as she went through the raw footage. As I was watching the slideshow of photos, I realized: sometimes it just feels good to be sexy. To own, to define, to take pride in the fact that you’re a sexual creature.

I’m not sure where I stand on friends-with-benefits, no-strings attached relationships, or the notion that women (and some men) can be careless about sex without getting their feelings hurt. And if Mr. Possibility would have turned his back on me or if I felt like I was used for sex, I know I would have felt cheap and disposable. I may never be a seductress who can prance on the top of bars or flutter from one bed to another without blinking an eye – but I’m also not ashamed of my desires to be pleasured. Part of love, after all, is making love.

Men may be typically labeled bachelors and players, while women are called sluts and fluseys when sex is a hobby for them outside of a relationship or marriage – and both sexes may be judged for their decisions to come and to go. But it isn’t about what other people think or what’s acceptable or unacceptable.

It’s about what we think. And we get to decide how to associate sex and self-image as individuals. Sex is act-by-act, and each time we knock boots, it’s a case-by-case situation – no generalizations apply. The reasons for guilt or the negative tags tied to doing-the-deed without careful consideration, are usually not from the outside world (because they don’t know about our adventures unless we tell them). Those feelings are based off the pressure and the stigmas we place on ourselves. So on the journey of learning to love who we are – why don’t we give ourselves some more liberty?

Because sometimes, even if we get hurt or we lose a little confidence, if we trust ourselves, our gut, and our instincts (not a guy, not the world), then we know that no matter what we do, we can be certain we did what was best for us at that particular moment.

And the rest of it – be damned.

by - 15 Comments

A Toast to My Ladies

Much like when I moved to New York, when I went away to college – I didn’t really know anyone. Sure, I stayed in-state, so I knew of a handful of classmates who attended the same university, but no one who was in my core group of friends. I was probably more afraid of traveling two hours away from home than I was about moving 12 hours to the city.

As an overachiever, I landed myself on the Leadership & Service floor, where I was surrounded by others who went above-and-beyond in college (or those who just knew it was a nice dorm to stay in and somehow were accepted). The 40 or so of us called ourselves “L3” (for the residence hall name and floor number) and traveled in packs…everywhere. To the gym, to the parties, to the quad, and to the classes we all had together – and within those dozens, out of luck (and a bit of fate) – I met the two women who would define, shape, and share my college tenure.

A, was my first roommate. I’m an only child (technically I have a half-brother, but I don’t really know him), so going away for school was the first time I ever had to share my space. Fortunately, A was quite easy to live with, we shared the same sleeping/eating routines, and well – we became the very best of friends right from the get-go. My first memory of her is linking arms, skipping down the main strip in our college town, and giggling about how we were going to our first fraternity party. It wouldn’t be our last time frolicking about campus like we ruled the world–she’d go on to be an ambassador for our school, while I’d be high-up in the school newspaper and eventually, join a sorority, and attend more Greek parties than I’d like to admit.

Four rooms down from A and I, lived L – a girl who when I initially saw her, was instantly jealous. To this day, I still think she is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on. Her skin is flawless, her body has always been in tip-top shape (even when she doesn’t try), and she knows how to dress. Truth be told, before meeting L – I didn’t even wear “real bras”, but rather, sports bras because I was rather uncomfortable with my bigger beauties. While they’ve shrunk since then (I lost the freshman 15 instead of gaining it), I’ve remained a loyal customer at Victoria’s Secret ever since, thanks to L. Together, we went through some of the most difficult periods anyone can experience: my father’s illness, the passing of her mother, countless boyfriends (and lovers), and maintaining a long-distance friendship when we’d both go other places.

These women, while vastly different, gave me most of what I needed in the three-and-a-half years I attended college. When they met me, I was overly indulged in my love-addiction-ness, and they both said: “Linds, why are you so worried about this? We’re so young; we have all the time in the world. Ya know, I don’t even know if I want to get married!” A and L are very independent, like me, and had such large dreams for themselves, such high ambitions for where’d they be and what they wanted to do that relationships were completely off of their mind. This was a far-fetched idea for someone like me, who lived, breathed, and obsessed about love.

At the time, I was dumbfounded that anyone could ever truly not have the desire to get married (I’ve since changed my mind), but what’s more ironic is that A and L had more boyfriends and longer relationships than I did in college. They didn’t freak out too badly about them, but if you count up my time flying solo and their time – mine is much higher.

And now, L is in the army and engaged (I’ll be the MOH!), and A is on a four-month all-around-the-world vacation with the man I’m convinced she’ll marry. As for me, I’m single. Scratch that – happily single.

Isn’t it funny how the tables turn?

When senior year rolled around and I couldn’t stop talking about moving to New York, breaking up with Mr. Idea, and starting my writing career – they were in love with their boyfriends and wondering when they’d finally get that ring. When A came to visit me for fashion week in September, we even spent a few hours on Diamond Way, where I took notes about what size, style, and cut she’d like. And when L was given one phone call during boot camp, we spent the majority of the time discussing whether or not the “feeling” that her boyfriend would propose over Christmas meant anything. Well, since he’s her fiancée now, her gut was psychic. (Isn’t it always?)

Don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy for both of them and I actually like the guys they’ve picked as life partners – which if you know either of my friendships with these ladies, is quite the miracle. Us girls are pickier about the men our friends date, then we are about the ones we partner up with, right?

But with A and L being currently unreachable by text or phone call, I’ve realized how true it is that like life and love, friendships are in stages and cycles, too. Instead of being the one who is overly concerned with the man in her life, I’ve now become the bouncing board for my friends who are. Instead of crying and getting all sorts of upset about the Guy-of-Friday, I’m trying to help my friends get into the dating scene. And maybe even stranger, I’m growing closer and closer to other gals (the single ones), and further away from A and L.

Like any relationship that is meant to be – I’m sure when we actually get to spend some time together again, it will be like no time passed at all and our banter will flow the same, but there will be a major difference. And that’s me.

Sometimes I worry about the fact that this journey is literally changing me. The way I approach things, the way I respond, the way I think, and perhaps even the way I feel towards certain areas of my life, primarily love, continues to transform. I can’t help but wonder, what if those who have known me forever, start to wonder who the hell they’re talking to and don’t even recognize the Lindsay they once knew?

I’d like to think that even with my growth and maturity, I’m still the hopeful woman who believes there is a Mr. Right out there for me – it’s just now, he isn’t my primary concern. While I may not be able to relate to having the feeling of ‘just knowing’ or really crave it, I’m thrilled for those who have. And when L (and soon, A, I’m sure) transcends down to ‘I do’ with a man – I trust she knows ‘I am’ here for her, just as much as he is, if not more.

So, here’s to my ladies: to L and to A and my new friends (on and offline), regardless if you’re single or taken, married, widowed, or engaged, old or young, bitter or hopeful, addicted or uninterested in love – let’s stand by each other, hand and hand or click by click, through thick and thin, the princes and the frogs – and know that regardless of where this crazy journey takes us or where we end up, that we have one constant that never changes: the power of friendship. Let’s accept each other for where we are in our lives, where we’re going, and what we’re doing – even if we’ve never experienced or chosen it for ourselves. After all, we are each other’s soulmates more so than any man could be, anyways.

And with this toast, I hope L and A see that instead of sailing around the dance floor in a big white dress in front of a fleet of bachelorettes, I’d rather dance on tables during fleet week with some lonely sailors.

I hope they’ll understand. And something tells me…they will.

by - 13 Comments

The He Who Won’t Leave: Mr. Smother

We’re supposed to love the one we’re with and believe the grass isn’t greener on the other side. We should wait for the one we can’t live without, not just the one we can live with. If at first we don’t succeed, we try and try (and try) again. We should never forget that life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. And yes, one day, our prince, will surely come.

I’m not sure how they can make many more adages meant to illustrate that love and all of its blunders and fascinating experiences are worth every bump and victory – but if I actually believe in any of them, it’d be the question that rings loudly in my mind often:

Why can’t we make the one we like, fall for us, and how do we get the guy who we don’t like…to go away?

We’ve all met that guy and we’ve all dated him longer than we should have (and would have preferred). There isn’t anything wrong with him, but he is completely, utterly, totally, opposite of what we want, need, or desire. Still, for whatever reason, we keep him around, not because he’s filling in a gap like Mr. Temporary, but because he’s just so into us. And if only, that one guy that we really do like, would treat us the way he does, then everything would be right in the world.

I mean, he brings us presents, he cooks us dinner, he is all-so-accommodating, he is at least a decent-kisser (or suitable in bed), and well, he’s attractive – so the eye candy isn’t bad. Not to mention, he boosts our ego and pets our pride. And so, we agree with those voices in our head that say “well, it’s better than being alone, right?” until one day we wake up and realize, as Vince Vaughn did in Wedding Crashers: we’ve managed to attract a stage-5 clinger. Luckily for me, the one I effortlessly hooked; wasn’t a virgin as well, but Mr. Smother was everything I never wanted.

Our romance (if one can call it such a thing) was incredibly short-lived, probably just shy of a month, but it happened to be around a time where I was rather happy, yet superbly bored. To expedite the college experience and move to NYC faster, I was taking summer classes, running and playing tennis almost daily, and drinking sangrias with my friends into all hours of the night (perhaps that’s why I made my only ‘C’ in college that semester in biology? Nah, probably because it was biology). My life was moving at a sweet North Carolina summer pace, and one day as I was “working” in the library and went to pick up pages I printed, I stumbled right into blue-eyed Mr. Smother.

He was studying for his MBA and literally printing out one of his books, instead of buying it at our bookstore. He claimed it was a cheaper alternative, and being the balls-to-wall gal I am, I accused him of hogging the printer, when all I needed to print was a measly four-page report on human skin cells. He cleverly asked why I wasn’t taking anatomy, to which I rolled my eyes, but gave him an encouraging smile anyways. After he finished printing, but before the printer overheated – I gave him my business cards (yes, had those even in college), and hoped he would call.

A week later, when he hadn’t, and with nothing left to do but indulge in my love-addict commissaries (or study for class?) – I decided he just “wasn’t that into me” and I’d probably never run into him again, so what did it matter?

Well – ironically, exactly a week later, at the same printer, at the same spot in the library, there he was, printing away something again. Full of sass (and having decided it must be fate), I marched up to him and we had a witty rapport that ended in him inviting me to a karaoke night with his friends. With other plans, I graciously declined and we engaged in Facebook messaging until, finally, he asked me to go hiking with him. Even though I was raised in the South, that doesn’t mean Mother Nature and I are fond of one another – I’m not sure she appreciates me aerating the ground with my heels, and I don’t enjoy her scary woods and mud she creates. However – because it was a guided trail, and the mountains are lovely (and so was he) – I agreed.

The drive to the parkway was very nice and our conversation flowed as easily as the winding country road– though I recognized some pretty apparent warning signs of my disinterest: he was studying accounting…and loved it, wasn’t really interested in New York…and had already read every article he could find that I wrote online. At first, I was a tad creeped out, but decided maybe it just showed he was supportive of my career. Then again, at the time, I didn’t realize how Google-able I was.

As the date and our climb ascended, I gathered that I probably wouldn’t be too interested in a relationship with him, but I did enjoy his company. He was easy to be around and if anything, maybe he’d be a new male friend – that’s always been something I didn’t have much of. Once we reached the top and took in the view, we sat to rest on a rather large rock (with creepy looking moss, I might add) – and he blurted out a sentence that should have been my reason to run all the way back to my apartment from the top of that mountain:

“So, Lindsay, I have a girlfriend.”

Caught completely off guard, I replied, “Oh. That’s cool…um…someone you just met?” To which he quickly admitted, “No, more like, we’ve dated for four years. But it isn’t going well.” Well, damn. I suppose that makes it easier to break it to him that I wasn’t quite into him, I thought. But then again, now he’s seemingly unavailable – did he just become a little more attractive? Oh no…

We talked more about their issues, kind of similar to Mr. Unavailable, and had a friendly ride back to campus. I didn’t expect to hear more from him, until he asked if he cook me dinner – and for whatever reason, I decided it would be a good idea. Our conversation was light, and when I finally worked up the nerve to ask him how things were going with his girlfriend, he widely-smiled and declared that because of me, he knew he could find much better things, and he broke up with her. Then he kissed my forehead.

At this point, I was equal parts freaked out and flattered. Maybe I was just the catalyst he needed to get out of a toxic relationship that lasted entirely too long. Maybe I was just meant to come into his life, shoo him away from Ms. Wrong-for-Him, and show him there is better love to be had and to find. Or maybe, he had his eye out for me, not as his rebound, but as his next girlfriend of several years.

The next week, he wanted to spend every single second of every single day with me and texted more frequently than I could keep up with (and that’s saying a lot).  He started asking if I wanted to visit his family in his hometown for a barbeque and invited me to his company’s summer cook-out. He even asked if I would bake cookies for it. On the side, he was a bouncer at one of our local pubs, and he asked if he could just sneak into my apartment to fall asleep with me because he missed me…after not seeing me for two days. Again, apparently off-my-knocker, I allowed him to. He tiptoed into my one-bedroom at 3 a.m., crawled up next to me and in a baby voice that still makes me shudder as I type, asked: “Can I borrow some of your toothpaste so I can brush my wittle toothers?” In the middle of the night, the last thing I want to discuss or see on a man – are his “toothers.”

Seriously?

Once he left in the morning, I made a very cruel decision to start ignoring him. He would call, leave messages, send texts, and eventually resorted to Facebook. For about ten days, I wrote him off until something in me felt really guilty for putting him off (as so many guys had done to me in the past), and invited him to my apartment for a movie he mentioned he wanted to see. Truth be told, I wanted to “test how I felt” with him. We talked, he avoided the fact I abandoned him, and I held back the need to instruct him on how to speak like a grown-up, and we made out on my futon. At some point between him rubbing the side of my face and nearly gagging me with his tongue, and then telling me how much he had fallen for me – I realized I was going to hurt him so badly.

And so, right before he left, I simply said: “You know, I think you’re great and I think you’ll find someone who is perfect for you. Maybe it wasn’t your ex-girlfriend…but it also isn’t me. I would love to be friends, if you’re up for it, but I understand if you’re not.” He flashed me a smile, hopped up in his Jeep Cherokee, and I never heard from him again.

What I learned is that though we can’t always have the man we most desire or for reasons we’ll never understand, the love we feel isn’t always reciprocated – allowing someone to leech onto us, simply because they’re there, doesn’t give us a nice next round with Karma. It may be better to love and lose, then to never love at all – but seeing someone lose their heart because you wanted to up your pride, doesn’t give anyone love.

And after being the one who was smothered, I realized that when I start to be really into someone… taking a deep breath, and brushing my teeth before I get to their apartment, is probably the best tactic to keep a could-be relationship, plaque free.