Category Archives: Step 5

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I Am Ms. Right

Somewhere in this world, and perhaps in this city, lives a man.

He is a living, breathing, actual person with a history that I don’t know. He was born somewhere and he may or may not have moved away from his hometown. He has a freckle in an odd place that’s hidden away under his clothes. He has an ex-girlfriend who broke his heart, a certain way he loves to be kissed, and he may care less if the Jets won or loss. He has a food that he can’t get enough of, a vegetable he isn’t the biggest fan of, and a scar that has a story. He has buddies he’s known since elementary school and a teacher who made an impact that lasted past the classroom. He knows every single word to a few songs, has read a book or two that he couldn’t put down, and he has a place he dreams of going, but never has. He may have an affinity for Southern-raised women who are writers with blue eyes and big city dreams, who also have the independence and ambition to make them a reality.

I haven’t met this man. Or if I have, I don’t know it yet. But this person, with all of his incredible and messy qualities, is the man I have faith I will meet, and possibly marry one day. I don’t believe in the idea of a soulmate who makes your “half” a whole, but I do trust there is a single person for everyone, who is suitable (and preferable) for life-long commitment.

Before this journey, the fact that my person, my hubby-to-be, existed, and I had no control over when I’d meet him – really bothered me. I would watch all of my friends, either on Facebook or in real life – getting engaged, talking about how they met their match, and waltzing down the aisle, and all I could think was: “Why not me?! Why don’t I deserve to meet my guy? Where the hell is he?”

And so, to combat these desperate thoughts that made me feel unworthy and unattractive, I immersed myself in romantic illusions about him – and at any given moment, I prepared for our paths to cross.

Somehow, fantasies of an elusive Mr. Right: what he’ll look like, how he’ll kiss me, how we’ll meet, how we’ll both ‘just know’, and how it will all play into a divinity I’ve yet to experience – are easier to dream about then to focus on what really deserves attention: myself.

And that’s a self-defeating approach I’ve seemed to master. I’ve had a reoccurring dream about being married to someone named Brian Ward, who I’ve yet to meet – but if you’re out with me, and a dude says his name is Brian, my head whips around quicker than it does when I see a sample sale near my office. I’ve filled nearly two notebooks full of “Letters to My Husband” that have chronicled my life since junior year in college, and I only stopped writing in it when I started this blog. As ridiculous as it may sound, I went to a psychic (who has been scarily accurate thus far) and she told me to put a rose quartz in the most right-hand corner of my room along with a list of all the qualities I looked for in my future husband, to bring him near me, faster.

Yeah, you guessed it, I followed instructions. The little package even made the move to New York, only to be packed away when I decided I had enough of this love-addiction mess. Until I realized that my expectations of this man, who while I’m sure will be charming, will most likely not be a prince, and will really have no need to rescue me from anything. So what was I doing putting all of this energy into him? Especially when I haven’t even, technically, met him?

While I was picturing him, getting lost in the endless wondering of when (or if) I would meet him or pondering if I could catch a glimpse of him on the next train or bump into him at the next cocktail hour – I had forgotten that a relationship with myself is really the one I needed to be working on.

Really, I knew had a choice: I could get lost in this fantasy character I’ve established in my mind, with dark wavy hair, blue eyes, and perfect, succulent lips who makes more money than I can dream of (but is insanely humble and talented) – or I could first accept myself, and then accept him, for whoever he is. This doesn’t mean I settled for less than I deserved or lowered my standards, but I realized that instead of writing him letters and wishing on a “magical” pink-colored stone, I could just go about my life and let whatever is meant to happen, happen.

I still have a ways to go on this journey, but I hadn’t realized how much progress I made until a handsome stranger locked eyes with me on the subway yesterday and I smiled back, before getting off at my stop – and it occured to me: I haven’t thought about running into Mr. Right in such a long time.

And that was it. I did it. I finally let go of anticipating our encounter or wishing on stars to meet him.

And today, I’m a living, breathing person. I have dozens of stories that he doesn’t know. I’ve been lucky to love some wonderful men, and I’ve learned from the ones who have done me wrong. There are foods that I would never give up, for any diet, and I admittedly have memorized most Backstreet Boy songs. I have a scar on my left wrist that’ll forever remind me of the car accident that changed my view on charity. I’m full of endless hope and can be inspired by even the slightest of sightings, conversations, or words. I’m short, but my personality isn’t.

Regardless of when he stumbles into my life or what he is really like or what color his eyes are, I am just as important of a character, of a person, as he is. And finally, he isn’t my top concern, my highest priority, or the thing I worry the most about. I don’t dress to impress him, imagine all of the ways I could meet him during the activities before me each morning, or curse the universe for delaying our impending marriage.

Instead, my look, my style, is my own. I look forward to the moments of my day where I’ll do something that’s fulfilling and helps others. And I thank the heavens above for giving me the chance and the drive to devote my passion, my enthusiasm to the most important, most beautiful, and most life-altering relationship I’ll ever experience: the love I have for me, or what I’d like to call myself…Ms. Right.

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A Single Girl Struggles (But Stands)

In New York, there are certain areas of the city that residents stay away from: mainly those ending in “square.” Near Macy’s and the Empire State Building at Madison Square, and with all the shining lights and smelly streets in Times Square, just to name two. Once you see certain things once, there is no need to return, unless you have a guest visiting who has never seen them– and then as a New Yorker (no matter how long you’ve actually lived here), you feel a moral obligation to show them the sights.

While during the winter season, it could be argued Bryant Park is one of those areas to steer clear of with the Trump Ice Skating Rink and little shops – for me, it is a part of town that’ll always hold a special place in my heart.

Maybe it’s because it featured the many timeless houses of couture for decades during Fashion Week or because it is home to the New York Public Library, or maybe because I used to spend Tuesday afternoons listening to a children’s choir and drinking coffee from a local vendor – but Bryant Park, even when it’s crowded with tourists and shoppers, is absolutely beautiful.

As I usually do on Sundays, I spent a large portion of this past Sunday afternoon writing, applying to freelancing positions (base salary just doesn’t cut it!), and coming up with new ideas. It is a time of the week where my obligations are not pressing and I can take a breather to do what landed me in this city in the first place: dreaming. And so, I ventured to my park, set up shop in one of my favorite cafes, appropriately stole Wifi, and went to town.

Two hours, a chicken soup, and hot tea later, I gathered my laptop, bundled up and eagerly went to walk around the park, even if I had to brave the cold. As I crossed the street, prepared to get the same rush of energy I always do – I was hit with a wave of sadness.

You know, that feeling that makes your heart heavy, knocks the air out of you (and not because it’s less than 30 degrees), and you get this almost uncontrollable urge to burst into tears? I tried to brush the odd feeling aside and continue embracing one of my favorite Manhattan scenes, but after about five minutes, I couldn’t take it and knew that if I didn’t catch the train home, I would be that girl on the street, sobbing, and attracting unnecessary attention.

By the time I finally made it to the 100s and into my apartment, I sat down on my bed and let myself cry. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t expected, and it came without a reason. Once the weight lifted off my heart and I felt sturdy enough to stand, I gathered the pieces together and tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with me.

I couldn’t blame it on the menstrual menaces, it didn’t come from an old familiar longing to be with a man, it wasn’t the result of a bad fight with a friend or the loss of a loved one. Really, I had an incredible weekend and up until my Kate Spade boots touched upon the park, I was in a delightful, hopeful mood.

So what happened?

Unsure of what was going on with me and fighting the need to be weak, I escaped to the Internet to take my mind off of my unexplained breakdown – and there it was, waiting in my Gmail, the solution to my regression: an email from Mr. Possibility.

This message wasn’t a bad one, nor have we really repaired anything since he explored other possibilities. We still talk, we’re still friends, and I have no plans to cut him out of my life. But what I realized was – I hadn’t really let myself get upset about what happened.

Regardless if it was merited or not, if either of us wanted a relationship, commitment or exclusivity, or if I had a right to be sad– I was. However, because I am on this journey to standing up for myself, choosing myself before attempting to woo a man into the role of boyfriend, and letting go of these self-defeating thoughts, I thought I needed to be strong. Not just for me, but for the women (and men?) who were walking down this road with me, too.

But that’s the thing about paths, sometimes you need to sit down and rest, sometimes you step on a rock or twist your ankle, or you run out of momentum, and there you are, at a fork in the road, wondering which way is the best route to take. While tenacity and self-love may be the ultimate goal, knowing that it’s okay to be imperfect, to cry when you feel pain, and allow yourself to fall apart when you need it – are all steps along the way.

Maybe I hadn’t realized it at the time, but Bryant Park was part of one of our really memorable dates. He took me ice skating, which really involved waiting in line for an ungodly amount of time and then being nearly knocked down by speeding 12 year olds, while Mr. Possibility and I stood (yes, stood, not skated) in awe of how fast they could go. We laughed, held hands, and I watched his cheeks go from his normal Irish-inspired-white to rosy. It was right around this time that I realized he wasn’t just some guy I was seeing or some guy that would be fleeting from my life in a moment’s notice…but that maybe, just maybe, he was a possibility for something more someday.

I’m not quite sure what I think now, but I realized that by remaining tough in front of all of my friends and on the pages of this blog, I wasn’t being honest with myself. Sure, I’m not broken down. I’m not destroyed. I’m not eating chocolate chip cookie dough like its going out of style. I’m not throwing away everything he ever gave me or deleting emails or writing his name for the entire world to see (nor would I ever about anyone). I’m not beating myself up or blaming myself or thinking his curiosity is due to me.

But I am human.

And though I’m diligently working at finding serenity in my single self, I did meet someone who I could imagine a relationship with down the road. Even though I’ve made great strides in this journey and I did take a dive into unchartered waters, I ended up with most of my hopes drowned. Even though I’m not at a place where I want a relationship, I never wanted my trust to be broken before anything had time to blossom. Even though I never considered him my end-all-be-all and I approached the dating scene with a new-and-improved point of view, what could-be turned out to be something that’s currently-not.

Even though I picked me, he didn’t pick me. And for that Sunday, I let myself feel it, let it out, and let it go. Showing and experiencing weakness doesn’t mean the enthusiasm behind the “recovery” goes a few notches down, it just means that tears are sometimes the trail that leads to peace.

Plus, the best thing about being knocked down and falling (either to a heart break or in love), is that you get to be a single gal who stands up, dusts herself off, and struts her way towards something new, confident in the company of herself and knowing that at times she may stumble and she may plummet, but she will never stay down for long.

Thank you to everyone who submitted photos for my new page,Addicts Unite. If you’d like to submit a photo of you reading the blog with a link back to your blog/Twitter, please email Lindsay!

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Settling for a Second Chance

I’ve heard about people who were madly, insanely in love with one another, and then as time passed, they grew apart and discovered that what once connected them, now separated them. Together, they came to this conclusion, and with love and the best wishes for future happiness, they parted ways, attended each other’s weddings, and never had a foul word to say about one another.

These are the people, who when you ask them about their ex-boyfriends or girlfriends, they smile and happily swear they are still very close to each and every single one of them and have no hurt feelings about the way things ended or how they collapsed.

May come as no surprise, but I’m not one of these people. Not in the very least.

My breakups have been messy. Complicated. Painful. Drawn out and involving discussions and several hours getting down to the heart of everything. At times, I’ve been the one left with a million unanswered questions and a mind that just can’t understand why; and then I’ve also been the heart breaker who can’t comply with the pleas to stay in a relationship. In my experience, though not extremely vast, when I fall for someone and my emotions get involved, leaving or being left by that person isn’t an easy task. Though I am at least friendly with a few of my exes and remain in contact with almost all of them, the initial sting…and several months after, were far from cordial.

Strangely enough, if I think about patterns in my past relationships, they have also all come full circle. And more often times than not, I’ve attempted to rekindle a flame or been asked for a second chance.

Most recently, right around Christmas, Mr. Idea came back into the picture. He was putting up his Christmas tree and stumbled across an ornament I gave him when we dated and the memories of that very special time in our partnership came flooding back. He sent me an email, mailed me card, and called me saying how much he missed me, how much he believes in us, and how if given the opportunity, he could be the man that I needed. The man that stood by my side and supported me, could meet my every desire, and fulfill my romantic dreams. He would change, he would do what was required to put the pieces back together and he apologized profusely about all the pain, all the harsh words exchanged, and the tears he made me cry.

Had this happened, say six months ago, I have no doubt in my mind, I would have cried on the phone, invited butterflies back into my tummy, and despite the screaming pleas from my friends and family to run far, far away from him – I would have given him a second chance.

But since Mr. Idea and I broke up – a lot of things have changed for me. I started this journey and this blog, I met someone else, my career progressed, I found my footing in my newfound home of Manhattan, and I stopped letting the fear of being alone rule my life. With other exes in the past, when they would ultimately realize the mistake they made when breaking up with me, I’d always give them the benefit of a doubt and welcome them back in my heart. Somehow, I was afraid if I didn’t give them another opportunity to prove we were meant together, I could make this horrible, ridiculous mistake that could screw up the course of my love life and leave me 45 and single, with three cats, living in the Bronx. Or if I woke up one day a little lonelier than the one before, and knew that the man I left waiting in the dust was still getting coughing over my exhaust, I would reach out to him, regardless if I saw a future or not, just to fill a void in my heart and in my bed.

I don’t think it is always the reason why, but sometimes, people ask for or agree to second chances in relationships because they are simply afraid that nothing better is out there. That this love – or the love they once felt with this person – will never be matched, never compare to what could be waiting in the future. I distinctively remember Mr. Faithful, when we sorta toyed with the idea of getting back together my sophomore year of college, drained and tired of all of our discussions laying on my dorm room bed, saying, “Linds, maybe we just need to accept that this is love. And this is as good as it gets. If we don’t want to be alone, we should just settle for what it is that we have, regardless of how hard it is.”

And his words, those words, were the ones I heard screaming loud and clear in my head when Mr. Idea stated his case for why we deserved another shot. If I’m going to get married one day, if I’m going to fall in love, if I’m going to commit to someone with everything I have and support them in their good times and in their bad – it isn’t going to be someone who it feels like I’m settling for. It is going to be someone who sweeps me off my feet – no matter how much hell I can be in heels.

I won’t say I don’t believe in second chances because sometimes giving a look at what was, can help you realize what you had (or how much you didn’t want what you had) – and also, by having a conversation with a previous lover who you aren’t sure you’re over, can give you that closure everyone needs. When Mr. Unavailable’s ex-lady was so cold about his grand gesture, I felt bad for him (though I enjoyed the chocolates and flowers, her loss!) because to release the what-if monsters, all you need are a few words to why a second chance isn’t in the cards. Even more so, that second chance we pray for, we wish for, we lose sleep over, and we dream about isn’t always “take two” with our ex-lover, but could be the starting scene with someone else, our second chance in disguise. Or maybe a second shot at a powerful relationship with ourselves.

Nevertheless, when it comes to breaking up and realizing that walking away from a relationship or a could-be relationship is better than sticking around – it’s important to realize that sometimes, endings happen for a reason. Through this journey, I was able to finally put away any wishful thinking or deluded illusions about the one man from my past who I was not completely over. And so, ironically enough, when he came to bait me back into the ocean of disaster we created, I very honestly and openly told him that my heart wasn’t in it. Nor would it be.

And instead of  believing that he could change or that all the things that were never what I wanted would start to fit my fancy, I decided that I’d rather be alone than be stuck in a relationship that already failed once. I’d rather be in my single shoes than to return to a man who hurt me, who I merely fell in love with the idea of, and who even if I squint my eyes and rack my imagination, I can’t see standing up at the alter, gleaming at me as I cascade down the aisle.

That by not settling out of fear and giving him a second chance, I instead gave myself the opportunity to be free to meet someone who will never need to ask for one in the first place.

Thank you to everyone who submitted photos for my new page, Addicts Unite. If you’d like to submit a photo of you reading the blog with a link back to your blog/Twitter, please email Lindsay!

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The Fight for Freedom

Apparently a great listener, Mr. Rescue took note of something I slipped on New Year’s Eve: sushi and I get along pretty darn well. In fact, if I needed to list my top three favorite foods, it’d probably be sushi, avacado, and bacon (make me something with all three and I will marry you).

And so, we met in Chelsea and out he took me to a popular sushi place in the city, where we talked and shared a ridiculous amount of rolls. Truth be told, though I’m not really the biggest fan of dating – there is something incredibly refreshing lately about my newfound attitude towards all of it. Since I’ve been able to separate my own emotional expectations and worries from the dude in question, I’ve been free to get to know someone and not get all-bent-out-of-shape if it doesn’t click.

After our dinner, I gladly took him to a pub around the corner that’s been one of my very favorites in the city ever since I interned several years back. Every time I return, I have this little fear that the bartenders who use to keep me company during the week, when I was underage and without friends, won’t remember me. They are all married and adorabely Irish and they never fail to say, “Lindsay, darling, you wear your heart on your sleeve!”

Maybe so, but that’s a much better place to wear it than where some do (anyone seen The Ugly Truth?).

As we’re sitting at the bar, drinking some beers and catching up, he asks me about the blog, about my career, if I’m enjoying NYC like I thought I would, and other pretty typical “I want to know more about you” questions. Though I’m usually pretty good at responding when the tables are turned and I’m the interviewee instead of the interviewer, he did shoot me a question that left me speechless and stumbling.

“So, what are you exactly looking  for in a guy, anyways?”

I paused, looked at him and then sat my beer down. I’m sure I spewed out some adjectives and qualities that ranged from inteligent, attractive and loyal to honest, tall, and funny, and he seemed satisfied with that answer – but I couldn’t get the question out of my head. Or rather, the way it caught me off guard.

If you were to line up Mr. Faithful, Mr. Idea, Mr. Fire, Mr. Possibility, and all the others, there would be very few physical similarities. They are all tall and have killer smiles (kinda my weakness), but I don’t really have a type. The men whom I’ve fallen for have been in a wide range of careers – from finance and doctors, to in the army and musicians. I’ve been swept away with romance and candles and also equally intrigued by playing beer pong (classy, I know) with Mr. Idea early into our relationship. I’ve been with men who can make me laugh until my side hurts and tears are streaming down my face, and guys who even though it may not be the very best way of dealing with something, completely, brutally, painfully honest with. Sometimes at their expense or at mine. I’ve dated cheaters, been a cheater myself, men who cry on the first date, those who never show any emotional weakness, dog lovers, cat lovers, those who enjoy hunting, those who threw up when they accidently hit a rabbit – and the differences go on and on.

So, while it is more than an appropriate question to ask someone who you’re on a date with, I really have no idea what it is that I’m looking for in someone. The only thing I really do know – is what I’m not looking for.

And that, if I’m utterly honest, is a relationship.

I’m not opposed to going on dates or getting to know someone and I’m certainty not closing my heart to opportunities that may arise. If Prince Charming suddenly pounds on my door, ready to share his unconditional love with me – I would grab my coat and a coffee, but I’m not sure I’d want to go riding into the sunset. Even if that happens to be down Fifth Avenue to Cartier. Because really, being in a relationship right now scares me. I told myself I’d never make rules on this blog about what I could and couldn’t do, and that remains true – but I also promised to always be true to myself and to my heart. That no matter how ridiculous or unattractive or silly something may come across, if I can’t accept who I am and what I feel, then I’d never make a great partner anyways. Nor would I truly ever be happy.

For someone who has always wanted to be in a relationship, who hated being single, who longed for a warm body more than she yearned for food to eat – this is quite a big step for me. I feel such a freedom, such a relaxing peace of mind, such a newfound sense of self that’s separated entirely from a man. I don’t think I really need one to be happy or to live the life I’ve dreamed of. I don’t want my fire to be distinguished, I don’t want to call someone every single night before bed, I don’t want to give up weekend plans for the interest of someone I’m committed to, I don’t want to change my Facebook status, and I don’t want to be completely, one hundred-and-ten percent sure of where my next great kiss (or love) will come from.

Maybe that’s not what Mr. Rescue (or Mr. Possibility, perhaps) wants to hear but I can’t allow that to be my greatest concern. There will be a day when my singleness is less important and I’ll desire being part of a couple. Sure, one day, I will be more than ready to walk down the aisle and see the faces of my children, but for now – I think what I want, what I’m looking for in a guy, what’s significant in my life – is freedom. Not to sleep around or go on fabulous dates or not be tied down – but the freedom to live my life. That instead of basing my happiness on someone else or on making someone else happy, I’d rather fight for and believe in the liberties and the justification of singleness.

The liberties of realizing what you’re looking for more than anything else – is yourself.

PS: If you’re a fan of Confessions of a Love Addict and want to be part of a new page on the blog, email Lindsay or send her a Tweet.

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Girl’s Got Game

It’s a story I don’t need to tell because it’s been told for decades before me, with different variations along the way: boy and girl meet and seem to hit it off, boy and girl exchange numbers, boy says he will call; girl waits around for approximately three days before “casually checking in” and officially starts freaking out.

As they say at the start of the Olympics, “Let the games begin.”

Sadly, as we figured out through “He’s Just Not That Into You” – our mind games and obsessing and reading into mixed signals (that maybe aren’t as complicated as we make them), start from the time we have that very first crush in kindergarten. By the time we reach middle school, we’ve decided who is in our league and who isn’t, and in high school, we fall so deeply in love with a sweetheart (could be reciprocated or unrequited) that we can barely stand to think of anything else. College rolls around and that first love syndrome leads to the first real heartbreak, and we battle the trenches of utterly confusing, mingled, and mangled “relationships” that may or may not have strings attached.

By the time we reach our 20s – if we haven’t mastered the game of love (and lust) in all of our battles and victories of the past, we decide either in frustration or in stride, that it’s time to start learning the tricks of the trade.

So we start dating Mr. Google, read blogs and articles that give us clues and how to give “the look” that’ll get us a drink and more, and we talk constantly (through BBM, Twitter, Facebook, Gchat, and so on) to our girlfriends, analyzing what we should do and what we shouldn’t, what he thinks and what he doesn’t think, if he’s interested or not interested.

And then, if you’re like me – you become such a pro at getting a man to look your way or ask you out on a date, that the whole first date scenario…sincerely becomes a play-by-play that you can predict. The game becomes irrelevant because it stops being interactive and you realize you’re just going through the motions as opposed to getting into the spirit and the energy of the practice.

I won’t say that I enjoy dating, but I also don’t dislike it completely either. One of the reasons I started this journey was due to the fact that I was getting too caught up in the “game” that I became discouraged. Dates were becoming absolutely and completely boring and I was sick of scripting what would happen before I even arrived at the restaurant.

I’m not sure if that means I mastered the game or I lost it.

Regardless, now I find myself at an odd crossroad. I’ve learned a lot from the dating scene, but because I’m not seeking (letting them come to me instead), a lot of the pressure has been taken off. I take some winning strategies with me on dates with guys, but I try to leave the fixation of expectations in the wind. I don’t project who I think they are, but I take them at their face value. And if he doesn’t call, well, he just doesn’t call and it’s time to turn on Jay-Z’s Onto The Next One.

The next man up to bat is Mr. Rescue. He’s been quite sweet this past week and pretty reliable with text messages and wit. Though I’m not quite sure where we’re going as I write this blog, we do have a reservation for dinner, and it’s snowing outside – so maybe I’ll get to kiss in the snow. As insignificant as it is, because I gave him a Mr title, he decided I needed one too, so he refers to me as Ms. Bradshaw. Quite cute, indeed.

And so far, I don’t feel like my head’s in the game or I’m really reading into anything. The obsession factor isn’t existent and I haven’t figured out if there is a chance for something of substance with him or not. If overcoming love addiction means learning to really take my time and choose what’s best with me, then I’m well on my way to health.

I don’t think a “game” is always necessary and I’d like to say that we should all stop being active members in the contests, but I don’t think it’ll ever go away. We all like some chasing, a spark of challenge, and a great story to tell the grandkids one day. As long as there is healthy sexual tension, the game will continue, and in the words of Shakespeare, we are all merely players.

Though I’m sure my rants and my analyzing (I am a Virgo, after all) will come back at some point, along with my first-date grilling methods – for all of you love addicts out there, like me, here are some pretty helpful tactics I’ve discovered that really help the game not seem so strenuous:

Don’t save his number.

I view my phone as the Holy Grail of my life. Maybe that’s a little extreme – but if you’re going to be saved in my phone, I either think you’re someone who is going to stick around or you have a voice I’d rather not hear. So when a guy gives me his number when I meet him, I take it – and then I delete it. And really, I don’t save it for a while – I think with Mr. Possibility, it took me about a month to allow him into my phone. This not only makes a guy seek you, but it prevents you from listening to the red, red wine when it whispers: “you should text that cute boy from Thursday” in your ear.

Ask open ended questions.

If you really want to get to know someone, ask them about themselves. Sounds simple enough, but as people we like to talk about ourselves and it is easy to go on and on about what you do, what you think, what you feel, on a first date. I’ve learned that if I slow down and let the guy open himself up a little bit, the date is far more enjoyable for me and I make better decisions for date two. Plus, if I’m totally not interested and can’t wait for the date to end, it gives me a break.

Stop making rules.

Ok – we all have boundaries and little things we usually stick-to-our guns about, but why are those so important at the start of dating? And really, why do we tell guys we’re on dates with, what our rules are? He goes in for a kiss and you say “I don’t do that on the first date!”, but why? That kiss could be the kiss that trumps all smooches to date –so why not try it out? And where did the three-day rule come from? Sure, it’s there, but it doesn’t have to be. When I loosened up on the rules, the game became so much easier and less complicated.

Make other plans.

In the past, when I first met a guy, I used to clear out my calendar for the weekend following “just in case” he texted me or wanted to wine-and-dine me. Yes, I’ve been that girl who cancelled plans with friends for a man, but really, chicks should always be before dicks – especially if it’s a man you don’t even know. Now, instead of “playing hard to get” or “being unavailable” – I really just have other things filling up my time. This isn’t playing the game; this is having a life outside of a man.

Demand dinner.

A lot of my friends in college and even now constantly ask me “how do you get so many guys to take you on an actual date and not just drinks or something casual?” Well, because I never agree to drinks. Maybe it’s my southern upbringing, but to me, if a guy wants to get to know me, I want to actually go on a date. This doesn’t mean a fancy restaurant with candles and flowers, but if a guy asks me if I’m free for drinks on Tuesday, I’ll say, “No, but I’m free for dinner on Friday.” Cocktails are for my girlfriends and I, not for my new male game player who I’m considering allowing getting to second base.