Category Archives: Step 5

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Just Another Monday

As we all know, Valentine’s Day is an honor of St. Valentine and while the actual holiday was omitted from the Roman calendar of saints in 1969, it is still observed by the hopeful and hopeless romantics who need a day to celebrate sweet nothings, chocolates, and overpriced prefixed menus. Those who’ve never had a Valentine find ways to keep ourselves busy, as I have for many years with laundry, to erase the notion that we’re single and will not be wined-and-dined as we had hoped.

I know I’m not the only one who has been a little ridiculous after being shot with or missed by cupid’s arrow. Mr. Faithful once drove two hours in an ice storm (actually took him close to five hours) to pick me up for a fancy hotel reservation we made for Valentine’s Day and he didn’t want me to be upset (or waste the $300/night price tag). While Mr. Idea and I were together, we happened to be fighting and he was stressed about money, so he told me he wouldn’t be buying me a card because if he had $2 he wouldn’t be spending it on American Greeting card.

Goes to show you how much he knew about me– I’m more of a homemade card or handwritten note kind of gal anyways.

Somehow, if I’m honest, regardless if I’ve been in a relationship or out of it, Valentine’s Day has continously disappointed me. I’ve always seen it through rose-colored glasses that make it absolute necessary to be in love for this specific 24-hour period.

And when I’ve been single, I’ve been out on “dates” with my girlfriends where we both talked about how fabulous we were, how silly any man would be to not fall madly in love with us, and why we were happy to be solo on this day. When truth be told – as much pressure as every e-newsletter, store, and movie puts on us starting right after Christmas, how could anyone not feel a little pang going to bed alone on the day of romance?

Actually – why should they feel pain at all? What makes mid-February the season for sexing, lusting, and loving, anyways? Why have I been depressed and why have I expected something out of every man I’ve courted during this time of the year?

I mean, how much does it really matter?

Tomorrow, I’ll spend Valentine’s Day single, as I have for many, many February 14th in years past. I have no plans, I’m not going to an anti-V-day party and I’m not calling it Single Awareness Day. I’m not thinking about dialing up an old boyfriend and if I don’t get flowers sent to my office (which I could or could not, depending on Mr. Possibility’s possible ideas), I won’t cry. I won’t be drowning myself in wine, ice cream, fatty foods, or choking back tears while editing articles for our March issue.

Because what will change between today and tomorrow that is so monumental that I need to be upset about it? Does a new date really need to transform how I feel about myself? About my single status? About how worthy I am of giving and receiving love? Do I need to count Valentine’s in my decorated box or be upset about a lack of a hard thing in my personal box? If I’m not attending a jazz concert, given $200 champagne truffles, or a little  box from Kay’s that’s meant to start a slow, passionate kiss – does that mean Valentine’s Day is meant to be spent mourning the lack of love in my life?

Just like the passing anniversary of every holiday on the approved federal calendar (which does not include Valentine’s Day, by the way), this day will continue to come, but the way I look at it, has changed.

Or maybe, it’s just me that’s changed.

I realize I have no room to be upset because I’m surrounded by endless amounts of love. And I happen to be under the belief that Mr. Cupid doesn’t dictate when I tell those how I feel about them and I would never accept their admirations for me in return only once a year. While I recognize that yes, I would love to be sent flowers and I’m a fan of fancy things that sparkle and shine – I don’t need them to be happy. I may happen to be almost as addicted to chocolate as I am to love – but I’ve never needed anyone to buy it for me, nor would it be a preferred gift selection. And of course, I love to be taken out to dinner and sharing a smooth bottle of Merlot, over candlelight and nice music – but true romance isn’t advertised for a specific date and time, where everyone else in the country knows about it, too.

Love can’t be planned – but learning to love yourself amidst outside pressures that really have nothing to do with love at all, is something to mark every single day on the calendar. So that I remember even though I will be sans man for Cupid’s day of red roses and warm fuzzies, instead of defining what the day will mean because I’m single, I see it for what it is:

Just another Monday.

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The Prize of Simplicity

After an awful day, when my whipped crème melted too quickly off the fully-fat, fully-half-and-half, hot chocolate I treated myself to. After Nemo and his mom were separated in the deep blue sea. After I had sex for the first time. After I received the phone call offering me my very first job. After I was romanced in some simple, non-monumental way by the city. After I couldn’t, for the life of me, find the single piece of paper I needed with an insignificant note and couldn’t live without.

I cried.

I’ve always been a crier and I’ve never had an issue making my heart visible for the entire world (and web) to see. I cry when I’m thankful, when I’m happy, when I’m nervous, when I’m upset, when I’m depressed, when I’m furious, when I’m peaceful, and probably sometimes when I’m just bored.

And when I’ve cried for the first time with a man I’m seeing or interested in, it is always one of those incredibly sweet and meaningful moments where I allow myself to be vulnerable. I’m not sure why this indicates a new level of seriousness in relationships, considering just by the nature of who I am, he’d eventually see me cry at some point. Maybe just by walking through the park when the breeze hits me the right way, to be completely honest.

Nevertheless, I’ve often measured the validity of a relationship based on how emotional I am toward or around the dude in question. If I couldn’t stand the thought of losing him, if imagining him never calling me again gave me anxiety, if I cried while we made love or if things he wrote to me brought tears to my eyes – then I knew he was special. I knew he was different. I knew we, whatever we were or never came to be, was destined in some way.

However -if I didn’t cry, if we didn’t have dramatics and break-ups and make-ups, if the sex wasn’t so passionate I wanted to get lost in it – then I didn’t see the value in the relationship. I mean, if it wasn’t difficult, didn’t that mean it was lacking?

A relationship isn’t supposed to be easy, right? It’s supposed to be one of those things you work hard at, you earn, you fight for, and then when you win this person, you realize the ups and the downs were worth it.

The older I get, things like lust and connection are not becoming less important – I have concluded I will always need to have a man who has fire – but they are not my utmost priority in a partner. It isn’t that I don’t want to be a beautiful mess around someone, but after so many messy relationships and endings, I’d rather be with someone who isn’t all that complicated. Sure, I’ll always have my own intricacies and obviously, be a crier, but when I long for love, I realize I’m yearning for simplicity.

Perhaps hot and cold, yes’s and no’s, in a relationship and out of it, running away to be chased after, and pushing each other to the limits makes for an interesting course of events – but just because something is dramatic, it doesn’t mean it’s passionate.

It’s not a lie that a relationship, no matter how easily you get along, will require work and dedication to make it last the long haul, but if it is more confusing than it is comfortable, then what’s the point? I’d rather be single than spend hours trying to decipher the meaning between text message lines and always wonder if the man I love will leave, as he has dozens of times before.

When I eventually decide to hand in my single gal title for a girlfriend one, I will be at a point where I’m confident in myself and not looking to validate myself through a relationship or by the amount of tears I’ve poured over someone.  It will be when I stop equating happiness by how much pain I can endure.

It will be when I stop seeing a relationship and love as a project, but rather as a prize.

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Baby Don’t Want No Baby

A few years ago, while walking through Soho, I stumbled across a boutique baby store. I don’t recall the name, but the décor included whimsical trees, googly-eyed giraffes and elephants, and against my friend’s pleas, I demanded we go inside. Like the true kid-at-heart I am, I browsed through the clothes, considered buying a super-soft stuffed animal for myself, and sighed thinking, “I really do want a baby one day.”

Before leaving, I spotted a pair of ridiculously adorable pink socks with a tiny, sophisticated bow at the top. At $16 a pop, I actually bought one and vowed that one day, when I became a mother, I’d put them over my baby’s little toes. Let’s hope I do have a daughter when that time comes or my son will just have to be alright with pretty-in-pink feet.

These socks are tucked away in a space underneath my bed, along with clippings of dream vacation homes overseas, maps of places I’d like to visit, and ticket stubs from old dates, travels, and pieces of fabric I’d love to make a trendy dress out of (If I knew how to sew, that is). Those socks are the only thing, out of the dozens of wishes and dreams inside of that wooden antique box that represents children.

As much as I do hope that I have some baby Tigar cubs of my own, the idea of actually raising a child royally, totally, and whole-heartedly freaks me the hell out. I’m one of those women who texts her friends: “Okay, so he didn’t technically finish inside of me. We used something, I’m on something. But my monthly visitor is about three hours late, should I get a test? I mean it can’t hurt, right? RIGHT?!” I’ve also probably opted for plan B even when plan A probably worked efficiently. I even may have Googled if there was such a thing as Plan C. (There’s not, if you’re wondering)

But why should I not be careful? Pregnancy and babies are terrifying.

I mean, my lady part has to stretch to a size that’s not natural (no matter how part of nature it is), I have to give up the things that give me tremendous joy (coffee, wine, looking sexy in lingerie, running, to name a few), and after nine months of increasingly getting rounder, I have a miniature creature who will suck on my gals. And that’s only the beginning – once I’m a mother, there is no going back or 30-day refund policy. As far as I know, anyways.

Last week on my way to my bi-monthly mentoring program for children who want to be authors, I caught an elevator with a few parents. Though it isn’t the usual etiquette, one of the fathers asked when I pushed the button for the sixth floor, “Are you going to pick up your child in the program?”

With a fear-stricken death stare I looked directly at him and defended myself: “Oh God no! I’m volunteering. I don’t have children. I’m too young for that!” Obviously not realizing the chord he struck with me, he mumbled an apology and turned to face the doors. As I pulled myself together walking to meet my mentee, it occurred to me I was actually wrong.

I’m not too young to be a mom. Technically speaking.

I’m the only one of my cousins who doesn’t have at least one child – and they are all under the age of 35. I have friends who are damned-and-determined to have their legacy completed and their tubes tied before they blow out the candles on their 30th birthday cake. And ladies much younger than me, say 16, are apparently buzzworthy in the eyes of pop culture for doing nothing other than growing a bump.

As cute as they are and as much as I’m sure I’ll love my own one day, I’m lacking the baby-obsessed gene. Or maybe, it hasn’t fully developed quite yet.

Being a parent, much like being a girlfriend or a wife, means you have to stop making decisions based solely on yourself. While we can provide examples illustrating how men are really just grown-up babies who still want to be pampered, mothered, and coddled – a child is even more responsibility. Not to mention a commitment you can’t divorce, annul or walk away from.

When this man, unknowingly mistaken me as a mom, it caught me off guard (and sweat a little) because the possibility of being a parent had never occurred to me. Sure, I’ve had some scares and from the book my mother gave me, I know I’m capable of producing offspring. But, for someone to see me and for it not to be out-of-the-question for me to have a elementary school-aged child, blew my mind. What would my life look like if that were the case?

A baby requires more than your love, your attention, your dedication to maintaining and creating a relationship – it needs to be provided for and protected. How can I expect to be mature enough, secure enough, and uncomplicated enough to keep something else alive, when most of the time, I’m not sure I take care of myself in the best ways?

I may be far from being a child and far from 40, but this baby don’t want no baby.

P.S. Confessions of a Love Addict is making Valentine’s Day more about the single ladies and less about flowers that’ll die in a day. Submit your Valentine here.

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Unplanning The Plan

Without my Outlook and Google calendars and my nifty black notebook, I’d be a walking disaster, wandering aimlessly through the streets of Manhattan. Though I thrive on spontaneity, my life is often ruled by plans and endless to-do lists.

Now, don’t get me wrong – I’ve been able to be successful because I’m a type-A, structured, organized, and tenacious worker who doesn’t give up. But the reason I’m happy in what I do is because not only do I love to write and edit,  but it is my passion and I go after it with an unstoppable determination to do more. Sometimes, to be a force to be reckoned with, you have to make sure your bases are covered with reminders and planned events that sometimes take away a little fun.

But maybe having everything to-a-t isn’t always the best idea.

I can’t tell you what I’ll be doing this time next year (or really even what I want to be doing), but I have hopes and ideas for the way I’d like to go. I’m powerless to determining when I’ll reach the point in my career I ultimately want to be (though I’m not sure if I’ll ever be fully satisfied), or to when I’ll have that lovely brownstone in the Village, and the man and puppy to go along with it. In the back of my mind, though I’m not on deadline and in a rush, I have a tentative schedule for how I see things panning out.

But somewhere, in the middle of all of these plans, all of this structure, all of these progressions in my career, and all of these ideas of what will define my life – something happened.

My plans changed. And actually, quite recently.

A few days ago, while catching the train back to my apartment after a lovely, brisk day in the city drinking coffee and giggling with a gal friend, I looked up and saw a star shining brighter than the rest right above the city tops.

And as if the answer I’ve been praying for all of these years, all of these sleepless nights spent worrying and praying for a future I couldn’t see, came upon me. It was one of those moments where you feel like time stops, where you’re moving in slow motion, and everything seems noiseless to the point you can literally hear your own heartbeat. And even with people surrounding me, passing me, and bumping into me on the corner of Fifth and 42nd – I could hear the voice of peace coming from a far distance, saying:

All is as it should be; all will be as it should.

Maybe I was exhausted from a busy weekend or the cold was infiltrating parts of my brain – but I’d place my hand upon my heart and swear I heard these words clearly and quite beautifully. And in that instance, I felt this incredible urge to just release. To let go of everything I’d held onto, the plans, the frustrations from when my build wasn’t true to the blueprint I’d outlined. I heaved a sigh of relief, out of nowhere, and for once, in a very long time, had the feeling that I was right where I was supposed to be.

I’m not sure if men come in and ruin our plans or we allow relationships to define our plans, but I do know that sometimes not having a plan, is the best plan of all. Though my relationship (or non-relationship) with Mr. Possibility is far from perfect and quite easily could deteriorate very quickly, there have been some unexpected benefits of going into the dating scene without planning ahead. I used to figure out all there was to know about someone by way of Mr. Google’s endless source of knowledge, before even really giving them a chance to prove who they were in person. And if I didn’t automatically, within the first ten minutes of the date, feel that click that I knew was part of the plan of finding Mr. Right – I’d become uninterested. And of course, disappointed that I had wasted another date, when I should be working on my master plan.

It took until the start of this journey to realize…I was.

The way I approached Mr. Possibility was with an incredibly open perspective – and not only just in the bedroom. Instead of judging, disqualifying, or looking for a checklist – I just let go. I stopped insisting on a plan and I let whatever it was (and whatever it will be) just happen. And because I had no plan, somehow, my emotions haven’t been as closely tied as they have in previous relationships. Not having a plan means releasing a pressure that isn’t necessary from day one. Not placing rules or expectations when you don’t know someone, just to make them fit into a corner you want them in, not only suffocates the lust, but also doesn’t allow you to keep your options open too.

Because without set timelines and to-do lists, and the urgency that seems to come with both of those, there comes the opportunity to allow other things, other people, other adventures, to cross our path. I can’t say how long this peaceful, easy feeling will last – I’ve always been a true organizer of anything and everything – but for the time being, I’m rejoicing in liberation.

I mean, after all, I can’t plan to keep this calm, cool, trusting, lovely, and collected feeling around forever. Or can I?

P.S. Confessions of a Love Addict is making Valentine’s Day more about the single ladies and less about flowers that’ll die in a day. Submit your Valentine here.

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For Better or For Worst

On this day, 25 years ago, my wonderful parents with names that rhyme promised for better or for worse, until death should they part, to support and honor one another, all the days of their lives. My mother made sure the word “obey” was omitted from their vows, as she’d never agree to do such a crazy thing, and really, my dad would never ask her to.

Nevertheless, when it has been the best of times and the worse of times, when there have been little reason to honor the other person, and when support simply was not enough – my parents have still held true to the promise they made at a tiny chapel, on top of a snowy hill a few days before St. Valentine’s arrival. As far back as I can remember, my dad has stopped in the middle of sentences to ask whoever he was talking to “Isn’t she the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?” while gazing toward her. And my mom, even with her relentless independence and boldness, blushes when she is surprised with her favorite flower or a hidden note underneath her morning coffee. Together, with a little help from the heavens, they created me and they’ve always said that while we didn’t always have the best of everything, they raised me with the very thing that makes us the richest of all:

Love.

Once I reached the age where I realized my parents weren’t just authorities and a support system who were there to tell me what to do, what not to do, and encourage each aspiration – I started noticing their displays of affection. And as embarrassing as it is, I became jealous of what they had. Maybe even more difficult to admit – during college when men arrived and exited with ease from my heart and my bed, I started getting so frustrated around my parents, that I’d have to leave the room to keep myself from crying.

I never rained on their happily-ever-after parade and I never said anything about my envy, but I know they could see it. Before returning to school after a break, my mom would sometimes say: “Don’t worry, sweetie. When the time and person is right, you’ll find a relationship like your dad and I have. I just know it! I promise!”

But what if I don’t?

As much as I would like to stay in never-never land where everything works out just as it should, where love is always returned as strongly as it is given, and marriages actually last until one of their dying days – I do live in the real world. More specifically – I live in Manhattan. While my friends, the Southern belles are in a knock-off stiletto race to the altar, my Northern sophisticates are running just as quickly in the opposite direction. And then there’s me, the daughter of a Northern firefighter and a Southern astrologer, a transplant from North Carolina living in the Big Apple…somewhere between desiring commitment and fearing it.

There are nights when New York is unforgivingly cold, when work has exhausted me to the point of no return, and when I see two lovebirds flying through the subway on my ride home that I long for someone. And that thirst for a warm body to hold me close and clear my head from a bad day can overtake any positive, any success, any anything in my life. I’ll spend 24-hours completely depressed, feeling unattractive, and even consider texting an old flame simply for the attention.

But lately, especially with this journey and with a new sense of self in my single shoes, that feeling hasn’t been as difficult to overcome. If I listen to my heart when it isn’t drenched in temporary loneliness, I know it isn’t at a point where meeting or dating Mr. Right is a priority. And not because of bruises or scrapes, rips or tears from men who have captured it before – but to a lack of desire in finding it. Those moments I have where I really want to be in a relationship, where I want someone to kiss and hold, someone to tell me I’m beyond beautiful, if I take a step back, I realize that commitment isn’t something I truly want.  Or at least a commitment to another person that takes me off the market and moved off of Solo Lane.

However – this may make me selfish and a double-dipper into fate and having the power to choose – but, I want to know that my mom is right. I want to be assured and promised that I will one day get married. That my husband and I will beat the divorce statistics, no matter how high they may rise, and that the love I find will be more than I could ever imagine or hope for. I don’t want to know his name, where he is right now, or how I will meet him – but I want to know the love my parents share and have cultivated isn’t an anomaly. That it is possible, it is reachable, it is…destined…for me.

But if I’m not ready – and maybe even when I am – is there reason to worry?

I could search endlessly through any type of dating medium there is, I could place pressure on myself, I could look at couples from a far and long for what they have. I could spend my days of freedom, of living the selfishly single life, wondering if I will meet the right person. Praying that I am, in fact, meant for that kind of love. I could think of reasons why I’m not good enough, why I don’t deserve an enduring romance, why love always seems to disappoint or pass me by.

Or I could just live. I could be happy for all of those people – including my parents who are currently sailing the Caribbean – who are blessed to not only find love, but brave to fight for the flame they ignited so many (or so little) years ago. I could be hopeful that though I’m not committed to being committed, I have already made a lifelong commitment that’ll I’ll never break:

A vow that in good times and in bad, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, I will love and cherish, myself.

P.S. Confessions of a Love Addict is making Valentine’s Day more about the single ladies and less about flowers that’ll die in a day. Submit your Valentine here.