Category Archives: Step 6

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To Love, To Care, To Do

My office is located in the heart of Chelsea, streets before the Empire State, and conveniently nestled between a handful of trains. Most mornings, my commute is just shy of 25 minutes and lucky for me, my street happens to be part of the Floral District – so each day – rain or shine – I’m pleasantly bombarded with fragrance and vibrant colors. As my favorite flower, tulips always steal my attention the easiest, and with the sweet preview of Spring in the air, they’re starting to bloom in front of each little shop.

While my building isn’t state-of-the-art or trendy, it does have one thing that’ll always be a plus in my book: it has a history. Well over 100 years old, to be precise. Along with the elaborate ceilings, gold elevator with a crank, and marble floors – there are two characters, who happen to work on my floor, and are nearly as old as the brick-and-mortar itself.

I’m not sure of their names, but they have worked as furriers for over 50 years in the same place. I sincerely can’t tell them apart – side-swept white hair, attire that looks incomplete without a cigar and brandy, and backs that are more horizontal than vertical. When they shuffle past me, they always greet me with a grin, and without fail, offer me a piece of peppermint candy from their never-ending pocket supply. (One of my co-workers once kindly declined the candy and they haven’t spoken to her since, so I always accept my mint.)

A few days ago, I happened to be in the hallway at the same time as one of the endearing older men, and as he usually does, he inquired about my day. I let him know I was doing well and he replied with, “I’ve been doing well for 97 years!” Though I knew they were elderly, I had no idea they were close to claiming a centenarian title so, amazed I said, “Wow, that’s incredible! Congratulations.”

With the most adorable curl of the lips you could ever imagine, he shifted closer to me, extended his hand and opened it to reveal my sugar intake for the day, and asked “You know what the secret is to living a long life, little lady?” I tilted my head, extended my eyes to the curious level, and said, “What’s the secret?”

“It’s simple. Only three things. Occupational therapy. No smoking. And find someone who needs you.”

Sitting back down at my desk, given the task to write about payroll and finances, I found myself distracted by his advice: is that really what it takes to live a healthy, happy, and prosperous life? Though the list seems quite basic – love what you do, love yourself, and love someone else – aren’t those the three sources of the most trouble from the time we’re kids until we’re nearing the end?

I mean, why would I have a blog in the first place or any obstacle to overcome if I had all of those principles in line? To live the good life (that perhaps OneRepublic harmonize about), must we determine the best – maybe not the easiest – way to mark off the only three things on our checklist that matter? To love, to care, and to do?

A new friend who unexpectedly came into my life under some quite interesting circumstances recently put my older neighbor’s words of wisdom into the wisdom of a seasoned New Yorker: “They say we’re all looking for three things in New York: a job, an apartment, and a man – don’t ever look for all of those things at the same time. I’ve done it, you’ll go crazy.” Well, a man would need you (even when we don’t want them to), a job would be your therapy if you’re lucky enough to enjoy what you do each day, and I’m not one who would ever light up on the street, nevertheless in my home.

So maybe the trick to finding the prescription for a life that’s as long-winded as I am is not to go after all that we want in one shot. I’ll always be a believer that things work out as they should and sometimes if you wait out the trials, the rewards at the end of the trouble will turn out to be worth all you endured. And most of the time, the very things that fall into place happen while you’re focusing on something else. While learning to be the best employee or take your career to whatever level you desire, you may find yourself stumbling across a someone who could be a something. Or while you’re weaning yourself off a nasty habit (or man) you should have never picked up, you may stumble right into a hidden passion or talent, that low-and-behold, brings you actual paychecks.

But if we spend every single hour of every single day worrying if we’re doing the right thing, taking care of ourselves to perfection, and loving the person we were meant to fall for – my friend is right, we’ll lose our minds. One breakup, one unexpected job loss or magazine fold, or quitting smoking attempt, at a time.

I’m not sure if I hope to make it to 100 or not – but I do hope to live. Not just exist. Not look back and wonder if I did all that I could to be happy or to experience mistakes and successes alike. Not just gaze forward to tomorrow or look back at yesterday, but take a chance at living in today and all that it could bring.

I will love, I will care, and I will do – but most of all, I’ll be.

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I Could Have Been Cinderella

Once upon a Tuesday morning in Manhattan, I was greeted by the angry call of my alarm clock, demanding I rise earlier than any darling cares to do. Irritated that my sweet dreams in slumber town had been interrupted, I groggily tiptoed across the wood floor of my studio, and submerged in a steady stream of almost-too-hot water.

A stubbed toe and curse word later, I found myself riding the downtown train to the Southern part of the island I hardly visit. But when your job demands you arrive on Fulton Street in the wee hours of the A.M. to listen to bloggers and agents discuss the healthcare reform, you have no choice but to oblige. Maybe free coffee and breakfast help make the trip worth the long haul and the bright-and-early start time.

Like anyone who lives anywhere, I’ve found myself set into a routine of taking the same trains to the same places during the same hours of the day – with a few crazy weeks, here and there. And even if I don’t recognize the reoccurring faces, there is some sort of energy that remains static with repetition, or maybe I just get used to the route. Nevertheless, the trip to the business threshold of New York had far different inhabitants than the subway I usually take.

Mainly, there was a fresh plethora of beautiful men. And not just attractive, but ones without wedding bands. (A single gal has to look out for the married ladies, in case their man is tempted by her fruit, and she must remind him the only place his low-hangers are welcome.)

Though I noticed their Armani suits, Cartier watches, and Burberry briefcases, I was busily preparing for the event I was heading toward and had little-to-no-time to pull out The Look or place energy into smiling cleverly. And truth be told, since the start of this journey, I’ve relaxed a bit on the ogling and let the gentlemen (and the jerks) come my way, all by themselves. I mean, they are big boys, grown men, with jobs that triple (or more) my salary – surely they can approach a lady in a black mini blazer and pencil skirt. Right?

Yep, they sure can. Kind of anyways.

As I’m sitting, writing away, looking at notes, and planning what I could suggest to my publisher to add to the conversation, a guy of my type shifted in front of me. With a packed train, I watched his bag go right above my notebook and since it disturbed my flow, I quickly looked up to give the glare I never had until I moved to the city. But when I met his eyes, I let go of a little of the sleepiness-induced temper, and grinned. He did too. And he had dimples.

With only a few stops to go, I began to pack up, and kindly asked him to move over if he could at all in the crowded tiny cart. He obliged and replied, “Anything for you.” Catching on to his sarcasm, I thanked him and threw my bag over my shoulder. Not willing to put a move on him (as I would have six months ago), I waited for him to say something, since he obviously had an easy-in to a conversation with me.

“So where do you work?” He finally asked matter-of-factly. A little thrown off by his harshness, I let him know my position at the magazine, and the moment “editor” can out of my mouth – his face went from concerned and nervous, to smugly assured. “A writer, eh?” He said with a smirk as he cut his eyes across the train before looking back down at me. I nodded and shortly defended my job title – though I wasn’t sure why it was in question. “Well, I’m a senior vice president, at 30, at Blah Blah Blah Bank. When is your event over?” Confused by what my morning committment had anything to do with his job, I blankly said, “It ends at 11.”

Out of some sort of misguided and overly arrogant sense of self, he offered, “If you’re interested, I can have my secretary buzz you up and I can show you a good time you’d love to write about. ” Stunned he would have the nerve to make such a proposition to a woman he’s known a measly three minutes – not to mention, he didn’t even know I was a dating blogger, or my name, I dropped my jaw without even moving. Then the train stopped. I excused myself to get around him and confidently hurried away from him and up the stairway.

A few steps away from daylight and complete freedom from the businessman who thought he was more bad ass than what he really is  – I literally stepped right out of my high heel. I was in such a rush that it took three steps for me to stop, turn around, and realize I had actually lost one of my Jimmy’s. Flustered and fearing I would be late because I was so irritated with the dude – I went to reach for it and there he was.

Both of us seeing the undeniable irony of the moment, he smirked that annoying little smirk that for a split-second, seconds ago, I had been blinded by the accessorized dimples. As he was leaning to retrieve my shoe and probably go back to the office calling himself a prince, I snatched it up before he had a second to think. Placing it back on my hosed-foot, I sharply looked into his eyes and said, “No, really. That’s okay.”

Maybe I’ve stopped looking for happily ever after and perhaps I’m not even sure what “after’ indicates, anyways. But when given the opportunity to be banker’s princess, instead of being crowned worthy for an afternoon of delight, I would have rather talked healthcare for the rest of my career than dignify anything he said, jokingly or not, with any sort of recognition.

Walking to meet my boss and dive into a discussion that was surprisingly engaging, I thought about how many times I had imagined that exact moment. How many times during college I had been criticized (in the newsroom, go figure) for believing in fairytales. How at one point, my ringtone was sadly and embarrassingly “Someday My Prince Would Come.” How much I had wondered if, with my love for high heels, and a dreamy population of men who look like my image of a prince, I would indeed, have a completely idealistic interaction just like that.

And then when it happened, when I could have been Cinderella, I didn’t want this so-called Charming to come in on his white ride, or with his bulky bank account and sweep me away to a penthouse on Wall Street looking over the river. Instead, I’d rather steal his horse and make a run for it – once I made sure he gave my shoe back, that is.

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This is Me & This is What I Need

While I’ve always known New York is the city that never sleeps, I was somehow under the illusion that its inhabitants do. However, if the last two weeks are any indication of how my street-slicker life is turning out to be, then it looks like I may be learning to function on a few hours rest for the time I pen New York, NY on my return labels.

From the time the clock struck 7 am, letting me know it was time to greet the energy populating outside, until the moment I burst into my apartment, sat down my bag, and collapsed into bed – I was on the go. To and from work. Staying later to close the magazine and arriving early to ensure I crossed all my T’s and dotted all my I’s. Going to this happy hour and that gallery opening. Visiting people in Brooklyn and beyond. Entertaining out-of-town friends I hadn’t seen in ages. Freelancing. This breath-of-fresh-air of a blog that keeps me going, when nothing else does. Figuring out where my heart is, but keeping my mind in tow. New dates with new men. Even newer friends. Movies and networking, dining and wining, and of course, even more writing.

I’ve been waiting for my New York life to start feeling like an actual, functioning, and prospering existence that’s full of friends, outings, experiences, and thriving conversations – and I feel like I’m finally getting there. It’s taken some difficult days that sometimes may get the best of me, but through it all – I’ve never doubted that eventually, skyscrapers would seem more like home than mountaintops. New York has this effortlessway of renewing my spirit and reminding me that the opportunities for me are endless and attainable, if I just remember to keep one thing in check no matter how busy I get or who becomes a main character in my life. And that wildly complicated and perfectly simple thing…is me.

And while I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my schedule being shaken and stirred – the thing that’s made the recipe a bit off is forgetting to take care of my own simple, day-to-day needs.

In my sudden influx of events and adventures, I noticed my mood gradually get worse. By the time Saturday evening rolled around and I had yet to really get a great night’s sleep, tidy up my apartment, or sit around in my sweatpants – I became flat-out bitchy. And along with my intolerableness, I started analyzing myself and worse, putting pressure and asking questions about what I was doing with my life. I started breaking out, which made me resort back to old ways of piling on way too much makeup. Thus, I started to feel less secure, not to mention with my busy schedule, the gym has been out of the question, so I was not feeling like my fit self, either. And when my apartment was merely used to shower and sleep for two weeks, the heap of dirty clothes kept growing, without an end in sight – leaving me with all of those garments we keep, but never want to wear. Admittedly, I may have worn the same pair of socks two days in a row and did all I could to keep that thought out of my mind throughout round-two.

Apart from doubting my appearance and feeling overall just plain exhausted, I also became paraded with worries about everything from my career, my finances to my dating life, and this space: Am I doing enough? Am I working to the best of my ability? Is my job happy with me? Am I going on enough dates? Should I even be going on dates at all? What if I fall in love with someone in the next few months – will that go against the recovery? Will I still be able to love myself in the middle of a full-fledged relationship? Am I there yet?  Do I even know where I’m going? Am I still on the right path with myself? Am I doing the right things? Making the right decisions? Am I saving enough money? Am I spending too much on going out and not enough preparing for my new apartment in May?

What the hell am I doing??

Like the infamous pile of spaghetti, all covered in cheese, once my meatball of confidence rolled off my sturdy table – all was lost. As much as I’m a girl who goes, I’m also a woman who needs alone time to collect my thoughts and find my personal center of clarity. I’ve discovered, in my most recent rampage, that when I forget about the basic necessities that keep me sane – sleeping, running, eating a huge bowl of cereal while watching trashy television in my fuzzy bathrobe – any bit of negativity in me bubbles its way up to the surface.

Until I took away my isolated liberty, I never realized how much I really cherished those hours of seclusion. The time when I’m only in the company of myself.

And so yesterday, instead of accepting an invite to dinner or heading out to mingle at a networking gala downtown, I left work on time and went to find the me I had lost in the last fourteen days. Running four miles was difficult, but it has never hurt so good or made my lungs feel clearer. I enjoyed a decaf espresso with my laundry and cleaning duties, and I caught up on the daily reads I had been neglecting. I soaked my feet and wore a face masque. I called my mom and then retired my phone for the evening. I replied to personal emails I had let pile up. I went invisible on Gchat and closed Facebook and ceased tweeting on Twitter.

I looked at myself in the mirror, saw all of the imperfections I had been focusing on for days – newly formed zits, hair that despareately needs to be trimmed, skin that’s paler than the leftover snow on the streets, and elbows severely thirsty for hydration. And instead of spewing out words of degradation and attempting to fix all that I thought was ugly or wrong, I stopped and made a decision.

A choice to believe that at whatever point my journey is at or approaching, or how many things I want to change or I’m unsure about – this is my life. This is my body. This is how I look. This is my apartment. This is my job. This is my savings accountant. This is my date for the evening. This is my blog. This is my city. This is my home. This is my exhaustion taking over. This is my spirit that will get me through. This is now. This is what it is. This, whatever this is at whatever moment this takes me to, is mine.

This is me and I have to decide what I need.

And while they may say it’s never too late to be the person you wanted to be, it’s also never too early to accept and listen to yourself. Or to realize that sometimes, the best thing you ever do…is absolutely nothing.

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The Biggest Love of All

I could pretend like I don’t care. I could say that it wouldn’t bother me if I never found it. I could claim that I believe I would be fine without it. I could entertain the notion that monogamy is unrealistic.

Or I could be honest. And the truth of the matter is yes, I want to have a big love.

You know – the one where the sparks just fly. Where inhibitions, caution, fears, and apprehensions are dispersed into the wind of yesteryear – and I just go full force ahead into the tomorrow that now seems so clear. Where each bone and every sensation gives the indication that this person, this man, could be that someone I’ve been dreaming of. Where when he looks my way, when his eyes peer into mine, instead of just seeing facial expressions – I see something that even I couldn’t put into words. Where things, for whatever reason and measured in whatever way we both see fit – just work. Intensely, magically, profoundly, and naturally. Where passion and intrigue are magnified, but when I spent endless time with this person, I find myself shocked thinking, “Wow, this just feels right. It’s so easy.”

Lately, I’ve been thinking about this big love and deciding if getting over the idea of having a beautiful story with a dramatic plot line and incredible ending, is a huge part of this journey. We all know the love people produce movies, write novels, and compose music about are unrealistic. And if we admit to desiring such things, our independence, our intelligence, our interest in academia and the world is questioned. I mean, why should we waste brain cells or thoughts or hours of our life, thinking about the big love? When that love – where it be full of ups and downs or smooth sailing – is maybe, just an illusion? One that’s created by Hollywood and Harper Collins.

But the fiction that’s portrayed on silver screens and between pages – it’s inspired by facts. By people with real experiences. By men and women who have felt that thing, whatever it is. Maybe those who have seen it come and go, watched it while it stayed and then as it left. By those who were critics before they were stung by a buzzing person they couldn’t shoo away – regardless of how hard they tried.

I’ve yet to decide if The Love – as we all indicate worthy of capital letters – is the relationship that’s simple and easy-going, without drama and messiness, or if it’s the one that amidst all of the problems, at the end of the day, or in the final act, you’d still chose this person over any other eligibility. Maybe I’m conflicted because the strongest and most withstanding pairs I know all have varying histories. My dad had to pursue my mother for eight months before she finally agreed to go on a date with him (they were married four months later, mind you). A reader once told me she and her husband, knew in a single instance, with one silly glance, that they had just met their match. One of my closest friends, A, met her now-boyfriend in the states, but it took until they were in China at the same time, for them to come together. Other couples I know had to break up a few times, get over one another’s past, and let go of their own baggage to move forward. But when they did, it went full-force ahead into the land of happily ever-together. The stories are all different, the levels of intertwining roads and the bumps that break up the pavement vary, but the love is the same. It is intense. It is powerful. It is based on a mutual understanding of mutuality. It’s that love – the big one. The doozy.

For the majority of my life, I’ve feared not finding this relationship. Not having a man who flat-out, no questions asked, adored me. Not experiencing that impossible connection that’s uninterrupted because it’s that incredibly strong. Not having that feeling that I could, in fact, spend the rest of my life with someone and it not seem terrifying.

But if I’m honest – each relationship has increasingly been better. I’ve learned more with every choice, each mistake, and all of the romantic exchanges. I’ve mastered the difficult task of trying to make good out of bad and believe heartbreaks are more about growth than about pain. And while I haven’t had a life-altering, ground-breaking, knock me off my feet love – I’ve experienced love that’s worthy of words. Worthy of the time, spirit, and heart invested, even if the return was sometimes small.

All of these little loves may eventually add up to one big love – but what I’ve always had and always will have is something more. And that’s the relationship I have with myself. It’s always remarkably more trying and yet more sincere than any romance I’ve curated with a man. It has its ups and its downs. It’s full of trials and yet, worth each and every single off-day, for even an hour of feeling my very best. It takes me every place I need to go and when no one else can say the right words, I can find them if I look hard enough. It allows other people into the picture, just to show me how powerful the union really is and test how loyal I am to myself. It’s taken decades of pursuing and wooing, wining and dining, to get to where I am now. It’s a daily struggle with a daily reward. It’s the single most important, most intriguing, most difficult – and yet, the easiest, relationship I’ve ever been in or will ever experience.

There may be The One and I may want to find a big love to love, and I may never let go of the desire for that partnership. But at least I can be reassured that I’ve already found The Love. And no matter how much drama I encounter or admiration I give and receive, at least I know love is possible. And it is worth each and every downfall, if at the end of my story – the love I’ve found in myself remains the biggest love of all.

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The Love Club

There are certain parts of New York – say the West Village, Soho, and even Williamsburg – that give the feel of a small town in a big city. The buildings are shorter, the streets are less crowded and frantic, and the people, seemingly calmer and happier. It’s reasonable to spend all day lounging in a cafe drinking coffee, that somehow, they don’t charge for refills – and still stay in business. There are more couples and families, and yet the singles still roam wild and free. You see less and less corporate and more and more locally owned and there’s this greater sense of community that can’t be found in Meatpacking, Chelsea, or even the Upper West/East sides.

To me, the characters of the villages seem like the ones who have found themselves established and secure, comfortable and at home in a place that entertains transplants, commuters, and tourists day-end-and-day-out. These residents of micro communities, usually dressed in black and boots, hair partially dried and unnamed bag in tow – have done what any NYC-wannabe aims to do: they’ve become New Yorkers. They’ve created little worlds inside of a huge ones, homes within the perimeter of industrial, and codes of conduct that don’t apply past West 4th or north of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Quite like the boroughs and the districts that divide and designate the many lands of Manhattan – something happens when two become one, when casual becomes serious, and when fear of commitment subsides to the need to just be. For whatever reason, in an unexplained manner to outsiders, being in a relationship does more than eliminate your single status, it creates an alternative universe of chemistry-specific coupleness.

Being in a relationship, in a lot of ways, is like being in a whole new world (mind the trite Aladdin reference here) – and if you’re lucky (or is it unlucky?), being in love turns your schedule and your life upside down in the most blissful of ways.

Yesterday, I spent a great deal of time navigating downtown, a hundred streets away from my apartment, observing the energy and the interactions of inhabitants. And what I discovered, beyond any reasonable doubt, is couples of every shape, form, age, race, or mood – blend into one another. Perhaps I mainly saw those who had been together for years or were just madly in love, but somehow, those I walked by, seemed as if they were happily lost away, out of the city, out of the village, and deeply engrossed in each other – in their own personal sphere.

They walked in sync, step-for-step. They discussed topics of no particular interest in an interesting fashion. They sipped coffee and laughed, held hands, and peered into each other’s eyes. They sat cuddled on the bench, in the corner booth, by the exit of the train. They sat side-by-side, across from one another, and shared sentiments I’d never be able to decipher. Glances were hidden but clear, touches were stolen but remembered, and thoughts were shared, but secret.

In the way that becoming a New Yorker means settling into a community, finding your way among thousands upon thousands of people, and being comfortable enough to really not give damn about how you look while fetching the morning paper- is the appeal of a relationship due to having a partner who gets you? Who you can be a little freak with, dispense those characteristics or mannerisms that others may not understand, and at the end of the day, be accepted just as you are?

Is being in a love a way to establish yourself? A way to prove to the strangers you pass, the fathers who continously ask for grandchildren, and all of those silly married friends who found love many moons ago – that yes, I’m not defected, I’m not unlovable. There is someone who wants me, someone who I can be myself around, and see life through not only my eyes, but their perspective too?

Is being a couple like being in a super-secret, difficult to be admitted into, only for the privileged, membership program? Is love like a club for two?

If so – for a long time, I was doing all that I could to be sent my acceptance letter to the School (or city) of Love.

Had I pranced around the streets, chasing the pigeons as I usually do, say, six months ago – as happy as the energy of the streets made me, I would have still felt sad. Passing double doses when I was a single serving, seemed to always rub me the wrong way. The simple reminder that others had found love, had found someone who wanted them, had this immeasurable power to instantly make me feel awful. To give me the impression and the sense that I wasn’t worth the love, that I wasn’t part of this unknown world I had rarely passed, that this highly desired title of taken, just wasn’t meant for me.

By judging myself against the women I wanted to be – those who were dazzling in the loveliness of love – I just didn’t measure up. My standards must had been too low or high, my scores on the girlfriend test had failed below average, and the uniform I was to wear as someone’s lady, just didn’t hug me in all the right places.

I had, in fact, been rejected from the very place I wanted to be. Access had been denied.

But now, with a little focus on self-love and a lot of patience with myself, I’ve arrived at the conclusion that love isn’t a microcosm or alternative universe left to be traveled. It isn’t just found on McDougall, Prince, or Park Slope. It isn’t an all-exclusive resort that few can afford and some can enjoy the lavish luxury of. It isn’t meant for those who are the best or for those who give and take love with the most ease.

Like the neighborhoods of New York – that many of us cycle through during our time on this island – being in love isn’t limited to our address or even our final destination – but it is found in each and every step. In whatever place we happen to find ourselves at. Because even when we do stumble upon a man who actually wants to be exclusive, a person who is worth rearranging our calendar for, or perhaps just someone who knows the best way to make us laugh – we still remain part of the world. The West Village is still part of New York, and being an an individual is still part of being a couple. No matter how much we escape from the bigger picture to focus on the smaller.

If there is a club of love – we should all rest assured that we’re all accepted. We’ve all passed the tests with flying colors and we’ve all failed miserably. And after all is said and done, after we move away from the relationship or away from the brownstone, we’re still part of the world. Part of the universe that forever, without question, will always let us back into the love club, time and time again.