Category Archives: Step 8

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Open to Oblivion

As the best of Saturdays begin, I woke up today slightly still buzzed and glad to find everything I took out made its way home. After a much-needed shower and a cheeseburger with my friend, M, we headed downtown to Chelsea to spend the day walking and chatting, enjoying a break from the torrential rain New York has given us the last week. We giggled about the Aussies who tried to charm us with their accents and poor choice in beer, about the fact we rushed to buy little black dresses and carried our old outfit in tow all night, and about getting lost, yet again, in the city that never lets us sleep. Most of the time, sleep is last on our priority lists, anyway, so we don’t blame New York too much.

Heading toward the New York City Pet Show, where M picked up goodies for her hyperactive (yet adorable) kitty, and I managed to sneak in a few treats for Mr. Possibility’s mutts, M said something that caught me off guard. M is in the process of a looking for a job, having taken a leap of faith just a few weeks ago, hoping she’d land with her two feet and sanity in tact. I remember job searching all too well and the knot that builds not only in your stomach but your wallet too, reminding you with each swipe and each drink that you are, in fact, unemployed. Have no fear for M though – she’s gotta under control. She applies by day, works as a hostess by night, and she maintains a sunny optimism that I’m sure will help her find the position that’s perfect for her. Attempting to give my two cents and words of wisdom, though I’m still not exactly sure how I managed to capture the title I did when I took the same chance she did, I asked her what her dream job would look like.

She paused, looked at me, looked away, and then said a brief description before we casually moved onto the next subject matter. A train ride, a cupcake, and a building that looked like Connect Four later, she stopped in the middle of the street and said: “You know, maybe that’s my problem. I don’t see anything long term. I can’t see a long-term boyfriend. I don’t know what my ideal job is. I can’t see myself married. I don’t know where I want to be in ten years. I don’t know what I want my life like long-term.”

My quick response was: “Well, that’s okay. We’re young, we don’t really need to know what we want. It all work its way out on its own.” But as I thought about my reply, riding the LIRR to meet Mr. Possibility, I realized that actually, I feel the same way.

For the first time, I’ve allowed myself to be open to oblivion. That word may usually hold a negative connotation, but for me, it means to just be unaware and unprepared by choice. By being oblivious that I will age, that I will take different steps in my career, that I will probably love a handful of other men before I get married, that I will actually be a mother one day, I allow myself to not worry so much about the things that will happen, without me knowing. Now, of course, I’ll be present at my wedding day and while giving birth, but I can’t plan those things. I can’t snap my fingers and have the life I want come to fruition. If I could, I’d be living downtown in a two-bedroom, one-bath brownstone with a closet full of Loubies and a space fit for the pages of Elle Decor. I also wouldn’t be on the typical writer’s non-existent salary, but that’s another rant for another day.

Long-term planning has its benefits – otherwise insurance brokers wouldn’t make far more than they deserve. Preparing for things that we think will happen or for those things we don’t think will happen but do, isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It gives us more comfort and security to have an idea of what we want, a sure-fire way to get from point-A to point-B, and the freedom to relax if we know everything will be just fine.

But the thing is – though I’m not exactly where I had imagined I would be, I am just fine. In fact, I’m happy not having the things I thought I needed to reach happiness. The crystal ball I’ve often tried to channel might have predicted me reaching this place of content, but I really don’t think so.

Not being able to see a long-term boyfriend makes meeting a guy you can actually tolerate for longer than a few days, that much more special. Not knowing what the dream job looks like and then stumbling across a passion you didn’t know you had, makes you that much more hungry for success and enrichment. Not knowing where you’ll be in ten years makes the next decade full of adventure and trails, experiences, and growth you can’t imagine.

And being oblivious that tomorrow will come without permission or blueprints, makes living in today, the last day of the world or not, that much more enjoyable.

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A Little Veruca-Like

After hearing some disappointing news recently, I set out to walk a few avenues and call whoever would listen to my fretting and rambling. The unluckiest of my friends who picked up my call happened to be R, who listened intently and calmly, letting me finish my obsessively inappropriate freak out.

As I neared the end of my story, over exaggerating, and emphasizing the disappointing facts more harshly than I highlighted the good, I concluded with: “It’s just I want it! I want it now! I don’t want it to be complicated! I just want time to go faster.” Pushing the tantrum to the extreme, I went as far as to stomp the pavement, and glare up at the sky in despair, regardless of the flocks of people on either side. Bringing my stance back to street view, I happened to be right in front of a candy store in Chelsea, and in that instance, I channeled a character that’s not a positive person to relate to.

Veruca Salt.

You know – the brat from Willy Wonka? Who says the same words to her father that I happened to slip to R, and is as intolerable as it gets. She’s the gal who wants the world, the whole world, and demands to be given it…now.

Am I Veruca-like?

I don’t come from money and I’ve never dated men for their money – being rich isn’t a qualification to grab my attention. I’m not a child, though I may act like one from time-to-time, as all well-adjusted adults allow themselves to do. I really don’t want a magical squirrel, though I’ve convinced myself I’ll name any animal I get “Henry,” no matter what it is, which perhaps is more irrational than wanting a rodent, anyway. On the surface, I don’t have the fundamentals of Ms. Salt, but in my actions and in the words I use – sometimes I’m impatient and demanding, and perhaps, I may even have a sense of entitlement. I mean, I am a Gen Y-er, right?

It isn’t so much that I think I should get things because I’m me, Lindsay Tigar. My name isn’t significant or noteworthy; it is just another byline in the hundreds of thousands of budding journalists and bloggers who write to be heard and to give, not to be famous. I don’t usually jump up and down, complaining and whining that my life isn’t going as planned or I’m not receiving all the things I believe should be coming my way. But I do think that if I work hard, if I’m positive, if I’m a basically a good person, everything I’ve dreamt of will surely be mine one day. As long as my visions aren’t magically and lofty, or my commands unappreciative and rude, like Veruca.

But sometimes, what I see for myself is probably unrealistic. I can be overly demanding of what I find myself deserving of, and if the mood strikes me wrong, I can be a bitch just like the next cranky New Yorker.

Once I hung up with R, I walked the 30 blocks back to my apartment, deciding fresh air would be better for me than a crowded cart. Annoyed with myself for overreacting, for getting my hopes up, for getting down on myself for things that are sincerely out of my hands, I thought about the Willy Wonka character I so enjoyed watching as a child.

Confessing to myself for the first time, I realized Veruca had been my favorite to watch. She was so over the top, so awful to her old man and Mr. Wonka and the other kids, that she eventually was declared a “bad egg” and sent down a garbage chute. I liked her though – even though she didn’t have refined qualities like respect and patience, virtue, and understanding – she just wanted what she wanted when she wanted it, end of story.

And that’s the truth of the matter – we’re all a little Veruca-like at times.

But if we learn from the sugary-sweet factory she played in, we know the one who finishes the race isn’t the one who skips ahead. It isn’t the one who rushes Father Time or gets everything they want. It’s not the person who overindulges or decides to cut corners and not fight fair.

The one who eventually finds that golden ticket – in whatever form it takes that means the most to us – remembers to be honest. Not only with the world, but with themselves too. Even if that means admitting Veruca is a part you play more often than you’d like to admit.

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This is What I Need

There are several theories that say women talk three times more than men. There are other studies that contradict that finding. I’m don’t really believe either, as I think it really depends on the person, and my mother has partly convinced me it is reliant on their sun sign (Geminis are apparently the most talky). Nevertheless, after having a discussion with my roommate and friend, A, after we both bickered with the leading man of our lives – I’ve concluded that in arguments, maybe the ladies do use their words more.

I’m not an argumentative person and it takes something pretty drastic to anger me. I tend to be pretty level-headed and understanding, and while I may be emotional from time to time, I’m hardly ever furious. But when I get pushed to that point or when something happens that makes me rationally (or irrationally) rationalize anger, I have this uncontrollable urge to work it out. Mainly because, I don’t really like to be upset. And really, I don’t like to have a lingering disagreement above my head or worse yet, above the bed. Intimacy and connections don’t build on tangled sheets and dysfunctioning thoughts.

As we commiserated over our shared current state, we talked about how men often just want to shut off, shut down, and let the problem or the discussion come to a stammering halt, and then pick up the next day, as if nothing happened. They throw out accusations that we’re being “too much” or we’re “overreacting” or we’re being “emotional” – when it reality, we’re just trying to express how we feel. Perhaps we show our stress differently than they do, and maybe there is evidence to claim we go overboard from time to time, but that doesn’t make us women, that makes us human.

So when we’re not getting the answer we want or the reaction we need, we ask the question a different way. We try a new approach. Healthy or not, we play off what we know will get them, what we know will evoke a response, and we go from there. And as it always does, the conversation prolongs, the issue persists and expands, and we’re left thirty minutes later, crying and frustrated – yet damned and determined to put this sad baby to bed. If you’re anything like me, I’m sure your exes have told you the same things they’ve all told me: “I can’t do this right now, we’re just talking in circles, let’s let this go for now.”

Even though I recognize the never-ending circular pattern, for whatever reason, I can never release tension until it is resolved. Worse than that though, I can never get myself to say five simple words:

This is what I need.

I’m not the only woman who feels this way. As women do and as A and I did recently, we talk to one another. We talk and talk, analyze and dissect, reach conclusions, make notes and plans, and share in our experiences together, no matter how significant or minute. And yet with all that jabbering and going around and around – we can never just flat-out, blatantly say what we need from someone.

Why is that?

Why is it so difficult to emotionlessly express exactly and precisely what we need? Why do we feel guilty for requesting more out of a man? Have we all been through so many bad relationships, guys who leave without notice, guys who end solid foundations over silly bumps, guys who aren’t worthy of our time in the first place, that we’re all so scared to do the wrong thing or ask for too much… that we never really demand anything?

It really is alright to need something.

And the men I’ve dated never seem to have issue telling me exactly what they need from me or what makes them happy. Shouldn’t I do the same? If relationships are equal partnerships, if we’re playing on the same level field, and going at it 50/50 – why can’t I be clear about what matters to me?

After all, if a guy can’t provide the things or the support that you need as an individual, he’ll never be able to be a functioning, giving, and dependable mate. So why put all the energy into resolving something or being available, when the other party doesn’t put in as much effort?

So, I’m challenging myself. I’ll continue to be understanding. Continue to be open and honest. Continue to be independent and self-efficient. Continue to love myself, even when I’m “too much” or “overreacting.” Continue to talk.

But instead of going around in circles without an ending point in sight, I’ll start being frank about what I need. After all, don’t I frankly give a damn?

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Louie Armstrong Moments

The morning my flight left from JFK, the last day of my summer internship several years ago, I set my alarm early so I could take in as much New York as possible before our extended separation. I decided to sit  in Madison Square Park, a place I frequented to people watch, lay out in the sun, and meet friends before heading out. Though not anything particularly spectacular, this miniature space of green housed several of my memories from that summer.

After stopping at a café across from my apartment, I grabbed a scone and coffee, and found a table near Shake Shack. For an August morning, it was rather chilly and the leaves were falling much earlier than I anticipated. Yet, the energy of the park, even at this early hour, was buzzing. There were families and dogs, couples and strollers, children and musicians, waking and rising, starting their New York days with conversation and caffeine.

I sat in a wrap dress and cardigan, my hair air-drying and curling, writing in this giant blue journal I kept almost daily while in New York. Even though I now live here permanently, that tattered and worn notebook remains one of my most prized possessions and will always have a home on any bookshelf I own. I scribbled sentences that don’t mean much, yet mean everything – and as I was finishing up the last paragraph, a single yellow leaf stained with red tips fell to the page. Seconds later, a tiny bird landed on my patio table, picked at a crumb I left, and flew away.

Charmed by the simplicity of that single moment, I smiled, and looked up, catching the eye of an older woman reading a book across from me. Maybe she was watching me or just happened to look up at that instant, but when we locked eyes, we shared the same thought in that park on a Sunday, when the sun was making its way mid-sky.

I’ve always called these experiences New York moments. Recently, however, I discovered a better fitting name from my friend, K. She calls them Louie Armstrong moments.

We were sitting at Fig & Olive on the Upper East Side, after just leaving the opening of Pipino 57 – Wella Professionals Flagship, where champagne and celebrities were ripe, and talking about our unique New York experiences. Though, maybe not that unique. If you hold a certain love for the city, if it is a place you’ve always wanted to live in, your experience doesn’t differ too much from the other dreamers who always wanted to gaze at the lights of the Empire.

And that’s kind of the beauty behind a Louie Armstrong moment. Where you realize what a wonderful world it really is by sharing it with other people, even the ones you don’t know and never will know.

When you’re in a place where most people are strangers and not friends, it’s easy to feel alone. You can walk miles without seeing a familiar face and when you battle the street trenches and crowds, you can feel like just another number, just another gal whose hair is frizzy from the humidity and whose feet are tired from unreasonable heels. But if you wait for it, if you don’t look for it, but stay positively alert – you’ll find yourself sharing an experience with someone you don’t know that you’ll cherish forever. For me, it’s with a woman who witnessed a bittersweet ending to my first New York adventure, for Kate it’s the natural smile of a man who watched butterflies take flight unexpectedly. Both of our Louie Armstrong moments coincidently happened in Madison Square Park, but we’ve had more.

And we’ll continue to. As long as we’re blessed enough to live in New York, that is. I’m sure it is capable to connect in a fleeting instant with people you’ll never see again anywhere, but for me, the only Louies that I remember are in the place where I see weathering trees in Central, and tulips too – for me and for whoever walks by. I see skies with scrapers; stars that don’t come out at night. I see the colors of the rainbow in Chelsea, so pretty walking by. I hear taxis cry, I watch them speed, and I realize they’ll see so much more New York than I’ll ever know.

And still, I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

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Peaceful, Easy Feeling

I lay in bed, alone; listening to the rain hit the streets below. It is the middle of the night and the slight light from the tall lamps below peek through the shades, creating squared shadows across the blanket covering me.

He couldn’t sleep, so he retired to the living room to catch up on some paperwork for his job. It isn’t one he cares for or one that brings him happiness, but it dictates the majority of his thoughts and nearly all of his worries. Before he left the bed close to 3 a.m., he rolled over and kissed my forehead, thinking I was asleep and trying to be careful not to wake me.

But I couldn’t sleep. I haven’t been able to for days.

It isn’t him. Everything about what we share is ideal for where we are in this relationship. He is gracious and kind, funny and inviting. He stands by me, and while life may be ripe with complication, there is nothing complicated about the time we spend together. It is fluid, gentle, and unhurried –similar to the way we continue to connect. I’m happy in a way I haven’t been happy in a long time, and for the first time, I haven’t defined myself by my relationship status. I’m proud of myself and committed to investigating all that could be…but something is missing. Something in me, not in us.

I haven’t been able to find peace. I’m not seeking it in his arms or in this bed that I’m laying unaccompanied. I’m not looking for it in my bylines or in my success. I’m not asking my friends how to find it or where true peace comes from or if it is even possible.

But isn’t it possible?

I’ve met those people – those who are just satisfied and content. There is no better word to describe them than peaceful: they exude an energy that is intoxicatingly calming that you crave their company because it puts you at ease. They are the ones who were called a “breath of fresh air” on their elementary report cards, and the ones who were so comfortable being who they are, it made you wondered why you doubt yourself at all. They are the ones in the working world who gracefully cascade through the office in seamless outfits; pairing the most mismatched items into something so beautiful you can’t help but watch them as they walk. And when they talk, their sentences are soft and subtle, not loud enough to hear from far away, but enough to make you lean into them, as to not miss a word.

Peeking out the window, hoping he didn’t come to check on me as I sat in his windowsill, pressed up against the glass with his Ralph Lauren sheets wrapped around me, I wondered how I could become that person. The type of person that doesn’t make excuses for herself, who is calm and confident, collected, and true to herself. Someone who isn’t full of worry and anticipation, who is always hungry for change, and desperate to be more, to be better. Being driven and ambitious has its perks, but it often leaves me disappointed when what I think is mine, doesn’t turn out to be. Or what I work so hard for, doesn’t come to be when I want it to.

If I was more peaceful, maybe I’d accept life for what it was, instead of what I want it to be. I’ve accepted peace can’t be found in any man, including the one I can hear attempting to be quiet, though not succeeding as well as he thinks he is. I’ve accepted it can’t be found in my job, though fulfilling, will never be all that I am, nor should it be.

I keep accepting, but I’m still not sleeping. I keep believing I will find freedom from being too hard on myself or not giving myself enough credit or valuing what I have instead of continuously desiring more, but I’m still anxious.

I keep praying, but I’m not finding my peace. Where are you, peaceful, easy feeling, and why can’t I feel you?