Category Archives: Step 9

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An Unjustified Title

I can’t tell you how often I’m compared to Carrie Bradshaw. It’s practically an everyday occurrence now. While I’ve been home, my mom has even introduced me as her daughter, Lindsay New York, who writes just like Sex & the City. I am a fan of the show and of the first movie (second one wasn’t for my age bracket) and I do take it as a compliment, but I’d like to think I offer a more realistic view of a writer than someone who writes one column a week, lives in the UES in a fabulous one bedroom with a closet full of clothes and shoes that total up to way more than her rent.

But I digress.

This trip has given me the big ol’ dose of relaxation that I needed, some quality family time, and fun adventures with Mr. Possibility. It’s also challenged me to accept that fact that I’m in a relationship. You see, it took some encouragement and several months for me to admit to the blog that Mr. Possibility had become more than a possibility. Each time I’d see a friend who reads this blog, they’d ask: “So when are you going to say that you’re not…well, single?”

I’m going to meet everyone’s accusations and refer to S&TC, but I’m with Mr. Big on this one – I don’t like the word “boyfriend.” It just sounds way too…young. And referring to Mr. Possibility as my boyfriend just doesn’t have the ring to it that I’d like it to. And unlike Carrie, I’m not witty enough to respond cleverly and deem him my manfriend, nor do I like the sound of that either.

And this week has been full of introductions. Though it may seem like a big step to bring him home to meet the family, it was more a matter of convenience – there was a wedding I wanted to go to, I wanted him to be my date, and why would we waste money when we could stay for free? The decision was simple and the vacation has been pretty seamless…except when it’s time to claim him and really give him a title.

Why am I so timid about it? Why does it feel odd sliding through my lips? Isn’t this what I wanted? I did start writing this blog because I had obsessed about needing and wanting a boyfriend. So now that I have one, why does calling him as what he is seem so out of character? When asked by my friends, my family, and friends-of-the-family about my boyfriend, why is my initial reaction to dismiss him?

I think it boils down to some pretty huge differences that have happened over the course of this step-by-step journey to self-love. First and most importantly, I’ve done a lot of growing up, a lot of forgiving, a lot of detoxing, and a lot of re-evaluating my wants, my needs, and my fears. I’ve really learned more about myself and accepted myself for all that I am in the past nine months than I have in my 20-something years on this planet. And so now, though I have a boyfriend, though I do care about him tremendously, he doesn’t feel like the end all be all. He doesn’t make my sun rise and he doesn’t balance my orbits. He’s part of the light in my life, but not the light of my life.

And then there’s how much our story differs from relationships I’ve had before – in ways I’ve described and in ways I’d never dream of putting on these pages. We developed a friendship, we grew romance at a steady, relaxed pace. We took the time to get to know one another and we let things happen instead of forcing them. We didn’t rush, we didn’t overanalyze, and we didn’t place pressure where points could burst. We treated whatever it was that we had with care and in return, whatever we had turned into whatever it is now.

But I don’t want to scribble his name on notebooks. I don’t feel like I always have to hold his hand when we’re walking. I don’t have to tell the whole world that he’s mine for him to be mine. It’s not about being together as defined by traditional standards or by Mr. Zuckerberg’s updates that makes me comfortable with him – it’s just being around him that puts me at ease. And of course, the exclusivity factor is nice, too.

It’s not that we’re too old to be labeled as boyfriend/girlfriend, it’s just that I don’t think those terms are justified anymore. They are used so often and so haphazardly that they seem careless and insincere. I think partner is the preferred title. Because he stands by me, I stand by him. We’re friends and we’re more, but more than anything, we’re partners. We get each other, we get along, and we get what it takes to keep us going.

And introducing him as “Mr. Possibility” instead of “My boyfriend, Mr. Possibility” is better because it shows that we’re partners, that we’re together, without using the same word I’ve used since kindergarten. I mean, isn’t it time to switch it up? To grow up? To be a partner and not just another gf?

I think so.

 

 

 

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A Lesson in Unlearned Helplessness

In a sociology class I took in college, we discussed the theory of learned helplessness. Basically, it’s the notion that we mimic what we see portrayed or illustrated to us. In the context of the course, the lecture was specifically directed toward learned helplessness in women. We see damsels in distress on television, we see knight-and-shining-armor-like male characters rescue them from their sadness, and then we believe by being needy we’ll attract the guy we want.

I see this time and time again, and I’ve probably been guilty of the same “help me!” tactic in past relationships. There’s something about being upset and then being comforted by anyone – man or friend – that seems normal. Sometimes it even feels good. But the older I’ve become and the more men I’ve dated that were far more helpless than I’ll ever be at any given point in my life, the more independence I have claimed.

Well, until today when Mr. Possibility experienced his first unexpected summer storm. And unluckily for him, with my hands on the wheel.

Returning from The Biltmore, wind, rain, hail, and lighting encompassed the Carolina sky and we watched the cars on the highway slow and some pull off to wait it out. I’m not a fan of driving due to a scary accident I had in high school and torrential weather only intensifies my fear because it reminds me of how it feels to be out of control of your vehicle. Stuck in traffic on the expressway where everyone else was going at the same speed, I didn’t freak out. He kept quiet, I stayed focused and I felt comfortable enough to get us off at the right exit.

But then my nerves got the best of me. On the older, uneven country roads plagued with flood plains, the water rose to the top of my tires and with the inclination I could hydroplane, I almost burst into tears.

“Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!” I repeated continuously while gripping the steering wheel,  keeping my eyes peeled for wrecks ahead, and prepping myself for a disaster myself. Instead of consoling me or getting me out of the situation, Mr. Possibility calmly encouraged me to breathe, to keep moving, to not brake and assured me I could get through it. When we hit the next overgrown puddle, I returned to my “Oh my god” chorus and again, he let me know that this was in my hands, that I could do it and that this was all me. He even threw in a “Can’t Tigar do anything?” pep talk for good humor.

You could guess I was highly unamused.

Once we pulled over into a parking lot after a firetruck kept us from going any further because part of the road was underwater, I snapped at him: “Why didn’t you just comfort me? Why didn’t you just say ‘Baby, you’re fine. I’ll handle this, just pull over and get out’?” He reached across the car, placed his hand on my knee and asked, “Well didn’t you handle it?”

I nodded.

“And aren’t we safe because of you?”

I again nodded.

“You didn’t need me to comfort you. You didn’t need me to make you get out and let me drive. You could do it just fine on your own and you did.”

It took me a while to cool down, still convinced he should have just rescued me from the awful storm so I could crawl into the passengers side, curl up and hide my face from the ugliness outside. But once we pulled into the driveway and I finally exhaled an hour later, I realized he was right. I didn’t actually need him. If he had not been in the car, I would have been fine – I would have just said the same things to myself that he said to me.

So why did I suddenly feel helpless? Is it because we’re conditioned to give up and surrender when a man is in our presence? If a guy is by our side, do we throw away any gumption we had without them? Or is it just easier to tell someone else to do something, to get through the nitty-gritty instead of doing it ourselves? Instead of correcting what’s wrong with us or embracing our fears with courage?

A few hours later when I needed something out of our rental car (that luckily wasn’t damaged from the hail), I started to ask him to run outside and get it because it was still raining. As the words slipped out of my mouth and he asked where the keys were, I quickly excused him from the duty. Will I melt in water? No.

And I don’t really need Mr. Possibility – or any man that’s a possibility. I just kinda of want him – maybe that’s partly because he reminds me that helplessness isn’t part of who I am. And that if you can learn it, you can unlearn it, too.

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Why I Do The Things I Do

My mom has this way of attracting ladies with magnetic personalities. Her gaggle of girlfriends is eclectic and intense, always laughing, always sharing, always discussing, and always formulating. I’ve always been intrigued by her network, and when I visit I often find myself gladly in their company and energy. Tonight was no different when she invited me to go with her to the Women’s Wisdom Circle – a group led by her friend C.

Leaving Mr. Possibility to have dinner alone with my father (the house and the two of them survived, though the bottle of Tequila did not), mom and I had dinner at our favorite Greek restaurant and a few glasses of Cabernet before taking a seat of wisdom. The group aims to raise questions and to get women to ask themselves basically the premise of this blog: if we know thyself, then doesn’t everything fall into place?

Each week has a different topic of interest and this week, the group chatted about motivation. Specifically, what motivates you to keep going?

We all had a moment to ourselves before sharing our thoughts, and as I sat there, pen and clipboard in hand, trying to answer this question for myself. Playing off of the very little I know about meditation (that’s the next step), I pictured myself back in New York, lying in the bed I bought with money I earned from the job I go to everyday. I thought about how I feel each morning, when the alarm goes off earlier than I want it to and my body is tired from a night of unsettled rest. I thought about the routine I practice when I’m not on vacation and how each day gets started.

What makes me get up?

Is it my iced coffee and egg-and-cheese wake-up wrap from Dunkin’ Donuts? Or my morning commute that is always filled with interesting people and ample fodder? Is it penning articles and updating websites and writing this blog? Maybe it’s my wonderful group of friends or my possibility or the combination of all of the above?

I couldn’t really decide and at first, it worried me. Does nothing really motivate me? Do I not have anything in my life that gets me going? That pushes me to move forward? Do I just do things for the sake of doing them? Because I know I should or that I think that by doing them, I’ll get somewhere else? Or find someone? Or get something in return?

Why do I do the things I do?

Chewing on the end of my pen on loan, hoping the owner wouldn’t mind, I circled the room with my eyes, searching for answers in the faces of a few strangers, a friend and my mom. They all read differently and they spoke about what drove them in different ways: “my morning coffee”, “my pets”, “I feel lazy if I don’t”, and “I have a need to be productive”, among others. When it came my turn, I spoke hesitantly because I noticed a big difference in my response compared to the others. Also because I was at a different point in my life, all of the women were over 40, a few retired, some married, some with children – and here I was, the visitor from the big city, daughter of the very lovely, open-minded and radiant woman, in my 20s, not hitched and without a child. Was I really about to say what I truly felt?

That the reason I got up each morning was that I’m happy?

And if I think about what motivates me to give each day a chance, it’s the fact that it is a new start. A sunny beginning. It’s the fact that if I get through today, if I give this 24-hour span my everything, if I work hard, if I believe in the goodness of life and in the brightness of my spirit, then tomorrow will most likely come. Perhaps not guaranteed but quite likely, it will arrive. And with tomorrow, I’ll be one step closer, one moment nearer to the pieces of my future and of my dreams that I’m still piecing together. That dream job down the road will be in sight, that home I hope to build, that love I want to find, and that byline I long to see, those will be closer if I decide to turn the alarm off instead of snooze. If I decide to shower and throw the covers up on my bed, pick out a pair of kicks to battle the city with. If I decide to smile and have faith in the divinity of what is it be and to have peace with the days that came before. Those days where I decided to do the things I’ll do today.

And I’ll do  the things I do because I’m happy with the me I am. And excited for the me I’ve yet to meet.

For more information on Women’s Wisdom Circles, email C. 

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Lindsay New York

I always thought I’d be afraid of flying. I’m not sure why exactly – I’ve never feared heights and I’ve used every opportunity I could to try things that go fast: like jet skis, speedboats and sportscars. I went bungee jumping and have plans to go sky diving this summer – but yet, the first time I flew (to NYC from NC for my summer internship in 2008), I was disappointed when my tummy didn’t do flip flops at takeoff.

I thought “having a tiny fear of flying” sounded cool for some reason. Much in the same way I thought having a somewhat good singing voice would make me one of the many hopefuls for American Idol, though if we’re real honest, I only sound halfway decent in the shower and in the car, only in the company of myself. (Though Mr. Possibility tells me I have a “sweet’ singing voice and can hold a tune, but if you heard him sing, you wouldn’t trust his recommendation).

I guess I wanted to be known for something. Be the girl who did this or felt this way or had this kind of talent. For whatever reason, it’s appealing to me to have a title – “My friend Lindsay, she’s this incredible artist. You should see what she paints” or “God, my girlfriend, Lindsay, she’s so adorable when she flies, she grabs my hand and squeezes her eyes so tight, she can barely open them when the seatbelt light goes out.”

But no, I never really thought I was anything all that special. Sure, I have preferences and specified interests: I love puppies, not cats; I hate pickles, but I’ll eat them fried; I coo at babies and can’t stand cauliflower, not based on its taste, but because I think it looks like broccoli gone bad. I stand like a flamingo when my legs are tired and though it isn’t the most becoming quality, it is best I stay away from cheese at all costs. I love mayonnaise on pretzels, it is almost physically impossible for me not to date a guy I can’t sport sky-high heels with, and I’m addicted to all things Italian: men, food, wine, you name it.

Growing up, though, none of these things never quite mattered. But then I moved to New York and I started visiting the South for vacations and holidays, I realized that I actually do have something special about me. I am rather unique and my friend E was the one who predicted my out-shining quality. You see, I’m fromNew York now, not from North Carolina.

Each time I come home, someone – a friend, family member or parent – doesn’t introduce me as Lindsay anymore, but as “Lindsay. FromNew York.” Now really, I’m not Northern and I really don’t want to be. In fact, when I first met Mr. Possibility, I thought he had a speech impediment because his accent was so thick. But even though I don’t mispronounce “car”, I’m not the biggest fan of bagels, and I don’t curse every other word, when I return home, I suddenly become a New Yorker, though the city doesn’t endorse me yet.

Apparently it’s such an anomaly for a blue-eyed, freckled petite little miss to transplant herself from pearls and babies to resumes and stilettos, that as soon as I changed my address and my voter registration, I became Lindsay New York.

But ya know what, as outlandish as it is, I don’t mind. I have always wanted to be known for something and if that something happens to be my admiration of NYC, that’s not a bad trait to claim. I guess when you’ve loved something for decades, it does become part of your DNA. It does become part of what makes you, you. It does become the thing you miss, even when you’re lying in your childhood bed watching your possibility chat with your dad over beers.

Where you’re from may be the thing that makes up the pieces of who you are, the bundles of lessons and dreams that give you morals and ideas – but it’s the place you go, the people you meet, and the stories you tell from that place and the person you bring home that change you. It’s what makes up your future. And maybe it’s not as interesting as a killer voice or as endearing as someone who is afraid of climbing, but it’s me.

You know, me, Lindsay New York.

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A Real Relationship

I’m a pretty relaxed traveler. I don’t over pack but I pack enough. I’m not afraid of missing my flight but I’m perpetually way too early. I don’t set my plans in stone but I always have a general idea of what I’d like to do. Most of the traveling and exploring I’ve done, I’ve done alone, so globe or stateside trotting with someone else is just about the only thing that makes me a little nervous.

Mr. Possibility and I have been through a lot together and I’ve known him almost the entire time I’ve been writing this blog, making the process of learning to love myself, with or without a guy that much more complicated. I was specific when I started this journey that I wasn’t going to make any rules and I wasn’t going to stop dating if someone happened to fall into my life that I was interested in. Most literally, I just about fell into Mr. Possibility’s lap on that sunny afternoon nearly nine months ago.

And here we are today, preparing for our first trip together, attempting to put the past behind us and set out into the adventure that is a relationship. I haven’t been in one for a while and the last one (Mr. Idea) wasn’t exactly sunshine-and-roses, but with Mr. possibility, it was nearly impossible (pun intended) to not give it a go. There’s something about connecting with someone on such a personal basis that even if there wasn’t chemistry or passion or sex or all of the above, you’d still like who they were as a person, all other things aside. That’s Mr. Possibility for you – a good guy. A guy who gets me, who makes me laugh, who doesn’t try to hold me back, who encourages my dreams and is pretty dependable.

He is many wonderful things or he wouldn’t be with me – but one thing that he’s not is organized. I’m not the cleanest person in the world, trust me. Neither is he and that not-so-winning combination has caused some sticky situations in the past. But when it comes to preparing to go away or getting my affairs in order before leaving home for a week, I start to think ahead…well, ahead. Mr. Possibility doesn’t quite think in the same way, or rather if he does, he’s far more relaxed about it then I am.

I’ve had my suitcase packed for two days, an idea of what time we have to get up to be there in enough time, and our itinerary, including our rental car information and flight schedule printed. I’ve packed magazines I’ve been dying to read (and one for him), formulated a few blog posts so I wouldn’t have to stress on vacation (but I’m bringing my laptop, can’t help myself), and came up with a list of things I want to do. Mr. Possibility, on the other hand, didn’t start packing until right now, is stopping by a friend’s birthday party when we have a 6 a.m. flight tomorrow, and I’m finishing up laundry so he’ll have everything he needs.

Needless to say, perhaps, there’s been a little tension.

A big part of a relationship is compromise and accepting someone’s idiosyncrasies. I know I have ridiculous traits and I also know he has his, but if we can both learn to relax, to take a step back, and remember why we care – instead of what annoys the hell out of us – then we have a chance at a great trip and at a great partnership. I probably packed too many shoes and will be a little flustered if I don’t get to see some of the things I want to see, and Mr. Possibility could run away screaming from me if I ask him one more time if he has everything he needs – but I take him for him. He takes me for me. It’s not perfect and it’s not supposed to be, but it is life and this is a real relationship. We can’t escape reality, even if we are going on vacation.

I’m still coming to terms with giving up the single status but I’m excited about taking a trip with a man. Even if he happens to be the sort of man who is standing in front of me, asking which tie goes the best with the suit he wants to bring and neither of his options match at all. Did I mention we’re leaving ten hours? And his suitcase is empty?

Sigh.