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When You Listen

It’s easy to ignore especially since it’s nearly impossible to detect unless you let yourself escape away with it. You can tune it out and pretend that you don’t hear the gentle, nudging — maybe even nagging — rhythm it beats. It’s simple enough to just go on about your day and all of the errands and tasks that define those 24-hours, trying so hard to focus on the car horns and the street signs, the dance of the traffic lights and the unfamiliar faces that pass.

But then it gets a little louder.

It gains momentum and tries different tactics to steal away your attention, oftentimes without you even realizing its sheer force and determination. You can’t adequately describe what exactly it is. Even with your best attempts, the words don’t come out the right way and your friends just can’t wrap their brain around this alluding, and perhaps deluding concept that you seem so fascinated by. You explain and you examine, you question and dissect your options, hoping that by some pro-con list or magical realization that you’ll find a way out. You’ll discover the easiest path to take you the easiest way, and you’ll never have to step up to the plate and battle that thing that’s ringing in your ears.

That thing that for whatever reason feels a lot like an intuition.

That feels eerily like a voice telling you to do something that you can’t really explain. It’s the same irritating, pesky feeling that makes you do things that make you uncomfortable and explore emotions that you’d rather hide away where they’re safe from any harm.

But then, if you’re anything like me, you start singing that song of urgency and you follow along the notes until it takes you to the very spot in the middle of Times Square that not only makes your skin crawl but puts you so far out of your warm-and-fuzzy-mode that you’d basically do anything if you could just run far, far away, back uptown to your apartment. With your dog.

So there I was, standing in a room of strangers at a trendy-ish bar in midtown, refraining from plugging my ears from the raging DJ’s awful taste, not knowing one single person, and yet, knowing I was meant to go to this party. It was a fundraiser for a new charity in New York and from the moment I saw the invite on Facebook, something — that silly something — told me that I had to go.

When I started bringing up the Friday-night event to my friends, it seemed like every last person I knew on this island couldn’t attend: “I’m sorry, I’m out-of-town!” “Oh, I’m not feeling good. I might be able to do it, I’ll get back to you.” “I’m going to stay in tonight and be lazy, have fun!” “It’s in Times Square? Sorry, just can’t handle it.” “I have plans with my boyfriend that I can’t break, miss you!”

Ugh. So, I flew solo, just as that intuition instructed.

Now, why am I supposed to be here? I wondered while making small talk with another small town girl from the South over a $5 glass of champagne. She was talking about dating in the city and seeking my “expert” advice while pointing out men that looked like celebrities. That one looks like Ross from FRIENDS! And that dude by the bar looks like Channing Tatum, doesn’t he? Maybe a little? She was quirky and sweet enough, but I knew it wasn’t her that I was supposed to meet.

Or was I supposed to meet anyone? I considered. Maybe my mission this evening was to join yet another non-profit — since I can’t seem to refuse to help anyone — and give just a bit more of my free time to another cause who needs me. But that’s not it, I told myself as I signed up to join the marketing committee, mentally calculating how in the world I was going to make this work with my already jam-packed schedule. 

I decided to give the party another hour while I mingled and moved about, desperately trying to find the source of this lingering voice that made me come to the party to begin with. But the minutes came and they ended, and I was still uncertain of why exactly I was drawn to this establishment, and I started to doubt my ability to distinguish between intuition and restlessness. As I started to make my way to the front, I started to lose the voice I had heard all week, and I decided that maybe, my imagination was just getting the best of me. Or was it my ever-hopeful heart?

After closing my tab and unchecking my coat, I glanced at my phone to see a number that only started texting me the day before. The number, those 10 unsaved digits that meant really nothing to me, wanted to buy me a drink on the Upper West Side. Tonight. Like in an hour.

Then suddenly the voice was back. It just had the time frame all off. And the actual location. But it returned with more clarity. It wasn’t screaming or demanding and it didn’t need any words, I already knew its directions: go. Just say yes. Without hesitation, I agreed. I listened.

And you know what happens when you listen? You get rewarded for following your heart and trusting in its timing and its patience. When you listen… you sometimes get lucky enough to meet someone who really, truly, for the first time in a very long time, could be… someone.

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A Heart Full of Love

While I was home for the holidays, pretending anything fried and delicious was also calorie-less while lounging on anything that would hold me for long periods of time – my pup, Lucy, was doing the same. A funny thing happens when a city dog from the Upper West Side meets the great wilderness that is a fenced-in back yard: freedom.

Lucy had fun playing with my family’s dog, Suzie, and my uncle’s dogs, Lincoln and Cooper. She ran out the doggy door. And back in. And out. And again and again, over and over. She ate whatever she could find, buried her toys in the dirt outside, rolled in the mud – anything and everything that was Southern and grimy – Lucy was game.

So you can imagine that when bedtime rubbed its sleepy eyes, I had one tired little gal that easily and deeply fell asleep. That is, except for her first night. You see – my apartment in New York is rather quiet. My window faces the buildings behind me and I almost always sleep with a fan to drown out the eerie sound of silence that makes my ears ring. Slumber in the city is very quiet, but in North Carolina – you can hear all sorts of sounds. The tree frogs sing their melodies late at night, the birds wake you up before you’re ready, the dogs have conversations from cul-de-sac to cul-de-sac and angry women shoo them to simmer down.

To Lucy – this was a lot to take in.

I spent a good hour trying to convince her to come out from underneath my childhood bed, luring her with treats and the sweetest (irritated) voice I could muster. But this stubborn tiny white dog was having none of it – she had tucked herself into a corner, ready to hide from anything and everything that was apparently out to get her. As I was attempting to wiggle an arm in to grab her, I hit my elbow on a big plastic box, concealed under a blanket that I used to snuggle with when I was four.

Curiosity always getting the best of me, I pulled out this unfamiliar Tupperware, giving up on my runaway pet. I peeled off the top and inside I found something that within minutes, brought me to tears.

Hundreds and hundreds of love letters.

You see – my ultra-romantic father who is even gushier than me (if you can believe it) – has written a note to my mom nearly every morning in the 27 years they’ve been married. I remember stumbling across them as a child: sometimes in front of the coffee pot, sticking out of the corner of her purse, on the dashboard of her car, taped to the side of her vanity where she sat to do her makeup. They didn’t say much, usually just loving sentiments or funny inside jokes that I don’t want to know the meaning of.

I hadn’t realized that my mom had kept every single last one of them. Or that she stowed them away in a sealed container, underneath my bed where I’m assuming she sometimes pulls them out to read again or continuously add to her already very large stockpile. As I sifted through the notes, careful not to rip them and making sure I didn’t read anything super-personal, I thought about what my dad must have been thinking when he penciled these.

Was he just trying to make sure my mom started her day off with something kind-hearted? Did he want to ensure that she always felt loved? That she always knew how treasured and valuable she is to him? Did he feel so much love toward her that he simply couldn’t hold it in anymore? Was his heart bursting with all that he felt from that day he laid eyes on her from across a crowded, smoky dance floor in the 80s?

These are answers that I’ll probably never know and questions I wouldn’t dare to ask – those letters and the meanings behind them are for my parents. And between them. They’re part of their long-winded, strong and compassionate love affair that has continually shown me what it really means to love unconditionally. Every date I go on, every man I think could possibly be someone to me, I compare the guy – intentionally and not – to my dad. Even if this man won’t write me a note every morning before I hop the train to work or make me a cup of coffee to wake up to – would he express his love in a different way I’d appreciate? Would he remember to tell me how he cares – not just on anniversaries and Hallmark holidays but all the time, every single day?

The verdict is still out – but those letters in that box taught me that what I’m really looking for in a man is one who has one hell of a heart. And a heart that’s full of love. Sure, there are other things – like ambition, loyalty, humor, height – that also rate pretty high on the attraction scale –but someone who isn’t afraid of his feelings and knows how to show them. That’s important, too.

And apparently, important to Lucy, as well. Because as soon as she heard me sniffle as I read those pages, she quickly came to my side to comfort my heart. The one that aches for another one… just like it.

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The Men I’ve Never Met

He saw me from across the street on 14th and 7th, just as I got out of the subway and wrangled my headphones out of my purse to catch the rhythm of the street on my way to work. I didn’t even notice him, even with his colorful scarf. Even though he was particularly tall and certainly handsome.

My thoughts were focused on the deadlines I needed to meet before noon, the emails I was writing responses to in my head and getting to the officebefore the clock struck girl, you’re late. I wasn’t feeling attractive either – considering I was sporting tennis shoes with my black tights, houndstooth coat and pinned-up hair. Due to a running faux pas the evening before, nothing felt comfortable except my dusty running kicks, so I tried my best to not feel like one of those New York commuters that I swore I’d never be. I turned up Pandora to a happy song so I’d at least walk like I was sassy and stylin’, even if I was actually far from it.

You can imagine my surprise when I felt a slight tap on my back, and I hesitantly turned around to meet a beautiful pair of baby blues on a chiseled face that I couldn’t believe was talking to me — looking like this. I smiled, awkwardly I’m sure, and he returned it as he said, “I think you dropped this.” In his hand I saw one of my leather gloves, the ones I just got for Christmas, and I felt my cheeks turn crimson. “Oh my god! Thank you so much – I just got these,” I said as I took it and quickly stuffed it back into my black-holed purse. “Do you work around here? You look so familiar,” he asked as he continued to walk in the same direction of my job. Feeling relived it was 9 a.m. and not 9 p.m. and there were dozens of people around me, I told those HE COULD BE A SERIAL KILLER!!!!! fears to settle down and talked to him, casually. Comfortably. Easily.

Magically.

A few weeks into our relationship, we’d talk about that moment — when he saw the girl he’d noticed forever. How we took the same train sometimes and on random mornings, and we were so close he could have reached out to touch me but never knew how to stir up a conversation, and didn’t want rejection to tear down the sweet image he had of me. So when he saw that glove fall from my pocket to the ground, he felt like it was in slow motion — like something out of a silly movie with a perfect happy ending — finally giving him the perfect excuse to say something. To hear my voice. To see if my heart was as beautiful as the rest of me.

The taxi horn woke me out of my trance, just as Pandora demanded my attention to an ad I had no interest in. Another ridiculous fantasy about a guy that doesn’t exist, I thought, shaking my head motionless to myself and sighing out in mild exhaustion. My daydreams and the music that accompanies them gets me through the morning and the afternoon commute. I’ve planned elaborate meet-cutes, extravagantly sentimental proposals, full-on relationships and many running-into-my-ex-looking-stunning  scenarios in my head. The man with the glove isn’t a man I’ve actually met– but I’ve dreamt of him nearly every day.

For whatever reason, these tiny tales of hope give me a little something to hang onto. Maybe its faith or the idea that somehow, somewhere, someday — there will be a man who will fall in love with me. Just like that. Just that simply.

But how can that happen if I spend all my time hopping the morning train to cuddle into my illusions (and possibly, delusions) of what this grand ole’ relationship will actually be like instead of actually really getting out there and finding it?

If I keep falling in love with imaginary boys — do I prevent myself for meeting real ones?

There really isn’t a great harm in having good, positive — even romantic — thoughts about love. I’ve mastered the fine art of weaving together plot lines and dramatic beginnings and endings — I mean I am a writer by trade, after all. But having this hyper active imagination that latches onto visions of love can make dating a very unrealistic. There is no perfect way to stumble across my fate, no glove that slips out of my reach only to be found by someone who matches my exact perception of attraction. The way to meeting someone isn’t dreaming them into creation — it’s having enough courage to snap out of never-never land and take a giant leap of faith into the scary world of dating.

It’s only here, in this odd, often puzzling city of love triangles and dating disasters that men are merely humans, full of imperfections and shortcomings just like the rest of us; that plans don’t always execute on the time schedule that we’d prefer; that you may not find the absolute dream guy…but if you’re lucky. If you’re really lucky — you may just meet something better. You may just fall for something more.

You may stop falling for the men you’ve never met — real or a product of your daydreams — and instead, fall for the best kind of man that’s out there: a real one.

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Falling in Love on Fridays

Whenever I meet a new couple or I speak to someone who gushes about their partner, I always ask about their how-we-met story. For whatever reason, the way two strangers turn into friends or into lovers or into friends and then lovers, fascinates me. Maybe it’s because I believe in fate or the power of the universe (thanks mom!), or it’s just my romantic disposition at its sappiest – but I love learning about how folks somehow, in some magical or terribly ordinary way, found their way to another person. To their person.

I’ve had a few meet-cutes of my own: I fell down in front of Mr. Possibility on a bus on the way back from JFK Labor Day weekend. I saw Mr. Idea working and found a mutual friend to introduce us because he looked so darn dashing in his green shirt. I used to pass by Mr. Faithful every day in high school until finally, I invited him to a BBQ by putting my number in his pocket. I interviewed Mr. Fire for an article in the college newspaper, and once the feature ran, he asked me out.

All of these meetings could have made for the start of happily-ever-after if the guys didn’t turn out to happily-after-never – but the way we stumbled into each other (sometimes, literally speaking), will always hold a special place in my memories of each of those relationships. Our stories of how we fell in love (or sweaty, amazing, passionate lust), are tales I tell here and ones I keep close to my heart, reminding me that if I can love once (and twice and three times…), I can always love again.

But the story of how I fell in love with myself – as I’ve depicted through hundreds and hundreds of blogs over the past two years – that story is just as beautiful and endearing. It’s been brutally honest to a point of pain and also full of light, hope and gentle peace. It’s had ups and downs, and I’ve fallen in and out of love with this city, with my life here, with the woman I’m becoming and the woman I want to be over, and over again. That’s what makes it a great story – from the meeting to the ending and everything that had to conspire in between to make those two points important.

And so – I want to know your stories.

Of how you fell in love with the man you’re dating or married to. Or the one you broke up with three years ago. Or the one you just can’t get over, but want to. I want to know the story of how you fell in love with yourself after the breakups, the makeups, the unemployment periods, the days you got the dream job, the moment you felt your best and sexiest, the periods of complete self-satisfaction. The stories of moving to a new place or falling back in love with an old one.

Every Friday, I’ll post a “Falling in Love on Friday” blog. You don’t have to be a writer to submit, but if you do have a blog, I’ll gladly link back. Pictures aren’t necessary, but always encouraged. Email me at confessions (dot) loveaddict (@) gmail (dot) com. I’ll try my best to respond to everyone.

Tell me your stories – and I promise to keep telling you mine…

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Guess What? The Blog is Baaack!

I try not to get specific about what I specifically do for a living.

It’s hard — because I’m really excited about my job, even a year and a half after starting at iVillage. My days are filled with fun new stories to chase and interesting topics to discuss — but they aren’t exactly the conversations men particularly want to have.

I’m not sure what’s worse actually– telling a dude that I (like to) research and write about marriage, getting pregnant and having babies… Or that part of my job description requires me to call in vibrators to test or edit a slideshow where legal prostitutes in Nevada give (kinda awesome) sex tips. Add in the fact that I have a moderately-successful dating blog where I claim I’m addicted to love — and my freak flag tends to fly a little high.

Guys are often either really intimidated and think I want a family right this very second, get it in their head that I could possibly write about our date (as if!) or they ask way too inappropriate questions about sex right from the get-go on the very first date because apparently reporting about orgasms makes you the expert on them.

Naturally.

I’m not one to blush– I can really talk about anything and be quite comfortable (even that one time I explained some sex terms to my senior editors)– but I’m not one to talk in-depth to a near stranger about mating tactics. Especially a stranger that I assume, since he asked me out, could be interested in dating, (and yes, possibly mating with) me one day.

So I’ve been leaving out the details and my last name, when I’m just starting to get to know someone.  I let it slip when I feel comfortable that they might like me for me — and not for my exciting job and  interesting area of interest — and I see how they handle it. It’s not until after a while that I give enough info for them to Google me– it’s really not hard to read about my entire dating history on the Internet, and shouldn’t they learn it from me first?

But with the start of this year — I’ve not only been dating more (six dates already), I’ve also wanted to write more. And not particularly about the dates (none really impressed me enough to earn a spot on this blog), but just because I’ve missed expressing myself through words. Though I know it could scare them away, I’ve told every guy exactly what I do, exactly why I love it and exactly why I don’t give a damn if he gives one about it. Well maybe not in so many words, but I’ve been so concerned with not making someone feel threatened by my job that I’ve left out my passion. And that’s what makes me, me. I would think, it’s an attractive, alluring, intriguing part of my personality, and if I can move from North Carolina to New York and not only make it here, but love it here — then surely I can meet someone who isn’t freaked out about what I write about.

And so, I’m back.

Maybe not every day, but my goal is three to five blogs a week again. I haven’t been absent just because of men — I’ve been busy with everything else, too — but I was hesitant of interjecting new “characters” because Mr. Possibility became such a big part Confessions of a Love Addict when really, it was supposed to just be about me. Maybe the saga of what we were kept you all reading, but I hope the blogs about figuring out the dating world, believing in yourself beyond any shadow of a doubt, and those vulnerable, honest posts that make us all feel human, are the real reasons you come back to LoveAddict.

I don’t know what the new year holds — but I have a good feeling about it. And it feels so good to do this again. To share my thoughts, to be open about what I’m going through. To get it all off of my very-heavy chest. To read your comments and your tweets, and to get back into a community that I’ve always appreciated. And really missed.

So I hope I can win you back — and maybe I’ll even go through the 12 steps again. It never hurts to fall in love with yourself — over and over. Right?