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I Do it Myself

When Mr. Possibility and I visited my family in North Carolina earlier this summer, I felt bad for him. Being the doting parents of an only child, my mother and father couldn’t resist the opportunity to show him at least one home video. They have records of everything I’ve ever done, a “wall” of fame for my journalism and pageant awards, plus diplomas and they still carry around a photo of me to show strangers.

I’d say it’s embarrassing, but it’s really just quite adorable. Mr. Possibility thought so too, especially after he had a few drinks. That seems to be the magic solution of surviving Lindsay as an energetic, defiant, and talkative toddler. While I’ve only grown a few feet and inches since then, my attitude is roughly the same. I’m still optimistic and too independent for my own good.

This was illustrated by my third birthday party, when my cousin attempted to help me unwrap a present and while sporting pink bows and a frilly dress, demanded: “I do it myself!”

That’s basically how I’ve felt all week – I’ve wanted to do it all, all by myself. I go through stages really, where I want to be around my friends or Mr. P constantly. Sometimes I crave company as badly as I do pizza at 3 a.m. on Friday nights – but at other times, there is no place I’d rather be than alone. In those moments or days, I don’t text as much, I appear invisible on Gchat, I don’t comment or update the Book of Faces as often, and I spent time working on my personal to-do list of things that really aren’t that vital. Like at-home pedicures, color-coordinating my closet, attempting a difficult recipe, or finding books to sell at Strand and clothes to give dollars for at Buffalo Exchange.

And when I’m really ambitious, as I was last night, I take on a day-long task at 7 p.m. at night. While giving my room a thorough cleaning, I decided on the fly that I was bored of the layout and wanted to rearrange. So with Pandora blasting in my fuzzy pink socks, sweatpants and sports bra, I moved my dresser, desk, bed, and bookshelf single-handedly. At one point I was cornered with no place to go and had to become Spidey-like to climb over top my furniture, while praying Ikea wouldn’t let me down with its flimsy durability. I replaced photos in frames, restructured my getting-ready-in-the-morning setup, threw out shoes that saw their last day years ago, and finally concluded that I’ll never be a 34A again, so holding onto training bras probably is a waste of space.

Around midnight, when my room makeover was complete, I stood in awe at my work. And of the change.

That little bit of reorganization makes everything look different and feel fresher. It makes me cleaner for a few weeks and gives me a new appreciation for the apartment and roommates I was lucky to find. And though I’d say most anyone reading this blog could do the same in their own space, I thoroughly enjoy the feeling of doing something by myself. I’m no Southern Belle who poses as a damsel in distress, but a young woman who would rather be sore and filthy than to rely on anyone to do the things I can do without help.

It’s that mentality, I think, that gets me far – in my career and in my love life. Accepting myself as an independent, as someone who can do most things she sets her mind to has given me the confidence to go after those things that seem unreachable. To push harder, to believe in my abilities, and to take responsibility for both my successes and my failures. It’s made me a product of my own doing – capable of not only being the person I want to be, but doing those things that others have said I can’t or have tried to do for me. Perhaps it make me a little much to handle in a relationship, but if a guy can’t hold his own while dating me – there’s an express train a few blocks away and I’ll provide the $2.25 he’ll need to catch it.

If someone else wants to come along the journey, they’re welcome to – just don’t slow me down or instruct me how to walk or to talk,, what to see or how to be. Because as I promised over twenty years ago, I’ll do it myself and I’ll be damn happy about it.

 

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An Ageless Bond

Standing in the fitting room of a trendy boutique in the West Village today, staring at myself in the mirror in an overpriced $105 cotton blue dress with embellishments, I had an ache in my heart for no one other than my mother.

Considering I’ve been out of grade school for quite some time now, and the whole “back-to-school” shopping trip ceased when I hit college, every Fall, my 20-something self misses spending a few hours at the mall with my mom. She used to set a budget and then let me go at it – jeans, sweaters, leggings, bras, shoes, school supplies, and anything else I needed was up to me to pick out. She’d go around holding up things that she thought would be “cute” and the older I became, the more I went against her suggestions and went with my own.

Maybe some have mothers who want them to wear turtlenecks and long skirts that cover every possible inch of their body, but my mom was never like that. She’s actually one of the best critics – she’ll be honest about how I look and she’s queen of selecting pieces that flatter my body. She never told me to hide my curves, but to dress for them. She should know how to do that after all – she’s the one who gave them to me. While we may disagree on certain picks, I trust her the most on fit, and I value her sweet sentiments over anyone else’s.

Our Girl’s Days Out weren’t limited to pre-September though, it was always our thing to do monthly. Sometimes we’d just go bouncing around to thrift stores, try a new restaurant downtown, and once I became an adult, I started dressing her instead. Since she’s been walking or biking a few miles daily for as long as I can remember, my mom is in great shape and for a 50-something (sorry mom!), I’d say she’s pretty smokin’.

But she doesn’t always think so. And she has to be reminded that wearing tight clothes isn’t out of the question in your middle-age, that being sexy doesn’t disappear because wrinkles appear, and that she deserves new clothes too. After spending a vast majority of her life treating me to special things and taking me on shopping trips, she often forgot herself – but now it’s her time.

She started esthetician school today and I couldn’t be more proud. I waited anxiously by my cell phone for her to get out of class, wondering how her day was and if she liked her classmates. She was nervous about the transition from working to taking a chance on something she’s always been interested in. Accounting is far from waxing and beauty treatments, but with her gentle touch and fiesty entrepreneurial-spirit, I’m confident that with a degree, she’ll be unstoppable.

While I was happy for her bright, new beginning, I was sad that I wasn’t there to share it with her. To treat her to a new outfit to wear to class that flatters her style and the softness she exudes without trying. To split a bottle of wine and chat about what she liked and didn’t, and dream up what kind of salon she would open up. To just see her beaming and brave, being the woman I’ve always known was inside of her, but she was afraid to face.

It’s funny how tables turn and how eventually, we end up parenting out parents a bit. Or maybe they just become our friends because they’ve been befriending us our entire lives. And just like they have to with us or we have to with a childhood friend that can’t come along for our ride, we have to learn how to let them go. How to support their new endeavors that don’t involves us or our day-to-day lives that don’t include one another, or the goals they’re reaching that we can’t quite see. How to stand on our own and let them stand as well.

How to pick out our own clothes with our own money for the brand new job we sought and found, while they start a brand new chapter of their lives by returning to school. How mothers continue to learn just as much as daughters, and how closing your eyes and sending a hug from the big city to the sweet countryside may seem impossible, somewhere, you just know she can feel it, too.

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When the Caged Bird Flies

Sitting in the West Village today at a miniature Brazilian restaurant overlooking Bleeker, sipping coffee that was just a bit too hot, reading New York magazine, I looked outside and thought to myself: “I wish I could put this feeling into words.” I’m not convinced I can, but I’ll try.

I’ve concluded that there are these periods in your life of great sorrow and doubt – where you mourn yesterday and though you’d like to hope for tomorrow, it seems far-fetched and like a fantasy. It’s almost as if thinking about the months ahead seem like a daunting ordeal, something to tag on the bottom of your to-do list, along with mediocre tasks like sweeping underneath furniture and dusting window seals. You experience disappointment and then you consume it, mimicking a caged bird with beautiful feathers that just yearns to fly so badly that it can’t sit still, until it tires and ultimately retires to pouting on a perch.

But its beauty isn’t gone, it’s just put on hold for a period so it can rest and recuperate and attempt to soar the next day, when maybe someone will open the door to release it into freedom.

That day always seems somewhere in the distant future, in a place that’s shadowy and paved with gloom on a road that’s rocky. The map leading there seems practical enough: work hard, believe in yourself and memorize as many names and faces as you can, and you’ll find your footing. You’ll be released out of captivity and into that brave new world you seek – your wings flapping with that uncensored ambition in the great unknown.

And while you probably head too far South when you should be shooting North, and you ignore the rules to take a detour that seems sexier and easier, you eventually find the way out. You wake up one day with a shiny attitude and shop for a new purse to go along with it. You accessorize your happiness the way you would your favorite outfit, pairing it with happy hours and dinner dates, tooting your own horn as loudly as you can, but remembering to be as gracious and humble as possible through all that glee. Everyone you know tells you how deserving you are, how proud they are, and your elders in the industry remind you that being tenacious only works for so long, eventually you’re older and instead of someone being surprised by your age, it just becomes natural. You should be brilliant and on top of your game in your late 20s, so play up that youthful spirit while it’s raw.

You fly through the streets wearing a blue dress and heels, carrying that confidence with big, powerful, bold steps, and you smile at strangers, tip a little more when you dine, and finally, feel at ease. Suddenly you’re singing the praises of your fate and serenading the universe with notes of thanksgiving, humming a sweet little tune that bubbles inside of you when you savor this fervor.

And that’s what it is – a romantic happiness. It’s warm and simple, understated to the world, but overpowering inside of you. It makes everything else seem ordinary and yet, you feel enriched by the extraordinary direction you’re suddenly allowed to go. You can’t even entertain thoughts about other parts of your life that maybe aren’t so fabulous, they suddenly seem unimportant and a waste of your energy. You’d rather think about this shine instead of giving any time to something sub par.

You revel in your company, not only of the fancy footsteps you’re following, the tailwinds for others you’re creating, but the friends who sat next to you in that awful little cage or fed you slivers of mango from outside, reminding you that one day, you’d be free again. It’s that happiness that you find when you’ve reached a goal or you’ve reached a level of comfort in your own blue-suede shoes that will soon switch from so-four-seasons-ago to hot off the redesigned shelves at Barney’s.

That fight from fearful to faithful is a long one. But you remember that without that fight, there can be no magical flight. Without resting those wings, they’d never be able to radiate in the sun or survive opposing winds. Or to sit peacefully in the good graces of the heavens and on the good side of yourself, cherishing this joy for all its worth, knowing that moments like this one and days like these don’t come around too often. They are brief and easily forgotten when the clouds gather and the sun retreats away again.

Trying to put this feeling into words or bottle it up to take a sip when we’re going through that rough time again, when our vision is challenged by horizontal bars of adversity is wasteful wishing. The point of such romance isn’t to hold onto it for very long. The best of flings and the highest height of passion are meant to be tawdry and temporary, concealed behind blushing cheeks and rouge lips, only brought out when temptation tempts or dreams most unbelievably actually come true.

Nor fighting or flying can last forever – but as long as we can make our way through each of them without losing our heads, or more importantly, our hearts, then we’ll get to keep the most precious gift either of them can give us. The beauty of a romantic happiness and the knowledge that being a caged bird isn’t so bad. If we’re never made to sit still, we’d never realize the opportunity the spread those colorfully wounded wings and try out a new bright, blue sky.

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A New York Week

Well folks, I’m beside myself. I have a full week to do whatever I please in this busy, rainy city and I’m drawing one huge blank. With so many options and not wanting to go over my budget too badly, what in the world should I do?

I figure this is one of those rare opportunities – in fact, I can sorta feel it. When else will I have time off to just be one with New York, without obligations, without planning a trip, or preparing for something life-altering like surgery, pregnancy, marriage, etc. This is really a time, in my 20s to go exploring the place I love without worries. Freedom is funny that way though – when you have so much of it, where do you begin?

I’ve been down to the Pier and I’ve taken a cruise on the river. I’ve seen the Statue of Liberty, I used to work in Times Square. I used to live near the Flat Iron building and I’ve waited more times than I’d care to admit in the Shake Shack line. I’ve toured Central Park, soaked up the absent sun on the Great Lawn and swung on a swingset for kids on my way out.

I’ve been to every museum I have an interest in going to; Bryant Park continues to be one of my favorite places in Manhattan.

I’ve went shopping in the West Village and waited in another long line at Magnolia’s. I have a library card but don’t really use it; I’ve been to Tiffany’s and Macy’s, Saks and Bloomies, and even stomped on the big piano in FAO Schwartz.

I’ve pretended I was Eloise at the Plaza, I’ve walked the highline and will soon work near it. I’ve gone clubbing in meatpacking, made friends with college kids in the East Village and Union Square, and hung out with the gay hubbies in Chelsea.

I’ve sat in the middle of Columbus Circle, looking downtown, dreaming of the future, and on top of a building in Williamsburg gleaming at the city at night.

I slept on a couch in Park Slope and sat outside eating Lobster Mac N’ Cheese near Wall Street. I’ve seen more than a few Broadway Shows, ran the West Side Highway, and walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. I’ve met some celebrities, interviewed a handful, and enjoyed the baking talents of one.

I’m a regular at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where I light a candle for me, for you, for my family, for my friends, for the world. Mr. Possibility works in Rockefeller Center, so I’ve visited consistently. I’ve been to several fashion weeks, even bringing a friend along for the ride thanks to a friend who invited me.

I’ve paid my respects to 9/11 and pretended I could afford anything in Soho. I’ve battled China Town and welcomed free wine in Little Italy.

I’ve been stuck in the rain trying to catch the uptown one train after a tireless day of touring the city with a friend, but took it all in style anyway.

I’ve jumped through fountains in the middle of a ‘Welcome to New York’ boozy brunch with a friend of mine and without shame, sported my super pale legs.

I’ve enjoyed the beauty of New York dining, including free passes to pop-up restaurants where everything is cooked outside and made deliciously, including a wine bottle coincidentally filled with water.

I’ve discovered the art of the ice cream cone in the middle of a hot August afternoon and how actually, there is such a thing as too much whipped creme.

I’ve been on countless dates, shared a few kisses on doorsteps, and loved only one in New York so far – and with him, the possibility, been caught having a moment at an event.

I’ve had the luck to gain experience in interviewing folks on camera, including on the rooftop of an apartment building I wish I could afford to live in smack-dab in the middle of Chelsea.

I’ve enjoyed the city in all of its seasons: drenched in sweat in the summer, preparing for an unexpected storm, inhaled the colors of fall in Central Park, enjoyed my favorite, the lovely tulips in spring, and even made it to see the Rockettes.

And ice skating at Wollman rink…

And surviving my first experience seeing a live, male stripper (giggling and shock and all)…

And city views from The Boom Boom Room to rooftop hotel bars with my favorite people on Earth…

But through it all – I’ve had one thing that New York is best at: making me smile and giving me a life full of people that make the city what it is…

Home…

So what do I do with a week off – when I already feel like I have it all?

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Writing About Love

Mid-day Gchat conversation with my friend K recently, I mentioned how I had written about something we were discussing. The chatting continued and I realized that again, I had written about another topic that came up. And as if I hadn’t already known, I typed “God, I’ve really been writing about love a long time, haven’t I?”

Maybe I’ve never actually claimed the title, but it’s true: I’m a Love Writer. If you count my teen column in a tiny newspaper at 15, being front page editor for the middle school gazette, and fairytales I composed before I kissed a boy – you could conclude I’ve been penciling love for over a decade. It’s only been within the last five years that I’ve been paid to write about such things, but I’d still do it for nothing (hence this blog).

You’d think after nearly 365 posts (can you believe it?) and ten years of coming up with ideas surrounding the many tangled complications of relationships, the messy wonder of sex, and how those both combine to create a combination of feeling and choice – something most of us call love. And most of us also curse the name of at least a handful of times between the eighth grade dance and “I do.”

But you’d guess wrong. Fodder for these posts and my other pieces is rather quite easy. It’d be easy for you too, if writing was the way you decided to express yourself. Even if you gladly wear the cynic badge, believe you can go your whole life without falling in love again, and have a vendetta against all men – there is always something about love that’ll come out of anything. Especially out of those fleeting feelings of hatred and fear. Writer and monk Thomas Merton said it better: “The question of love is one that cannot be evaded. Whether or not you claim to be interested in it, from the moment you are alive you are bound to be concerned with love, because love is not just something that happens to you: it is a certain way of being alive. Love is, in fact, an intensification of life, a completeness, a fullness, a wholeness of life.”

I’m not under the belief that you need romantic love to have a full, complete, whole life – but you need some sort of love. Maybe that’s the greatest lesson I’ve learned from all these bylines and this journey – love isn’t limited to men or relationships, but about the life you build around yourself. Even if I found that great love, that patient man who will suffer through a lifetime of me writing about our marriage, our children, our home together – if I didn’t have great friends and great experiences to go along with him, our relationship wouldn’t survive.

But I’ve also learned that while I know I could survive and find happiness if I never did meet that man, if he doesn’t actually exist, I’ve also discovered that half of the battle in shaking the distraction of love is admitting that yes, I do want that. I’m a confident, successful, strong, smart, and bold woman – but I’m also loving and understanding, kind and compassionate, and full of hope that someone out there was meant to be my partner. It doesn’t make me weaker to want love nor does it make me a silly, irrational girl – it just makes me human. We’re all entertained by the idea and we’d all like to be supported – it just depends on how we go about it.

I’ve met important men in my life when I wasn’t looking and when I was, when I wanted it and when I didn’t, when I was unsure of their intentions and when I thought I had them figured out. There’s really not a way to control who you fall in love with, but you do make a choice to stay in that love. From what I hear from married folk, it’s a daily decision to remain committed to not only the person, but to that love.

So maybe that’s why I think I’ll always write about love. Why I’m not ashamed to call myself a Love Writer. Because while everyone experiences it, everyone talks about it, everyone wonders about it, everyone wants it – I take the chance and put it all out there. At least when it’s out, there’s no room to doubt what it is that I hope for. After all, what would a love writer be, without love?