by - 7 Comments

My Chats with God

After a particular stressful evening at the student newspaper in college, I needed some air. So, I decided to do something that always clears my head: go for a run. Not in the mood to go to our 24-hour gym or trot around the track, I decided to just run through town until I couldn’t go anymore.

I was 20 years old and silly – I knew better then to run alone when it was dark outside, and it was nearly midnight. But I went anyway, filled with frustration and stress, wanting nothing more than to feel the wind blowing through my hair and have the cool evening cool my mind. I started at my apartment on the main strip in town, hustled past the Wednesday-night bar-goers, boozy and insisting I join them in my sweats and tee for a $2 PBR. I smiled, refrained and turned up Rihanna to tune them out. Two miles later when I reached our stadium for the second time, I decided to push myself a little further and run up a massive hill (North Carolina is good for those), past the Chancellor’s House, into an abandoned parking lot.

Again, not the smartest move in the world.

Making my final lap around the lot, I noticed a sneaky path that led to a hidden trail behind the trees. I glanced at my phone – almost 1 a.m. and I had class at 10 – did I really want to venture some more? My legs hurt, so did my body, and though I was less upset than a few hours ago, the running wasn’t totally curing me. Was I a complete idiot to go into a dark forest with only a few streetlamps strung along here-and-there? I sure was, but I did it despite the fact. I moved slowly and cautiously, without a soundtrack to serenade my adventure except for the Autumn leaves crunching under my feet. I looked around at my surroundings, braced myself for the billowing wind that whispers its way around the mountaintop my school was nestled on.

And there it was. My spot.

We all have them – a place somewhere in the middle of nothing or the middle of everything, wherever you find that’s right for you, where you can stop and feel at ease. Where you in your own words, in your own way, can think and breathe, relax and let go. Where, if you’re anything like me, can chat with God.

I do pray, mostly when I’m scared or nervous, and also when I’m really thankful. Always when I find a penny. But while in college – I used to talk to God a lot more. I’d have full-blown conversations with him, complete with yelling and crying, asking and pleading. Always in that same spot after a run or when it was really cold, I’d drive and go out for just a bit. This ledge overlooked the campus and I loved how the lights twinkled in the night, reminding me of New York, reminding me of where I wanted to be.

I sometimes sat on a large rock, but mostly I paced and chatted, watched the minimal cars go by and hoped no one would come and interrupt me. If they did, I had mase, just in case. I don’t know if God talks back. The only true way I feel like I get answers is when I find a penny when I’m feeling lost or when something so perfectly designed for me, happens, and I can’t accredit it to anything other than divinity.

I don’t have a spot in New York. I can’t seem to find a place where it’s quiet and comforting, where I feel safe enough to say all of those things out loud to the sky that I could never say to someone’s face or in a crowded space. I hadn’t even realized I didn’t have a spot until Mr. Possibility and I went away for the weekend a few weeks ago, and there, at a house by the water, with the sun cascading down, I felt the urge to talk to God.

Mr. Possibility was inside napping and I was alone with only the sounds of nature around me and the feeling of my toes tickling the top of the surprisingly-cool July lake. I hadn’t talked to God out loud in years, even when I went home to North Carolina for visits, so I wasn’t sure how to start. I glanced around me to make sure no one else was around to hear me, the crazy, 20-something who was jabbering away into the distance to something that didn’t meet the eye.

But once I started, it felt good. It poured out. Years and years of things I’ve needed to say, things I needed to admit to myself and to the universe, though both of us already knew. I talked so much my throat got dry. I cried so hard, I had to breathe out of my mouth. I was there for so long that the porch light came on and I decided it was time to head inside. And when I reached the steps, my eyes puffy with a big, wide smile on my face, Mr. Possibility asked what happened and I simply said, “Just had a nice chat with God. Everything is going to be okay.”

The rest of the weekend, I continued to chat down by the lake at night when no one was around, and when I left, he would say, “Have fun, tell God I say ‘hello!'” and off I’d go. By the time I returned to New York, I felt fresher and energized, ready to unfold yet another chapter in the many chronicles of my twenties.

I still need that spot though. I still need a place to unwind and feel free to spew. So for now, my chats with God are limited to, “Please guide me to a place where we can talk more. Where I can feel closer to the universe, where I can feel closer to myself, where I can feel closer to you.”

Daily Gratitude: I’m thankful for Borders Free Wi-Fi today, where if I stand in the right corner, legs crossed, holding my laptop, I can finally get a signal.

by - 2 Comments

Balls in the Air

This morning when the clock struck 6 a.m., I didn’t feel inclined to go run some miles with Mr. Possibility, so I grumbled, rolled over and let him rise to the call of exercise. An hour later when he returned, I hadn’t made breakfast as I promised because my body simply refused to get up, so when he swung open the door to find me in the same position he left me, he gently tossed something at me.

It struck my stomach, instantly waking me up and I groggily asked, “What’s this?” while wondering why he would throw anything at me when I was sleeping so sweetly. He flipped on the switch and I threw the covers over my head, desperately wanting time to go backwards, back to when it was 2 a.m. and I still had five hours of rest left before the day demanded to begin. Coming to terms that Monday was here, regardless if I liked it or not, I opened my eyes to the bright light to find Mr. Possibility shaking his head at me.

“You don’t know what that is?” He asked, dumbfounded. “No,” I replied while thinking “And do I really need to know the importance of some blue ball you threw at me while I was still asleep, you jerk?” “Geez, Tigar! It’s a handball. Haven’t you played?” He asked, grinning in disbelief as he changed out of sweaty gym clothes. “Handball?” I asked, not amused with this conversation or the fact it was light outside. “Handball, it’s a city sport. I used to be pretty good at it. You’ve never played?”

I refrained from reminding him I’m from North Carolina where to my knowledge, handball doesn’t exist and honestly, as sad as it is, cow tipping is more common. Instead, I told him I hadn’t played before, but I would love to try it with him sometime and then collapsed back into the bed while he showered and couldn’t look at me disapprovingly for sleeping longer than I should.

A few hours later, after bagels with peanut butter, orange juice, and Monday-morning mass email cleanup, I caught the train from Brooklyn to my Upper West Side apartment to begin a busy day of freelancing and deadlines. Because he gave it to me and I was slightly amused by how high it bounced, I took the ball with me, hidden beneath receipts I needed to throw away and makeup in my Longchamp. While conjuring up some ideas for a new bridal blog I’ll be writing, I distracted myself with playing toss-and-catch with my new friend, the ball.

Yes, folks, I was that bored.

Watching it rise and fall in and out of my hand, I thought about how many balls I have in the air right now. Not just this literal handball that I probably will never use for it’s real purpose, but opportunities and possibilities, decisions to make and chances to take. I’ve recently opened myself up to looking at my life and my future in a different way. I’ve let myself out of a tightly-sealed box to reveal those ideas I’ve had that I’ve been afraid of exploring. Those adventures I didn’t want to take because I was fearful I’d lose my way on the straight-and-narrow if I took a detour.

But detours, while they’re uncertain and a little bumpy, are often what gets you to a place you’d rather be, even if you don’t know it. And you can’t get what you want if you don’t let yourself really, truly figure out what that is, or allow it to change as time, and you, change.

I’ve been nervous about taking a leap of faith into discovering what really does make me happy and what really matters most to me at this point – but when you’re forced to make a decision or try something new, somehow, that fear goes away. That hesitation subsides and you’re opened up to something more exciting – the idea of not having a plan. The feeling of having so many opportunities brewing, so many options to pick from- a sky full of possibility and hope, that you forget why you wanted to stay safe and protected in something secure in the first place.

Because you can’t shoot if you don’t dribble, you can’t aim if you don’t throw. And if you have no balls in the air, you can never catch one as you watch others fall to the ground because they weren’t meant to land.

by - 6 Comments

Put That Sorry Attitude to Bed

Yesterday, I was in a bad mood.

I could blame a recent turn-of-events, an impending monthly visitor, the extremely humid weather, or an overall feeling of being quite lost. As it usually does, New York’s been throwing me for a loop lately and it’s testing my patience and my dedication to the city I grew up adoring. For the most part, I’ve held true and strong, riding the waves as they come and living on a prayer that everything does happen for a reason and that this period of feeling downright shitty will pass. I’ve learned to see bad times for what they are and not let my mind cycle into the long list of things that are or could be wrong in my life.

But sometimes, I slip.

I let myself get so down into the dumps that nothing and no one can do anything to change it. No joke or funny moment can alleviate my sourpuss attitude, no amount of motivating blogs or long talks with my mother can turn my sullen frown upside down. I know myself well enough to know that when this happens, it is best that I spent some time alone. It’s best that I do the stupid, ordinary things that make me happy – like laying around in nothing at all, eating something that’s as terribly delicious as it’s terribly bad for me, watch a movie that’ll make me cry and snuggle with a blanket I’ve had for decades. It may be an immature way of coping with stress and adjusting my attitude, but if it works, why try and change it?

So why I decided it was a good idea for me to hang out with Mr. Possibility the entire day yesterday, knowing full well that even his dimples and loving nudges couldn’t shake me into my normally bubbly, talkative and happy self – I have no idea.

But I did.

We spent the day shopping in Williamsburg for gifts for other people and he continuously attempted to play around with me, offering his jovial nature and quick wit to raise my spirits. In return, I bickered with him over a beer he was buying me, nearly walking out because I felt suffocated and frustrated, wanting everyone in the world – including this sweet man – to just leave me alone. Then off we went to the city, to grab burgers at his favorite place, where I sat in silence feeling guilty and a tad angry at myself for being so irritable, when his request throughout the week was to spend Saturday with me because he enjoys having me around for lazy days of wandering. At some point over ice cream later, he casually mentioned that maybe we should go out with our friends separately for the evening, to give me some space and give him a break from my many evil glares and gestures that he didn’t deserve – or appreciate, I’m sure.

Not typically an insecure girl who attaches a ball-and-chain to her man, I found myself turning into the girlfriend I’ve never been. He had hurt my feelings by asking for some breathing room and I had denied him air. I demanded to know why we couldn’t hang out as we originally planned and he proceeded to calmly explain that a few hours away from one another would do us both some good and give me room to unload my spotty mood on something else other than him. He offered up his apartment, told me he’d be back later, and topped off his offer with a kiss on my forehead. I didn’t accept.

Hours later, after a nap and some cute videos on YouTube, he changed his tune and I switched my mood. He decided he wanted me to tag along and that we should enjoy a good night to make up for my bad day. Though in my state of ridiculousness, I was relieved to receive his invite, my realistic-self who had achy feet, a grilling headache, and tired eyes knew it would be better if I stayed in alone.

But the bitch in me took over.

She thought it was a brilliant idea and that I’d be able to make up for being snappy earlier by being the cute and charming woman I really am. I threw on some heels and a backless dress and joined him on the L into meatpacking for his friend’s birthday. I won’t get into details because they are so awful I don’t have the stomach to write them, but in a nutshell, Kettle One and I had a date at this party and it didn’t go so well. Still working out some trust issues from his straying before we were a couple, the jealousy I usually keep pretty calm came out to play.

And it didn’t play nice, to say the very least.

The night ended with a cab back home, Mr. Possibility furious with me, and mascara tears streaming my face. There are no words or excuses, rhymes or reasons for my actions, but when I woke up this morning with a hangover, un-brushed teeth, and puffy eyes, everything came together and for the first time in several, several months I felt like a hot mess. Getting out of bed for some much-needed water and bathroom break, I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to reason.

Why did I take out my frustration on Mr. Possibility when the reasons I was upset had nothing to do with him or with us? Why did I embarrass him in front of his friends, people that when and if they meet me again, probably won’t have the highest opinion of me? Why did I not listen to my intuition? Why didn’t I walk away instead of trying to finish a fight in a public place, for strangers to witness and to make me look like someone I’m not? I write dating advice for a living, columns and freelancing articles pay my bills, so why did I go against each and every single word of wisdom I had ever written or read?

What the hell was wrong with me?

In relationships, the easiest person to unload your every emotion and struggle on is your partner. They are there for you, hopefully, through each trial, and they often turn into what Pink would call “perfect little punching bags.” No this isn’t healthy, and yes, it’s hurtful to you, them, and your relationship.

But as Mr. Possibility so graciously and kindly reassured me this morning, it happens.

And when it does, any and every insecurity you have hidden away underneath makeup and confidence comes out. They pour out right past the very floodgates you set up to keep them away. You say things you regret instantly, do things you’d never do again, and feel things so deeply that you’ll swear this feeling will never, ever go away. And if you don’t happen to be with someone who sincerely loves you, who has your very best interest at heart, you may lose your partner in the process.

Because your baggage is your own, those bad days are your responsibility, those arguments will come to an end if you have the courage to walk away from them instead of pushing them so far that you may not be able to go back. Relationships aren’t meant to be wrapped in fancy paper and topped with a box at the end of every night – sometimes, the best thing you could ever give each other is what Mr. Possibility suggested to begin with – breathing room.

And the best thing you can give yourself is space to calm down, let things work themselves out, and put that sorry attitude to bed.

Daily Gratitude: I’m thankful for Mr. Possibility who is sitting across from me right now as I write this blog, standing by my side, and contemplating how he can throw me down a well in NYC.

by - 6 Comments

Little Blindly Ambitious Me

I’m not the prettiest girl on my block. Or the smallest. My skin isn’t flawless, I didn’t graduate with the highest GPA in my high school. I don’t know how to sew or to cook anything ridiculously complicated. I’m not extremely clean and I don’t always say the right thing. I’m not the best, most supportive friend I’ve ever met and sometimes, I can be lazy in love. I could run more and be more dedicated to a work out routine to give me abs like Jennifer Aniston. I complain when I’m tired and get cranky when I’m hungry. I can be impatient, demanding, and self-serving. I’m not well-traveled because I’ve never had the means to do so, and though I would love a dog named Henry, I know I’m not in any place financially to provide for one how it deserves.

I’m aware of my shortcomings, both physically and otherwise. I don’t claim to be the best or the greatest, the smartest or the most beautiful. I don’t consider myself average and while others may discredit my intelligence because I choose to write about my personal life for the web to see, I am well-read and educated. My interests are more than love, dating, and sex-related. But more important than how I look, where I came from, or the career path I happen to follow wherever it may lead, there is one quality I have that sets me aside.

And that’s ambition. Often times, blind ambition, actually.

I may not always know the right way to go or have the means to get to where I want to be, but I believe in myself. I may find myself unlucky in love at times and not be the most ideal partner or friend, but I listen. I take note of things people like and don’t, I read to better myself and when it doesn’t feel like I can push any further, I push harder. I’m not one to give up, even on things that I should – like a failing relationship with Mr. Idea that lasted way longer than it should have. I don’t walk away from things even when they’re pulling at my heartstrings or tearing me apart inside because I somehow feel like I can be the one who is different, the one whose faith will see them through.

I don’t feel the fear and face it anyway, I just ignore the doubt. I turn my attention away from the ways I fall short and I highlight the ways I measure up higher than the rest. I cold email and cold call, hoping that someone, someplace, somewhere will take a chance on me and all the little things that make me some kind of wonderful, some kind of brilliant. I’m not a hopeless romantic or a hopeless cause, I’m just hopeful of the life I hope to have.

As I grow and weed through more life experiences, I think my ambition will shape itself. It’ll stop being so blind and indecisive, and I’ll become more focused and wise of the ways I want to go. I’ll stop believing with my whole heart and start giving just a sliver, I won’t let my hopes rise, I’ll just say a prayer for the best situation to present itself. I won’t dream up the possibilities before a possibility is certain, and when it comes to love, maybe I won’t give myself away so easily. I won’t have to think if I’m doing the right thing or going the right way, that structured adult in me will just revel in clarity and a calm understanding of self.

Or maybe I won’t. Maybe this blind ambition, this ruthless spirit that I can never seem to tame will be what makes me, me. Maybe it’s the part of me that won’t wither with age and perhaps it’ll stand the time more than my kindness, my patience or my heart.

After all – blind ambition may blindly lead you into the unknown, but I’d rather take the chance in the dark than to only stay in the light out of fear.

Daily Gratitude: Today, I’m thankful for early-morning wake up calls and breakfast at Tom’s Restaurant. 

by - 5 Comments

Love Me That Much

Today, sitting on the boardwalk at Long Beach with Mr. Possibility eating the unhealthiest lunch you could imagine (Italian ice, nachos and hot dogs with a side of Red Bull and Vitamin Water), I was so distracted by an elderly couple a few benches down, I hardly heard a word Mr. P said.

The couple, probably in their late 80s, wearing matching yellow polos and khaki pants ate chocolate ice cream cones while they watched the kiddos (yeah, us 20-somethings) frolic on the beach below. It appeared the woman wasn’t completely there, as a nurse aid sat feet from them, observing sorta-intently. But the couple talked, the woman laughed. The man looked at her with love in his wrinkled eyes. She smiled up at him. And ice cream dripped from her chin to nearly her knees, staining her Land’s End-inspired attire.

He didn’t notice at first and neither did the nurse (who was now engaged in an intense conversation on her cell phone in Spanish), but then he saw the destruction. He grabbed his own napkin and opened it to reveal the clean part inside and started rubbing her face before he realized he just didn’t have enough. He looked over at the concession stand and then at the nurse helplessly, probably thinking he couldn’t leave her alone but needed to get something to clean up the mess.

Maybe it’s my Southern manners or my tender heart that leads me to tears during Animal Shelter commercial with Sarah Mclahlan singing, but I instinctively stood up in the middle of Mr. Possibility going on about something (as he usually does) and ran to get a handful of cheap quality paper towels. By the time I reached them, the nurse had came to the rescue but without proper tools. She looked relieved when I showed up with my gift and thanked me profusely. I grinned at the couple and they returned the gesture to me.

“It’s good ice cream, isn’t it sweetie?” The man asked his wife. She nodded sweetly and looked up at me, maybe trying to find words, maybe  unsure of what was going on. I wished them a good day at the beach and the man labeled me a “kind young woman” as I walked away to rejoin Mr. Possibility and his miniature pile of nachos.

Though we enjoyed the rest of the day by the shore and now both have sunburns to show for it (apparently an Irish background doesn’t serve anyone well in the blistering sun), as we caught the LIRR back to Penn, I couldn’t get the image of those woman’s eyes out of my head. They were light blue and freckled with specs of green, just like mine. There were lines and ages spots lining her lashes like liner, but she still breathed an air of youth and naivety. She was beautiful in a way someone can only be beautiful once they’ve loved a lot, lost a lot and have found a peace within themselves and their lives. It’s not a beauty I’ll ever claim, but maybe some 20-something will see that same luster in me one day.

Looking over at Mr. Possibility as he reads his second book of the summer, holding his bookmark (a picture of us) in his hand, I thought about age. Could I love someone through decades of trials? Through career and baby bumps, mortgages and struggles, carpooling and soccer games, ballet lessons and retirement funds? When they start to lose their hair or when it turns nearly all gray instead of wisdom-inducing highlights? When their belly competes with Santa’s, when sex isn’t as passionate or frequent, when illnesses strike, when miscarriages happen, when kids grow and then leave, when houses rot and things and people fall apart?

And will someone love me that much?

To sit by me on a bench as chocolate ice cream dribbles down me and still want to take care of me? To protect me and stand by me, no matter how many wrinkles I sport or when the time comes that my boobs rest near my knees? To see me through menopause and the battle to keep myself in one piece, as I’ve read in dozens of magazine is something that’s difficult with a house full of kids and a husband who needs more attention. To support my career and support me if it doesn’t go exactly as planned – or if it does, to not be intimidated by my success? To hold my hand when I feel unsteady and one day, when I need it to even walk? Will someone see through the age and still be able to picture the same face they fell for when I was 20 or 30-something, full of vitality and courage, unbothered by the world and uninterested in its damnations?

I don’t know the story behind that couple. I don’t know if their romance was fiery and complicated, or if they were high school sweethearts or letter writers from some war. I don’t know if they have children or if those children have children. I don’t know where they’re from or why they decided to sit on Long Beach on a Friday afternoon, right before the clouds encompassed the never-ending blue sky.

But I do know that regardless of where my life takes me, how many magazines I write for, how many loves I have, or how many days I spend at the beach, listening to the sound of the ocean and feeling the sand crinkle between my toes, one day many, many moons from now, I hope to be standing by the side of a man who would rather eat ice cream with me and think about all the love we have and the memories we’ve created – like the time I showered myself in a chocolatey mess – than be anywhere else in the world.

Daily Gratitude: I’m thankful for those Louie Armstrong moments that just keep coming.