Tag Archives: 20-something

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You Don’t Have to Be Okay With It

You don’t have to be okay with it.

The guys who show up late or cancel 30 minutes before. The ones who can’t seem to remember your birthday but know your number at 2 a.m. The guys who lie about their height and their age, the ones who refuse to work on anything that’s wrong or not quite right in a relationship. The guys who tell you to calm down, relax, don’t freak out, stop being such a … girl.

You don’t have to be okay with it.

The guys who no matter how much you squint your eyes or hold your breath or try to convince yourself, you’re just not that into it. The ones who seem so perfect and so full of possibility on paper, but you cringe at the thought of getting naked with them. The guys who have everything and nothing you want but you could probably date them, just to stop playing the song of single you’re tired of hearing. The guys who don’t know their left from their right, your ass from your breasts, the ones who try so hard and yet, fall so short.

You don’t have to be okay with it.

The guys who desperately linger on something, anything, everything, just to stay in your life. To make themselves a permanent position in your existence, instead of your memory. The ones who don’t want to commit and don’t want to let go, the guys who promise to be there and yet, don’t understand what that even means. The ones who can only weave a story of regret instead of building a plot made of respect. And loyalty. The guys who can say all of the right words but only mean them with half of their heart.

You don’t have to be okay with it.

The guys with hands smooth like a liquor, that soothe and stimulate you, leaving you warm and questioning. The ones who want the friendship and the benefits, but nothing more or less. The guys who bed whomever they’d like, and judge you for making the same choices. Or worse, get jealous without merit or reason. The ones who grow envious of your success out of their own insecurities. The guys who want to tuck you away to themselves and always leave you at an arm’s reach, never too close but never too far away. The ones who miss the point of intimacy and the ones who don’t know how to harbor it to begin with.

You don’t have to be okay with it.

The nights when you swear you won’t let yourself get disappointed again, and somehow, you are. The ones where you hide away or toss out every tiny photograph or framed print that reminds you of what you don’t have. The days you spend spewing out relationship advice that you have little experience and expertise to give. The moments when you bite your tongue and wring your hands, just to keep that pit of fear from growing bigger than your hope, just to keep even the smallest light of optimism alive, somewhere deep down inside of you. The late nights or happy hours you spend putting yourself out there, sitting across from get another bad date, a new annoying guy that you simply can’t wait for something or anything to steal your attention away from the boredom. The quiet hours you lay in bed, alone, looking out to the city that thrives and glows outside. The city that has so much love but makes it incredibly hard to find a love you’d like to keep.

You don’t have to be okay with it.

You can say it’s wrong when it is, admit it’s hard when it sucks. You can count your blessings when you feel them, and cry yourself into a slumber if it’ll give you a piece of peace. You can ignore a text and only have one drink, fall into a cab that’ll whisk you away from the guy that just wasn’t a match. Just like all the rest. You can block email and phone numbers, respond to a late night persuasion if the moon strikes you at twilight. You can be picky and ridiculous, jealous and afraid, all at the same time without giving any reasoning — or any shit — at all. You can ask for answers that you won’t get until the time is right, and you can say you’re fine when you’re really not. You can cling to dreams and swallow the dose of reality that you know you probably need. You can feed your anger and your anguish, and give more power to the threat of never ever.

You don’t have to be okay with being single or anything else that comes with it, but you also can’t give up. You can do whatever you like and whatever you need to get through dating and learn to like it, but you have to try. You can’t hide from it. You have to believe in love and change, timing and fate, but most of all, you must believe in yourself.

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Maybe I Like It

I watched him get dressed, slowly and confidently, lingering on the hardwood floor, one foot at a time. I found it odd and rather interesting that he put his socks on before his pants. He was careful about his movements, making sure to say sweet things to Lucy while peering around my room, this new place he hadn’t given much thought to in the twilight hours before. His blonde hair that was oily to the touch and thicker than I expected for a mid -30s man, moved loosely as he put himself together. Even as he got dressed, he watched my every slight movement: the way I draped the sheet gently across my hips, the way I curled my hair with my hand, tying up my long, tangled locks behind me in a messy bun. Our eyes met a few times and our lips couldn’t help but curl, thinking of the intensity we shared just a few moments before, and now we were awkwardly exchanging niceties with a stranger we just met, and yet, whose body we could still taste.

I hadn’t slept with him, even though I wanted to.

He was every bit sexy as I could imagine a man to be. He didn’t ask permission but he remembered to say those things that yes, are probably untrue, but still make me comfortable getting naked with a person I sincerely don’t know. He checked off all of the boxes I needed to check — tall, intelligent, well-paid, ambitious and inviting. From the time he boldly bought be a drink seconds after seeing me to the way he grabbed my waist in the cab, I was intrigued enough to let him do more than enough.

But as I laid there, wondering if I should have gone all the way and trying my best not to reach for his lips in my sunlight-drenched room at 10 am, I wondered where my heart was.

Lindsay just a few years ago would have never let someone come home with her. She would have doubted her wholesomeness, felt a void of goodness and secretly thought that welcoming sin into your life — and well, your bedroom– was prescription for continued relationship distress. She would have thought her wife material was ruined, her body tainted and that if she wasn’t madly in love with someone, he shouldn’t have the privilege of exploring her.

I’ll admit it, for a long time, I thought hook-ups, one-night-stands and drunken encounters of the sexual kind were tawdry. Wrong. Misleading. Dangerous.

But as I watched the tall Canadian with a nice chest and better arms, and a smile that seeps into your skin, I felt pride. Power. I had confidence that even if this person wasn’t someone I hear from or better yet, wanted to hear from, this night was what I wanted. It was what I craved and what I conquered. To be an independent woman, you need not hold yourself up on a pedestal if that pedestal keeps you from doing what you want. Maybe one less make out isn’t exactly deprivation, but if you always say no to your desires, how will you ever figure out what you want to say yes to? Most of the women I admire the most aren’t exactly Pollyannas – they are bold and vivacious, full of opinions and decisions that they don’t make excuses for. They come and they go, they waltz through life on their own timetable and schedule and they let themselves feel. And explore. Make mistakes and get dirty. Be who they are without wondering who cares or who will judge. Sex isn’t morally wrong, it’s biologically needed. They get that.

And more importantly, they own it.

There’s nothing wrong with having a sleepover with someone you’re attracted to and there shouldn’t be a pressure to sleep with – or not sleep with – them. There is no right or wrong answer, no choice that’ll outline the rest of your pending relationships or how your romantic love will be blessed by the heavens or damned by hell. I’ve seen relationships blossom from what was meant to be a one-time thing, and I’ve felt a certain, addicting rush from having a heavy makeout session with someone with a last name I don’t remember. I have friends who said “I love you” in the first week of knowing someone and others who took six weeks to have sex, and their relationships are equally as strong and well, equally as healthy, too.

But before they found those men, before they made a home with a guy they love to lay with – they liberated themselves first. They forgave themselves for having urges and they acted on them instead. They let go of the brainwashing and the shaming, the principles of what a “good girl” should be, and instead became the woman they wanted to become. A woman that yes, is a sexual creature. That’s full of everything a man’s full of (or mostly, anyway). That has passion and desires, that isn’t afraid of doing whatever it is that she feels comfortable with, whatever it is that makes her happy, satisfied and hungry.

I did hear from that mysterious man and he did propose a friends-with-benefits type of relationship. I had that with Mr. Possibility before it became more, and then with Mr. Smith for a period of time. I took home a guy last year who turned into a month-long sleepover, and I try to be a little freer when I’m on vacation and can let myself go in more ways than one. But with this particular guy, I wasn’t as interested in playing the booty-call card (because I kind of felt like I could like him for more), so I declined.

And that choice, that singular text message that wasn’t half as hot as the night we shared, made me feel powerful, yet again. It helped me get the spring in my step, the flirtatious attitude and hopeful spirit back in my heart and in my eyes. There’s something about not judging yourself – and indulging yourself – that makes you feel sexier than anything else.

Or maybe it’s the orgasm? Maybe it’s both. And maybe I like it.

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This is Your Life

Right now, in this fleeting second, as you read this blog and drink your morning coffee and wish for the weekend to return, you’re living. You’re breathing and thinking, worrying and wishing, dreaming and desiring, imagining and realizing — all at the same time, without trying, without considering. Your thoughts are spiraling and vivid, wild and without condition — and here, in this short time that it’s taken you to click this link and read this paragraph, you have existed.

This is your life.

On Saturday night when you put on that tight blue dress that hugs in places you want to be hugged, with a scarf to hide your tan lines and with the summery-smooth taste of a Blue Moon to hide your hesitations, you danced. You let yourself be awkward and offbeat, you shook and you smiled at the man in the checkered shirt with just a little bit of chest hair peeking at the top. You let him kiss you and maybe — well, definitely — you kissed him back. You felt the music float you through the night, the sweet words of lyrics dated fifty years ago that you still believe in, carry your hopes high again. You twirled with your friends as you did when you were a little girl, and even though you’re not as carefree and naive as you used to be, for those few hours that poured past midnight, you enjoyed yourself. You didn’t worry about being called the next day or being interested enough past a few free drinks or a dip in the middle of a crowded bar in the West Village. Instead, you just went with it. You accepted that…

This is your life.

Last week when you watched the 200+ emails pile in your inbox over the weekend, you carefully pined through them all, giving responses when needed, happily deleting the rest. You felt the rush and the push of news, relishing that you get paid to pen, paid to delegate, paid to express your creativity every single hour of every single day. You thought of those pages behind you, those stories you wrote and you published, including the ones you cared about and ones you can’t remember enough about to Google. You looked at your byline and considered your business card, the one you worked so hard to achieve (and figure out how to order) and though you might not know what’s next — or really what you even want to be next — you took pride that this 9-6er that’s never actually 9-6, is your reality. It’s the means of your existence and that thing you needed so badly to seek. This, this career that’s every bit as intriguing as it’s demanding…

This is your life.

The past few months as you’ve watched your friends pair up and shack up, lose and find new loves, question everything and value it all — you’ve wondered what you’re doing wrong. You’ve felt the anxiety that only comes from possibility, of something unplanned and scary, and yet, so exhilarating. You’ve seen — and felt — the ups and the downs, and tried desperately to not be desperate, but more importantly, jealous of the happy, smiling, coupled faces on Facebook. Or the new addresses that come with two names instead of one. You’ve tried to not resent the apartment that keeps you safe that’s often covered in the dust of the past and the dog fur of the present, even if you dream of a little place of your own that your little wallet can’t currently sustain. Instead of closing your eyes to paint what the next three or five or ten years will be, you’ve tried to open — and full-heartedly embrace that…

This is your life.

This body, that skin, those eyes, those runner’s legs and that big ol’ booty – they all belong to you. They’re parts of your whole and part of what makes you beautiful, though what exudes from inside will always attract more than anything else. This body, that’s full of flaws and scars, curves and freckles, it’s imperfectly perfect in a way that was designed just for you, just in a way that makes you radiate. You might not have the whitest teeth, the flattest stomach or stand the tallest in the crowd, but you’re proud. You work hard to keep your head held high and your weight at a comfortable rate that’s fit for you. That’s good for you. You take care of this body — mostly, anyway — that one day will do way more than turn heads or get you from uptown to downtown on a hot, humid summer day. This body will make and deliver babies, it’ll stretch and it’ll grow wider than smaller, it’ll sag and it’ll wrinkle, but it’ll always be yours. It’ll be part of how the world sees you, it’s bare reminders of what you’ve been through so that you remember that…

This is your life.

This, right this very moment, is your life. And you’re wasting it. You’re wasting these moments worrying and fretting, drowning and  holding on way too tight. Beating yourself up over the ways you don’t fit in or you’re not on the right track. How you’re single and don’t want to be, when you’re texting your ex and you’re trying so hard to lose five pounds that you’re missing everything. You’re not seeing any of it. You’re not experiencing any of it.

In all of it’s beauty, to the depths of it’s spirit and the harshness of the bad and the confusing. This life that’s everything and nothing like you expected and will continue to move and to change, to bloom and to crumble all around you, all the time, every single day, for so many years to come. So many memories that you haven’t made yet, so many people you’ve yet to meet. Or fall in love with. Or have to let go of. This is your life and it’s worth more than anything you face or all the scary parts you’ll have to overcome. Especially the ones when you’re having to get over yourself. Because before you can have all of those things that are undeniably yours, all of the things that you want so badly you can squeeze your eyes so tight and barely see them, you have to accept that this.

This is your life. And it’s just getting started.

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I Don’t Have My Shit Together

Staring down at my hands, thinking about the scar on my right thumb and the pinky finger nail that always outgrows the rest, I did anything and everything to distract myself from the conversation I was about to have. I needed to be tough. I wanted to keep my happy face securely stretched wide and open to conceal any doubt or bitterness I felt. If I kept smiling and willing myself to believe that I was satisfied, that I was indeed fulfilled and secure, then it would actually be more than a painted grin by my friends at Cover Girl.

But J saw right through it. As she usually does.

We ordered wine and I had an appetizer — always one to suffocate discomfort with salty and crunchy foods. Though I’ve grown so close to her in such a short matter of time, I didn’t know just how much I could share or how much would be too much for a friendship that was still blooming. After a few sips of Chardonnay that I secretly wished was Cabernet, she gave me the eyebrow raising cue to start talking. And as if the floodgates had been tightly sealed and protected against a barrier of makeup, glitz and teeth whitening for a very long time, I felt them crumble away. Not bit by bit or piece by piece but in one transformative release, letting out everything I felt, all that I feared, and the words sat out there, dangling on the edge of a turning point, waiting to be realized, hoping to be accepted.

I sputtered out each messy thought, every last fear and the growing pile of frustrations that I’m frustrated I feel. I let it all spew out as I let myself go, feeling the tears splashing angrily down my cheek and crashing on my lips, reminding me that if I’m still feeling this much – no matter how bad it is – I’m still alive. Pain and well, being honest and vulnerable, makes you feel just how human you are. Once I finished, I embraced the sense of relief and emptiness that came with it. I had said everything and here I was, wondering if I was the only 25-year-old gal in New York to be a walking disaster of indecision.

And then she said the one thing — the only thing — that could make me feel at peace and better about my current predicament.

“Linds, everyone feels that way,” she slipped out the reassurance in a casual, endearing way, making sure to keep eye contact while grinning a knowing look that eased my embarrassment. “The truth is, no one has their shit together, even if we act like we do. The grass is always greener somewhere else. Someone else always seems better off.”

Here I was in Chelsea, at a fine lounge (that I used to go to all the time with Mr. P), crying my eyes out because J was right — I didn’t  and still don’t, have my shit together. Excuse the language, but J picked the best words anyone could –and depicted it in the most accurate way.

I could talk about how I have many luxuries and privileges that so many do not because that’s also true. I don’t struggle to make rent and I luckily love the job I have. I’m healthy and vibrant, settled into an existence that doesn’t really have too many physical, actual pitfalls — but there’s something about this age that is infuriating. Something about being a mid-20-something that makes everything and nothing feel good and bad all in the same breath, all at the same time, all in one sweeping emotion that can overtake you with anxiety if you let it.

I’m somewhere in between college and turning 30, letting go if the love I enjoyed at 22 to find the man I’ll spend the rest of my life with. I’m not quite secure in the city I love, not yet able to afford to live alone, not sure if my next move will be alone or with a roommate or a boyfriend. I don’t know what the next five years will bring, and if the past few are any indication of just how silly predictions are, then well, I’m really in for a shocker.

But even if I feel older than I really am, placing myself under more pressure than anyone else, I feel like I should have it figured out by now.

I feel like I should know what my next career move is or at least have a plan. I shouldn’t rule out short guys or unemployed men or balding guys. I should be more realistic and possibly less picky about the men I date or I’m going to end up alone. And if that’s the case, I need to figure out how to be okay with that. On that note – I need to understand what it means to settle and if I’m settling in any aspect of my life. Or if I’m expecting too much? I really should save more money. I should drink less and pay more attention to my diet. I need to plan out meals and stick to a budget. I should understand my 401K, the effects of my birth control on my body and go to the dentist every six months. I should mange my time and spend equal times with friends, and never ever put guys before girls. I shouldn’t compare myself to others and I should not cry during cheesy romantic comedies that by now, shouldn’t get to me anymore. I shouldn’t get anxious or upset over the small things or the big things or anything – I should be more mature. I should keep a workout schedule and have all the children I’m supposed to have by a certain age. I should figure out what that age is and start preparing for it. I should save up everything I can so I can move apartments and pay more in rent, but feel more at home. I should get an expensive dog walker so I stop worrying about my puppy being alone too much. I shouldn’t talk about having a pet on a date because that’s too intimidating, it screams that I have too much responsibility. It says I’m not spontaneous and sexy and fun. I should not spend so much money on clothes or drinks or trips and instead, invest in my future.

I should have my shit together.

But as I put on a should-show in front of J, she should-ed me right back. She’s in a happy, loving relationship. She has an equally great job. She lives in a lovely apartment with two lovely felines, and yet, even as she has some of the things that I want – like a wonderful man to come home to – she has the same feelings I do. The same shoulds. And so does my friend M. My other friend J. And K and practically everyone else I know who is stuck in their mid-twenties, and early 30s even, figuring out what the hell is next. And getting over what should be next.

It’s easy before you reach adulthood to know what’s coming because it’s all mapped out before you – after middle school comes high school, after high school you go to college. During college you have internships that lead to jobs. Then maybe you go to graduate school and then you land in a new city with a brand new job, and then you…

…you start living your life. You start having so many experiences… and just as many mistakes. You give up on figuring everything out.

And if you’re smart and lucky enough to catch it early on, you realize that the most important part about having your shit together is accepting that you might never get there. And more importantly, you might not want to after awhile. Sure, at times you’re more balanced than at others. Some weeks are happier, while others are busier and more expensive. Sometimes you feel like you’ve accomplished the world and on some mornings, getting out of bed is enough. There are no shoulds to life or no magical prescription to take away your worries or your uncertainties about the future. The future, instead, is always this ominous, illustrative idea that’s far-fetched and seemingly impossible when you’re standing in the present. But you’ll get there. It’ll work itself out. You don’t have to should your life away to make all the things that will happen, actually happen.

The life you’re meant to live will work itself out… even if you don’t do the right things or follow the right timeline. Even if you make every wrong decision you can possibly make. Even if it doesn’t turn out how you think it will or in the ways your friend’s paths take shape. Because having your shit together is a nice idea, but it’s not half as fun as living a full, complicated, beautiful, messy and passionate life… that’s probably full of shit – but still pretty fantastic.

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A Year From Now

This morning while trying my best to move quickly — even though vacation starts tomorrow — my friend M sent me a screenshot of this day a year ago from the app, TimeHop.

It was a shot of the two of us at the beach, the first week of July 2012, burying each other in the sand while sipping on the mixed beverages we technically weren’t supposed to have on Long Beach. Our hair was wet and our bodies were freckled, and though so much has changed since then, I remember that day so vividly I could almost smell the ocean air.

It was during that time that I had successfully ended contact with Mr. P after six months of post-relationship sex I grew to regret. At that time, I had not spoken to him three months and had painfully ignored every text, voicemail and phone call. A week after that day at the beach, he emailed to say he was moving overseas for a year and could he please see me. Please take me to dinner. It would be another month before I would eventually give in and meet him at Bryant Park, followed by too much wine in the Flat Iron District. And dancing in Madison Square Park at midnight, on a work night. That would be the last time I saw him, looking out the window of the number one train, watching him walk away yet again.

It was at that time last year that I was desperately uncomfortable with my body and pushing myself to get back on a running schedule. I had gained weight and lost confidence in the aftermath of my breakup and the uptick of my responsibilities at work, and though I wanted to turn down a beer (or four), I found myself feeding my insecurities with fatty food and beverages. I couldn’t stand the sight of myself in a bikini or get enough gumption to go up to a guy in a bar with my acne-prone skin and pudgy tummy. It would still be a month from that beach day, where sand covered my muffin top, before I’d pick up running again and another three before I finished my very first 5k in 28 minutes. A month after that, I’d go on Accutane and six months later, relish being makeup free and ten pounds lighter.

It was at that time that M and I were closer than we had ever been, roaming about town as single ladies on a mission for adventure, for intrigue, for some romance, for anything and everything that piqued our interest. It was at this time that we giggled on her couch in Sunnyside, Queens about who would meet someone first and how it would change or not change, shake or not startle our friendship. How we might miss this time being fun and fancy free. It would be another four months before M met her now boyfriend, another three before they moved in together in Brooklyn, and another two before they welcomed a dog into their home.

It was at that time that I had just gone to a psychic that predicted I’d meet the man I would marry by the end of 2012, that I’d be on TV in 2013 and see a big (positive) shift in my bank accounts in 2014. It was at this time that I was starting to feel released from the past, or at least letting go of its bittersweet hold on me. It was at that time that I started to feel so incredibly settled in a city that doesn’t stop for any heartache, any setback, any stint if unemployment or any hesitation. It was at that time that I found myself building up everything I thought I could, and it was at that time that I started to dream about a year from then.

I imagined that by the first week in July of 2013, surely I would be completely over Mr. P and gladly, happily dating someone, if not the the someone. I hoped I’d be lucky enough to still be at my job, still loving the work, even if I sighed over the sweaty commute in the dead heat of summer. I thought that maybe I’d be writing this blog more often, but also wondered if it would be around at all, if something else other than my dating and personal life would take priority in my writing. I didn’t think I’d have a dog or a new apartment, but I smiled at the vision of a one bedroom all by myself and a baby pup to come home to.

I’m far away and closer to where I thought I’d be at this time in my life. I have everything together and managed and yet, feel like nothing is quite going as planned. I want to be madly in love and am slightly terrified of finding the right person and making it work for the rest of my life. I find myself on the verge of wanting to shift and move everything in my life and holding on tight to things just as they are, for fear that something new will turn everything upside down.

But none of that really matters.

Because while I can come up with plans and visions of where I think I’ll be a year from now, just like I did before, I know that whatever I conjure, whatever I put together in my head, will never be entirely correct or terribly incorrect. Honestly, there is only one thing for sure, one thing that the past year has taught me — and that’s that change is undeniable.

It’s unstoppable.

Men come and they go. Some stay. Others linger. Jobs grow with you and over you. Some you’ll grow out of. Sometimes the best decisions you make are spontaneous and somehow, bring you more joy than the ones you labor over. Friendships have to be given room to bloom and will never grow in shadows. Acceptance of yourself is the hardest battle you’ll ever fight, but the most important one. Remembering you’re not the only one who doesn’t have their um, s*** together is a hard lesson to learn, but it’s the one that’ll bring you the most peace. Giving yourself a break is easier said than done, but something that’ll help you sleep better at night. You’re never going to remain stationary because you’re far too interesting to be boring, to be the same, forever.

The truth is, I don’t know where I’ll be a year from now, but I do know that I will not be the same woman I am today. And instead of being afraid of changing and growing, loving and possibly losing, dreaming and maybe failing, I’m ready for the challenge. I’m excited to see just how much – and how very little – I know about the person I’ll be a year from now.

And whoever she is, whomever she turns into, I bet she’ll be pretty great. Because even with all the good and the bad of the past year, she’s somehow came out even better than she already was.