Tag Archives: Beauty

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You Look Perfect

Last week, I had an important meeting that had my nerves on fire. Not to mention, I was literally on fire because of the relentless heat in New York lately – I’ve never been more thankful for unexpected rain before. Even if my hair goes flat and frizzy, God bless the downpour and let it flood.

Escaping the burning pavement into one of my favorite buildings in New York that also happens to be one of the greenest, I took in a deep breath to calm my nerves. This meeting could change my life and here it was, getting ready to begin regardless if I had sweat beads trickling down my back or not. I checked in with security, giving my best shot at a grin that hid my nerves, headed up the escalator to reach the elevators that moved so quickly up 40 floors that it made my stomach leap.

Nodding at the elevator attendant who pushed the numbers for me and led me to the cart that would take me up to my could-be future, I entered the doors without acknowledging the man who was sharing the ride with me. As I always do when I’m face-to-face with a mirror, I straightened my hair and attempted to graciously wipe the sweat from my brow without messing up my interview-ready makeup. Playing the part of a girl at a bar mirror, I did a 360, only to notice my tag was untucked. Mouthing the word “s**t” to silently to myself, I tried to carefully conceal it without appearing to ridiculous to this man standing near me. I had avoided eye contact out of embarrassment and because I wasn’t sure if he thought I was some crazy girl fidgeting on an elevator that houses some of the most influential players in publishing.

I didn’t realize, of course, that he happened to be one of them.

As I awkwardly reached across my back, contorting my body to perfect my outfit, I was caught off guard in mid-tuck when this man said, “You look perfect.” Surprised and instantly curling my lips to form a smile, I realized who it was at the same moment he realized who I was. Out of shock, I said his name and thanked him for the compliment while he wished me luck. I would later email him to describe how great it was to run into him before this meeting and he would respond by saying he hoped to see more of me and that my meeting went smoothly.

It did and you know what, I didn’t look perfect.

I didn’t say the perfect things. I didn’t read off a script. I didn’t have the best experience, the best clips, the best anything. I didn’t go to the best journalism school, I didn’t have the most solid background that a journalist of my age and tiny tenure could have. My dress wasn’t expensive and in fact, I didn’t even own it – it belonged to my friend M who thought it looked great on me and encouraged me to take it out for a spin and for some luck. My shoes were a little too big and my face wasn’t as perfectly clear as the models who grace the magazine I hoped to write for.

But I did a great job and more importantly, I was myself. And that’s the best anyone can ever be. If I spent less time worrying about how I looked or if I was saying the right thing or if I was putting on the best show or writing the most diverse articles or being the most creative, and just relaxed – then maybe I’d feel more at ease. Maybe if I could look at myself and say, “You look perfect” instead of criticizing all the ways I didn’t measure up, I’d find that sense of simple confidence that is so attractive, so employable.

Maybe if I looked at myself through the eyes of a stranger instead of the my own eyes, I’d see how perfect I really am…in my own imperfect way.

Daily Gratitude: Today I’m thankful for my friends who encouraged patience the last few months, it finally paid off!

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An Intimate Intimacy

I used to wait for the moment when dating someone where our belly buttons touched.

This, obviously meant we were A- Laying down, B- Had our tummies exposed, and C- Close enough to let them meet one another. To me, this symbolized a certain level of intimacy – especially since when your stomachs are rubbing up against one another, you’re not exactly sucking in and positioning yourself seductively. (You know, sheet draped about your body, exposing just enough skin to entice, as the sun colors your body at the right angle and you don’t move, pretending you’re asleep, until he comes in and devours you? We’ve all done it, I promise.)

The belly button moment came several, several months ago with Mr. Possibility. I wouldn’t say belly-button-touching was something we necessarily had a problem with – that part of our courtship was rather seemless. There were obviously other issues (which if you access archives, you can find) and it took a while for him to admit and for me to admit to the bounds of exclusivity. As I’ve said, having a boyfriend and calling it that didn’t sit well with me until I finally accepted it. And ultimately, announced it to the many lovely readers (and haters) of this blog (and me).

But as our relationship has progressed and I’ve continued to grow up – I’ve come to discover that intimacy has nothing to do with belly buttons. Or sex, really. It doesn’t have to do with the act of physically being naked and maybe this is a stretch, but I don’t think it has too much to do with being vulnerable. Intimacy – true intimacy – is based on being remarkably comfortable, having the framework of trust that’s tested and true, and has more to do with you than it has to do with them.

It is impossible to be intimate with someone (as in coming as you are, makeup and push-up free) without being secure in yourself. The majority of us have been wrapped up in the smell of sex and attraction the next morning, plotting the best track to the bathroom, without waking up the guy, so we could freshen up before he wanted round two (insert Bridesmaids opening scene here). I’ve admittedly felt that way far into dating, and even into a relationship. It wasn’t until I found peace in my looks and in the flaws that make those looks beautiful that I stopped caring if Mr. Possibility -or any guy who may come after him – sees me as less than perfect. I’m not perfect, but neither are they.

But being Clinique-free doesn’t define intimacy either – that’s just the part we most associate with reaching intimate levels. The real test of intimacy is a test we give ourselves, often encouraged by our friends who grow weary of our complaints, insecurities, and late-night texting sprees induced by Mr. Vodka and his old pal, tonic.

Being intimate with your partner means being stable enough to know when to stand up for yourself. When to say, “No, this is not enough for me. I need this from you because I know you and I care about you.” If you can’t ask for what you need with the person you’re the closest too, who sees your acne before it comes to the surface, who hears your irrational emotional outbursts, waits for them to pass and then holds you until you fall asleep – then you’re not really intimate with that person, you’re just keeping them around. If you can’t express your desires other than the ones that are sexual, then you haven’t reached a level of intimacy, you’ve only just orgasmed. And let’s be real – it’s easier to do that alone than it is to do with a man, until you train him.

It’s not simple to reach intimacy, I’d go as far to say some couples who race to the altar, haven’t found their intimate level yet. A big part of it is respecting your partner, but the most important element is respecting yourself. And if you know what it is that makes you tick, what you need out of a relationship, and what part of your body and your heart needs to correlate to the other person, then you know how to ask for it. You know how to express yourself in a way that will not only make falling in love easy, but make the tougher stage – staying in love – easier. And it’ll make the sexual part of intimacy…that much more…intimate.

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Showering Over Amsterdam

Many of the New York bathrooms I’ve seen have windows in the shower.

The first time I saw one at a friend’s place, I was horrified: “Why do you have a window in your shower??? What if someone sees you??” They reassured me no one could peep in, that the windows were shaded, and it was a very standard urban design. Maybe it’s for ventilation purposes, as many apartments are super small and the bathrooms would be stuffy without a way to release steam. But still, does it need to be right where you stand to bathe?

And though I vowed I’d never actually shower in front of Manhattan, when I found my current apartment, the only downfall was the powder room window placement. My new roommates and spacious living area outweighed my anxiety about getting naked in front of tinted glass.

Nevertheless, the first time I showered  over Amsterdam, I tiptoed into the tub, covering up my privates awkwardly and attempted to peer out the window, convinced the people walking below were looking straight up at my bareness. The water hitting my back and the glass starting to perspire, I cautiously dropped my hands and listened intently, certain someone would call up something, though I was seven stories up.

Moving slowly, as not to get caught for indecent public exposure, I lathered my hair and waited to be exposed. Minutes later, when the window was completely fogged up and the bathroom felt like a warm haze, I grew comfortable. I started showering as I normally do. I relaxed. I hummed a little tune. And once I turned the water off, stepped out to the marble floor and wrapped myself in a towel, I decided being a bathing beauty before the world wasn’t so bad. Especially since the world didn’t know I was naked above them.

I get asked a lot about displaying my personal life for the web. Even more so, readers want to know what it’s like to dish on men and how they respond: “How does Mr. Possibility handle being written about? Doesn’t it change the dynamic between you?” When freely giving intimate details about my life, is anything off the record when I meet strangers? I once ran into a fan at an event and she casually inquired about something I had penned a few weeks back. Though I remember writing it, felt fine discussing it online, and enjoyed the comments it gained, being quizzed about it in person felt vastly different.

I almost felt invaded. But writing a blog about dating, love, and sex, especially when it’s about whom you’re dating, who you love, and who you’re having sex with, is a lot like showering over Amsterdam in front of a window – it is strange at first.

You’re not exactly sure what will go over well and what will be a little too much. You hesitate answering questions or revealing too many specifics, for fear you’ll be judged or you’ll come across as “crazy,” “obsessive,” “slutty,” or “immature” – all things, for the record, I’ve been called because of this blog. But I’m not crazy, overly obsessive, or immature, and if enjoying sex makes me slutty, then be it (but if you knew my number, you couldn’t label me that, that’s for sure). Writing this blog feels like being emotionally naked day-after-day, with each step and each post, each story I divulge.

But it gets easier. I’ve started to relax. I’ve grown accustomed to my friends not needing to catch up with me when we haven’t seen each other for a while or hearing the words, “I know, I read it on your blog!” I’ve accepted that Mr. Possibility doesn’t care to read very often anymore, since he was literally there for most of the experiences lately. I’ve learned to stop covering up my insecurities, to stop beating around the bush and be direct. To admit my weakness and the places where I feel the most vulnerable.

I’m not completely peaceful showering my personal experiences for the tangled online web, but I try to keep in mind that no matter how steamy it gets, the mist will eventually clear. The heat will die down and the next day will be a clear slate, a defogged window into the life I decide to share. I remember that privacy still remains because the street and the world can’t get a glimpse in unless I open the shade or click “publish.”

And the thing about public exposure, where it is out of your own free will or when it takes you by surprise, if you can find your footing and realize that even if you slip, even if strangers shout things at you that aren’t kind or if you happen to show a little too much – there’s something enticing about it. Because when you disclose yourself fully and unprotected, you are forced to accept yourself for who you are.

After all, once everything is out there in the open and available in archives, there’s no going back. Nor would you want to, coming clean…feels good.

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Rough Around the Edges

A few weeks ago, I was out for happy hour drinks with the clan when my attention turned to an attractive brunette entering the bar. Wearing an off-white Diane von Furstenberg dress and peep-toe Jimmys, she gracefully found her table and tossed her locks as she sat down. The little makeup she wore highlighted her natural rosy-tint and her group of friends matched her easy elegance. She carried a Balenciaga clutch that she carefully sat on the table, reaching in to find her lipstick and apply it subtly without anyone noticing.

But I noticed. And I was surprised my friends didn’t see me turn green in envy as I watched her from across the room, wondering when I’d finally feel how I imagined that woman feeling. She seemed completely together, confident and assured, stable financially and otherwise, and beauty radiated around her.

Me, on the other hand? On the other side of the bar, away from the reserved tables she was welcome to join with sparkling wine and towers of expensive liquor, sipping on my signature pineapple and vodka (with a cherry) or house Merlot, I’m not like that woman. I’m not refined and utterly comfortable in my own shoes, though I often lust to walk a mile in someone else’s designer ones. I’m not a polished Manhattanite with a high-paying job, trust fund, or the ability to save every penny.

I’m rough around the edges. And sometimes, as much as I attempt to hide it, I know it shows.

I don’t always think ahead and I sometimes see each decision as the end-all-be-all to my future and definitely to my present. I freak myself out more than I calm myself down, and when it comes to thinking about the big picture instead of letting the little one weigh me down, I’m guilty as charged. I don’t keep my purse organized and clean, my clothes are not sorted by color, and my dishes are hardly washed before bed.

And while I’d like to think I’m quite poised, I don’t sit calmly and laugh in a not-too-high, not-too-soft tone, and I don’t (or at least I don’t think) I exude a sense of maturity and elegance. I don’t think about how I’m perceived or if I’m stomping in my heels instead of cascading, and if I’m greeting friends, I almost always insist on a hug. I’m even starting to get used to this Northern kiss-on-the-cheek salutation that’s not customary in the South.

I can’t decide if I like the way I am or if I’d rather be a smoothed out. Could I chisel away those pieces that keep me feeling like the woman I know I am, just don’t always show? Or is it that like a good wine, I’m really just going to get better with age? With more experiences and more trials that give me the skills and know-how I need to find my own footing. To find grace?

Is it better to be a little rough or finely polished? Or is there ever a happy medium between the two? Between maturity and immaturity? Between taking note of the little characteristics that go into making a person, and learning which of those qualities to tuck away until appropriate, or if appropriate at all? Between not feeling like you have to have the right thing to say, the right thing to do, and just saying what you want and doing as you please?

Am I a diamond in the rough….or just jagged?

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I’m Not a Supermodel

I used to have a boyfriend who liked to pop my pimples.

There was something about it that he was fond of. Maybe it was the challenge of ridding me of the occasional back-ne or perhaps he liked the burst. I’m not sure – even to this day – why he got a kick out of it, but once he popped…he didn’t want to stop. What started as an occasional odd plea “Baby, please let me take care of that for you” eventually turned into a nightly routine that eventually, I found commonplace.

In an essence, this was a mark of the level of intimacy we shared. I had grown so comfortable with him and with myself, that I allowed my imperfections to not only be visible but invited (or rather, allowed) him to explore their ugliness. We still made love, he consistently commented on my beauty, and in public, there was no probing or picking. To him, draining a zit was no different from any other mindless task. He enjoyed it and I somehow grew to not mind it so much – especially when I noticed my skin clearing up from being constantly massaged, inspected, and cleaned.

Since then, I haven’t been with anyone who asks this special request of me and honestly, I don’t miss it too much. What I have wondered, however, is how I reach that same level of acceptance for myself that Mr. Acne-Fighter had toward me. If I could see myself as beautiful as he found me, even with all of the issues I see as problematic and unattractive, and view them as “part of the package of me”, then I’d gain a bit more self-confidence.

Yesterday, I joined Mr. Possibility at a birthday party where I met some of his friends and family. Having met most of his group of friends and the members of his clan that are important to him, I wasn’t nervous but rather excited to have an afternoon to relax, eat Italian food that I normally wouldn’t allow on my diet, and spend some time cooing over his nieces. It’s almost like escaping to the suburbia I grew up in, that’s full of love, comradery, and timeless memories, and while I’m not ready to return to that way of life, it’s nice to be away from the rush of the city and go at a slower pace for an afternoon.

Getting ready for the day, Mr. Possibility commented that I was taking longer than usual and started rushing me to get out the door. I’m usually not short-tempered but I immediately snapped at him the first time he hurried me, and seeing my frustration, he knocked on the bathroom door to figure out the reason behind my short-wick. Nearing that inevitable time of the month, I’ve found myself oily and broken out, bloated, and overall, not feeling all that gorgeous. And so, I stood in front of the mirror, trying to figure out how I could boost my esteem before being friendly and warm to Mr. Possibility’s network when the only thing I wanted to do involved a huge bowl of buttery mashed potatoes, my yellow blanket I’ve had since I was a child, and re-runs of Lifetime movies that I hate to admit I watch…and sometimes, enjoy.

I opened the door and asked, “Would you be terribly upset if I caught the train?” Confused, he inquired where I was going on the train. “Home,” I replied with a pout. Without a word, he raised an eyebrow, and I heaved an aggravated sigh. “This, Mr. Possibility! See this? On the side of my cheek?? Huge zit that I can’t cover up and if I put makeup over it, it’ll only look cakey and gross. Do makeup companies not make anything that will erase this? How can I meet everyone and be an extension of you, when I look like this? They will wonder why in the world you’re with me.”

Following my outburst, I cautiously met his eyes, only to see him smirking. “Why are you smiling? This is awful. I can’t go,” I continued. He placed his hand on the side of my face, right next to the culprit who was causing so much dismay, and asked, “Do you think you’re going with me because of the way you look? Or do you think you’re going with me because you’re you?”

Not amused by his approach at a sweet tactic, I combated his sentiment by saying, “I know. I know you’re not with me because I’m the most beautiful thing to ever grace the Earth, but I want to feel attractive. And I’m glad you find my attractive, but I don’t and that’s a problem. How can I put on a happy face and go when everyone can see this?”

Realizing he wasn’t going to calm me down, he tried a different approach, “Well, they’ll see it. They’ll notice it. And then they’ll move on to get to know you. They know you’re not a supermodel, neither are they, neither am I.”

And in his own twisted way of being rational, Mr. Possibility actually made some sense: I’m no supermodel.

Of course, I’ve always known that – but I’ve also always thought I needed perfectly clear and tanned skin. I’ve thought to be considered remarkable by aesthetic standards; I needed to be a size two (though I’m consistently a four). I’ve thought men want girls who are no fuss, who can roll out of bed with rosy cheeks and breath that smells minty and fresh. I’ve thought to feel comfortable with myself; I needed to always have my best face forward.

But what I’ve really needed to accept is that I’m not a supermodel. I’m never going to be on aVictoria’s Secret ad, a Clean & Clear commercial, or be the one in my group of friends who is complimented for their pretty skin. I have nice eyes, a great figure, and naturally wavy hair that may turn heads, but maybe, my skin won’t. Even when I get it under control and my hormones die down, I may never feel comfortable in my own skin – and really that’s okay.

Because I still love who I am and mostly, what I look like. I have off days where preparing to face the day with a face that’s not perfect is difficult. I have moments where I want to run away from the world so they don’t see that I’m flawed. But my blemishes don’t define me any more than my beauty does.

And if I can meet men who enjoy ridding me of acne and ones who see straight through it and right into my heart, then I believe not every guy needs to date a supermodel to find their partner beautiful.

In fact – most don’t.