Tag Archives: being single

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This is My Stop

After living in the city for a while, there are certain tricks you seem to master when it comes to public transportation. As an avid train rider (buses kind of scare me), I’ve learned exactly which part of the track to wait at, so when I get off at my stop, I’ll be the closest to the exit. I’ve grown accustomed to standing, without holding the rails, unless I absolutely have to. If I’m lucky, I always try to sneak a seat at the edge of the bench for more room and to make it easier to weave through a crowd of people to leave.

And, like every New Yorker you’ll see passing time before their ride arrives, I stare down the tracks, waiting impatiently for the train. Somehow, we’re all convinced that if we keep glaring down the dark passageway as we pace in our little areas or bravely lean up against something we probably shouldn’t – not only a train, but our train, will appear faster. Some people, who are far less afraid of falling than I am, basically project themselves to the very edge, just hoping to see a glimpse of the headlights. I’m not sure why this is necessary but no matter how long between swiping my Metro and stepping off the platform, I spend the majority of the time just gazing down the tracks.

Admitting the nature of my wrongs – I must confess that though I’m meant to be a leading lady, I’ve mostly been a lady in waiting. A woman who though she had a good head on her shoulders, her feet planted confidently in the ground, and all of the hope in the world bursting inside of her – she still felt like she was waiting for the pieces to fall together. I was glaring down at my own darkness and emptiness, unsure of when the next great thing or life-altering adventure would come pick me up and take me to my final stop.

Really, I was waiting for my love train to arrive.

This attitude made me an active observer of my life, instead of a participant. Though I was alive, I was not living because I felt like something was missing. And that if only I could catch the sight of the one thing I thought would fulfill all of my desolation, then I’d see the light at the end of the tunnel. That even if I couldn’t actually see the man, if I could rest assured that he was in fact coming, I wouldn’t have to keep waiting for him to get here. I could sit down, relax, and know that within at least an hour, he’d be by my side, and I wouldn’t have to fear falling in love, or to the ground, because he’d be there, no matter what.

But now, as a woman who is less afraid to stand on the brink of tomorrow – I realize there is no need to wait. Haven’t I been more than capable of finding, boarding, riding, and exiting all of the many transitions I’ve experienced? Haven’t I enjoyed the company of myself and content from the buzzing streets of Manhattan? Haven’t I found joy in the laughter of my friends, the surge of inspiration that comes from simply seeing my own byline, or the bravery that blooms from taking chances you know you’d regret if you never did? And even though it is scary and it makes vulnerability necessary, haven’t I been secure enough to open myself up to possibilities and my own desires, regardless of the outcome?

Haven’t I been using my $100+ a month subway pass to ride the love train for a while now? I mean, don’t I love my life? And aren’t I learning to love myself? Haven’t I been at my own stop in my own life?  I’ve never needed a man to show me how to get myself from point A to point B – so why would I put on hold all of those things I want to do, places I want to see, and opportunities I want to take, for fear that if I do, I’ll miss the next train to happily ever after?

I don’t want to feel like I’m waiting for my ducks to be in a row, for a ring to be on my finger, for security to be in my heart because I can trust it with someone else – but instead, I want to celebrate the freedom I have to just be me. To simply, selfishly, live my life.

I want to go. I want to see the world. I want to move and run and travel and do. I want to speak Italian fluently. I want to have enough money to give it away. I want to volunteer for months. I want to learn to meditate. I want to go to a restaurant and not look at the prices before anything else. I want to take a cooking class. I want to take dance lessons. I want to have a foreign affair. I want to order an entire meal in another language. I want a puppy. I want French toast.  I want to go to JFK and ask where the next flight is going and hop on it. I want to own pretty things. I want my name to be recognizable to the women who think they are not good enough, pretty enough, or interesting enough to have a man. I want them to know they don’t need one. I want them to realize, from me, there is no need to worry, no need to hurry, but to just trust the process. I want them to trust themselves. I want the city to beat me up a couple times, just so I can come back and prove my honor. I want to fulfill all of those things on my bucket list. I want to move from this damn apartment. I want to go to some smoky jazz club and drink champagne. I want to stand on the top of a mountain hundreds of thousands of miles away. I want so much more than I ever thought I wanted.

I want more than simply what the presence, the arrival, of a man can give me. And I know now that I don’t need to anticipate him or prepare for him to come into my life. I can and what’s more, I want, to do so many things…utterly on my own.

Because we all know, somewhere in the deepest corners and hidden crevices of our hearts, that our train will eventually come. Even when it is 3 in the morning and we’ve been waiting for thirty minutes, and our patience is growing weary – when we are busy focusing on other things and least expect it, we see the lights reflecting against the tracks, and feel the relief come over us.

And sometimes, that train happens to be a local one, when we need the express. Or it is going uptown, instead of downtown. Or maybe it is even out of service and passes our stop completely, and we glare at it as it disappears into the night. Nevertheless, we remember, that when in doubt, when we’re exhausted of the lingering, if we need to or if we just want to, we can forget about the next arrival, go above ground, throw our hand in the air, hail a cab, and go wherever we want.

P.S. If you’ve linked to Confessions of a Love Addict, let Lindsay know for the “Support” page. Email her.

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A Toast to My Ladies

Much like when I moved to New York, when I went away to college – I didn’t really know anyone. Sure, I stayed in-state, so I knew of a handful of classmates who attended the same university, but no one who was in my core group of friends. I was probably more afraid of traveling two hours away from home than I was about moving 12 hours to the city.

As an overachiever, I landed myself on the Leadership & Service floor, where I was surrounded by others who went above-and-beyond in college (or those who just knew it was a nice dorm to stay in and somehow were accepted). The 40 or so of us called ourselves “L3” (for the residence hall name and floor number) and traveled in packs…everywhere. To the gym, to the parties, to the quad, and to the classes we all had together – and within those dozens, out of luck (and a bit of fate) – I met the two women who would define, shape, and share my college tenure.

A, was my first roommate. I’m an only child (technically I have a half-brother, but I don’t really know him), so going away for school was the first time I ever had to share my space. Fortunately, A was quite easy to live with, we shared the same sleeping/eating routines, and well – we became the very best of friends right from the get-go. My first memory of her is linking arms, skipping down the main strip in our college town, and giggling about how we were going to our first fraternity party. It wouldn’t be our last time frolicking about campus like we ruled the world–she’d go on to be an ambassador for our school, while I’d be high-up in the school newspaper and eventually, join a sorority, and attend more Greek parties than I’d like to admit.

Four rooms down from A and I, lived L – a girl who when I initially saw her, was instantly jealous. To this day, I still think she is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on. Her skin is flawless, her body has always been in tip-top shape (even when she doesn’t try), and she knows how to dress. Truth be told, before meeting L – I didn’t even wear “real bras”, but rather, sports bras because I was rather uncomfortable with my bigger beauties. While they’ve shrunk since then (I lost the freshman 15 instead of gaining it), I’ve remained a loyal customer at Victoria’s Secret ever since, thanks to L. Together, we went through some of the most difficult periods anyone can experience: my father’s illness, the passing of her mother, countless boyfriends (and lovers), and maintaining a long-distance friendship when we’d both go other places.

These women, while vastly different, gave me most of what I needed in the three-and-a-half years I attended college. When they met me, I was overly indulged in my love-addiction-ness, and they both said: “Linds, why are you so worried about this? We’re so young; we have all the time in the world. Ya know, I don’t even know if I want to get married!” A and L are very independent, like me, and had such large dreams for themselves, such high ambitions for where’d they be and what they wanted to do that relationships were completely off of their mind. This was a far-fetched idea for someone like me, who lived, breathed, and obsessed about love.

At the time, I was dumbfounded that anyone could ever truly not have the desire to get married (I’ve since changed my mind), but what’s more ironic is that A and L had more boyfriends and longer relationships than I did in college. They didn’t freak out too badly about them, but if you count up my time flying solo and their time – mine is much higher.

And now, L is in the army and engaged (I’ll be the MOH!), and A is on a four-month all-around-the-world vacation with the man I’m convinced she’ll marry. As for me, I’m single. Scratch that – happily single.

Isn’t it funny how the tables turn?

When senior year rolled around and I couldn’t stop talking about moving to New York, breaking up with Mr. Idea, and starting my writing career – they were in love with their boyfriends and wondering when they’d finally get that ring. When A came to visit me for fashion week in September, we even spent a few hours on Diamond Way, where I took notes about what size, style, and cut she’d like. And when L was given one phone call during boot camp, we spent the majority of the time discussing whether or not the “feeling” that her boyfriend would propose over Christmas meant anything. Well, since he’s her fiancée now, her gut was psychic. (Isn’t it always?)

Don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy for both of them and I actually like the guys they’ve picked as life partners – which if you know either of my friendships with these ladies, is quite the miracle. Us girls are pickier about the men our friends date, then we are about the ones we partner up with, right?

But with A and L being currently unreachable by text or phone call, I’ve realized how true it is that like life and love, friendships are in stages and cycles, too. Instead of being the one who is overly concerned with the man in her life, I’ve now become the bouncing board for my friends who are. Instead of crying and getting all sorts of upset about the Guy-of-Friday, I’m trying to help my friends get into the dating scene. And maybe even stranger, I’m growing closer and closer to other gals (the single ones), and further away from A and L.

Like any relationship that is meant to be – I’m sure when we actually get to spend some time together again, it will be like no time passed at all and our banter will flow the same, but there will be a major difference. And that’s me.

Sometimes I worry about the fact that this journey is literally changing me. The way I approach things, the way I respond, the way I think, and perhaps even the way I feel towards certain areas of my life, primarily love, continues to transform. I can’t help but wonder, what if those who have known me forever, start to wonder who the hell they’re talking to and don’t even recognize the Lindsay they once knew?

I’d like to think that even with my growth and maturity, I’m still the hopeful woman who believes there is a Mr. Right out there for me – it’s just now, he isn’t my primary concern. While I may not be able to relate to having the feeling of ‘just knowing’ or really crave it, I’m thrilled for those who have. And when L (and soon, A, I’m sure) transcends down to ‘I do’ with a man – I trust she knows ‘I am’ here for her, just as much as he is, if not more.

So, here’s to my ladies: to L and to A and my new friends (on and offline), regardless if you’re single or taken, married, widowed, or engaged, old or young, bitter or hopeful, addicted or uninterested in love – let’s stand by each other, hand and hand or click by click, through thick and thin, the princes and the frogs – and know that regardless of where this crazy journey takes us or where we end up, that we have one constant that never changes: the power of friendship. Let’s accept each other for where we are in our lives, where we’re going, and what we’re doing – even if we’ve never experienced or chosen it for ourselves. After all, we are each other’s soulmates more so than any man could be, anyways.

And with this toast, I hope L and A see that instead of sailing around the dance floor in a big white dress in front of a fleet of bachelorettes, I’d rather dance on tables during fleet week with some lonely sailors.

I hope they’ll understand. And something tells me…they will.

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The He Who Won’t Leave: Mr. Smother

We’re supposed to love the one we’re with and believe the grass isn’t greener on the other side. We should wait for the one we can’t live without, not just the one we can live with. If at first we don’t succeed, we try and try (and try) again. We should never forget that life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. And yes, one day, our prince, will surely come.

I’m not sure how they can make many more adages meant to illustrate that love and all of its blunders and fascinating experiences are worth every bump and victory – but if I actually believe in any of them, it’d be the question that rings loudly in my mind often:

Why can’t we make the one we like, fall for us, and how do we get the guy who we don’t like…to go away?

We’ve all met that guy and we’ve all dated him longer than we should have (and would have preferred). There isn’t anything wrong with him, but he is completely, utterly, totally, opposite of what we want, need, or desire. Still, for whatever reason, we keep him around, not because he’s filling in a gap like Mr. Temporary, but because he’s just so into us. And if only, that one guy that we really do like, would treat us the way he does, then everything would be right in the world.

I mean, he brings us presents, he cooks us dinner, he is all-so-accommodating, he is at least a decent-kisser (or suitable in bed), and well, he’s attractive – so the eye candy isn’t bad. Not to mention, he boosts our ego and pets our pride. And so, we agree with those voices in our head that say “well, it’s better than being alone, right?” until one day we wake up and realize, as Vince Vaughn did in Wedding Crashers: we’ve managed to attract a stage-5 clinger. Luckily for me, the one I effortlessly hooked; wasn’t a virgin as well, but Mr. Smother was everything I never wanted.

Our romance (if one can call it such a thing) was incredibly short-lived, probably just shy of a month, but it happened to be around a time where I was rather happy, yet superbly bored. To expedite the college experience and move to NYC faster, I was taking summer classes, running and playing tennis almost daily, and drinking sangrias with my friends into all hours of the night (perhaps that’s why I made my only ‘C’ in college that semester in biology? Nah, probably because it was biology). My life was moving at a sweet North Carolina summer pace, and one day as I was “working” in the library and went to pick up pages I printed, I stumbled right into blue-eyed Mr. Smother.

He was studying for his MBA and literally printing out one of his books, instead of buying it at our bookstore. He claimed it was a cheaper alternative, and being the balls-to-wall gal I am, I accused him of hogging the printer, when all I needed to print was a measly four-page report on human skin cells. He cleverly asked why I wasn’t taking anatomy, to which I rolled my eyes, but gave him an encouraging smile anyways. After he finished printing, but before the printer overheated – I gave him my business cards (yes, had those even in college), and hoped he would call.

A week later, when he hadn’t, and with nothing left to do but indulge in my love-addict commissaries (or study for class?) – I decided he just “wasn’t that into me” and I’d probably never run into him again, so what did it matter?

Well – ironically, exactly a week later, at the same printer, at the same spot in the library, there he was, printing away something again. Full of sass (and having decided it must be fate), I marched up to him and we had a witty rapport that ended in him inviting me to a karaoke night with his friends. With other plans, I graciously declined and we engaged in Facebook messaging until, finally, he asked me to go hiking with him. Even though I was raised in the South, that doesn’t mean Mother Nature and I are fond of one another – I’m not sure she appreciates me aerating the ground with my heels, and I don’t enjoy her scary woods and mud she creates. However – because it was a guided trail, and the mountains are lovely (and so was he) – I agreed.

The drive to the parkway was very nice and our conversation flowed as easily as the winding country road– though I recognized some pretty apparent warning signs of my disinterest: he was studying accounting…and loved it, wasn’t really interested in New York…and had already read every article he could find that I wrote online. At first, I was a tad creeped out, but decided maybe it just showed he was supportive of my career. Then again, at the time, I didn’t realize how Google-able I was.

As the date and our climb ascended, I gathered that I probably wouldn’t be too interested in a relationship with him, but I did enjoy his company. He was easy to be around and if anything, maybe he’d be a new male friend – that’s always been something I didn’t have much of. Once we reached the top and took in the view, we sat to rest on a rather large rock (with creepy looking moss, I might add) – and he blurted out a sentence that should have been my reason to run all the way back to my apartment from the top of that mountain:

“So, Lindsay, I have a girlfriend.”

Caught completely off guard, I replied, “Oh. That’s cool…um…someone you just met?” To which he quickly admitted, “No, more like, we’ve dated for four years. But it isn’t going well.” Well, damn. I suppose that makes it easier to break it to him that I wasn’t quite into him, I thought. But then again, now he’s seemingly unavailable – did he just become a little more attractive? Oh no…

We talked more about their issues, kind of similar to Mr. Unavailable, and had a friendly ride back to campus. I didn’t expect to hear more from him, until he asked if he cook me dinner – and for whatever reason, I decided it would be a good idea. Our conversation was light, and when I finally worked up the nerve to ask him how things were going with his girlfriend, he widely-smiled and declared that because of me, he knew he could find much better things, and he broke up with her. Then he kissed my forehead.

At this point, I was equal parts freaked out and flattered. Maybe I was just the catalyst he needed to get out of a toxic relationship that lasted entirely too long. Maybe I was just meant to come into his life, shoo him away from Ms. Wrong-for-Him, and show him there is better love to be had and to find. Or maybe, he had his eye out for me, not as his rebound, but as his next girlfriend of several years.

The next week, he wanted to spend every single second of every single day with me and texted more frequently than I could keep up with (and that’s saying a lot).  He started asking if I wanted to visit his family in his hometown for a barbeque and invited me to his company’s summer cook-out. He even asked if I would bake cookies for it. On the side, he was a bouncer at one of our local pubs, and he asked if he could just sneak into my apartment to fall asleep with me because he missed me…after not seeing me for two days. Again, apparently off-my-knocker, I allowed him to. He tiptoed into my one-bedroom at 3 a.m., crawled up next to me and in a baby voice that still makes me shudder as I type, asked: “Can I borrow some of your toothpaste so I can brush my wittle toothers?” In the middle of the night, the last thing I want to discuss or see on a man – are his “toothers.”

Seriously?

Once he left in the morning, I made a very cruel decision to start ignoring him. He would call, leave messages, send texts, and eventually resorted to Facebook. For about ten days, I wrote him off until something in me felt really guilty for putting him off (as so many guys had done to me in the past), and invited him to my apartment for a movie he mentioned he wanted to see. Truth be told, I wanted to “test how I felt” with him. We talked, he avoided the fact I abandoned him, and I held back the need to instruct him on how to speak like a grown-up, and we made out on my futon. At some point between him rubbing the side of my face and nearly gagging me with his tongue, and then telling me how much he had fallen for me – I realized I was going to hurt him so badly.

And so, right before he left, I simply said: “You know, I think you’re great and I think you’ll find someone who is perfect for you. Maybe it wasn’t your ex-girlfriend…but it also isn’t me. I would love to be friends, if you’re up for it, but I understand if you’re not.” He flashed me a smile, hopped up in his Jeep Cherokee, and I never heard from him again.

What I learned is that though we can’t always have the man we most desire or for reasons we’ll never understand, the love we feel isn’t always reciprocated – allowing someone to leech onto us, simply because they’re there, doesn’t give us a nice next round with Karma. It may be better to love and lose, then to never love at all – but seeing someone lose their heart because you wanted to up your pride, doesn’t give anyone love.

And after being the one who was smothered, I realized that when I start to be really into someone… taking a deep breath, and brushing my teeth before I get to their apartment, is probably the best tactic to keep a could-be relationship, plaque free.

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I Am Ms. Right

Somewhere in this world, and perhaps in this city, lives a man.

He is a living, breathing, actual person with a history that I don’t know. He was born somewhere and he may or may not have moved away from his hometown. He has a freckle in an odd place that’s hidden away under his clothes. He has an ex-girlfriend who broke his heart, a certain way he loves to be kissed, and he may care less if the Jets won or loss. He has a food that he can’t get enough of, a vegetable he isn’t the biggest fan of, and a scar that has a story. He has buddies he’s known since elementary school and a teacher who made an impact that lasted past the classroom. He knows every single word to a few songs, has read a book or two that he couldn’t put down, and he has a place he dreams of going, but never has. He may have an affinity for Southern-raised women who are writers with blue eyes and big city dreams, who also have the independence and ambition to make them a reality.

I haven’t met this man. Or if I have, I don’t know it yet. But this person, with all of his incredible and messy qualities, is the man I have faith I will meet, and possibly marry one day. I don’t believe in the idea of a soulmate who makes your “half” a whole, but I do trust there is a single person for everyone, who is suitable (and preferable) for life-long commitment.

Before this journey, the fact that my person, my hubby-to-be, existed, and I had no control over when I’d meet him – really bothered me. I would watch all of my friends, either on Facebook or in real life – getting engaged, talking about how they met their match, and waltzing down the aisle, and all I could think was: “Why not me?! Why don’t I deserve to meet my guy? Where the hell is he?”

And so, to combat these desperate thoughts that made me feel unworthy and unattractive, I immersed myself in romantic illusions about him – and at any given moment, I prepared for our paths to cross.

Somehow, fantasies of an elusive Mr. Right: what he’ll look like, how he’ll kiss me, how we’ll meet, how we’ll both ‘just know’, and how it will all play into a divinity I’ve yet to experience – are easier to dream about then to focus on what really deserves attention: myself.

And that’s a self-defeating approach I’ve seemed to master. I’ve had a reoccurring dream about being married to someone named Brian Ward, who I’ve yet to meet – but if you’re out with me, and a dude says his name is Brian, my head whips around quicker than it does when I see a sample sale near my office. I’ve filled nearly two notebooks full of “Letters to My Husband” that have chronicled my life since junior year in college, and I only stopped writing in it when I started this blog. As ridiculous as it may sound, I went to a psychic (who has been scarily accurate thus far) and she told me to put a rose quartz in the most right-hand corner of my room along with a list of all the qualities I looked for in my future husband, to bring him near me, faster.

Yeah, you guessed it, I followed instructions. The little package even made the move to New York, only to be packed away when I decided I had enough of this love-addiction mess. Until I realized that my expectations of this man, who while I’m sure will be charming, will most likely not be a prince, and will really have no need to rescue me from anything. So what was I doing putting all of this energy into him? Especially when I haven’t even, technically, met him?

While I was picturing him, getting lost in the endless wondering of when (or if) I would meet him or pondering if I could catch a glimpse of him on the next train or bump into him at the next cocktail hour – I had forgotten that a relationship with myself is really the one I needed to be working on.

Really, I knew had a choice: I could get lost in this fantasy character I’ve established in my mind, with dark wavy hair, blue eyes, and perfect, succulent lips who makes more money than I can dream of (but is insanely humble and talented) – or I could first accept myself, and then accept him, for whoever he is. This doesn’t mean I settled for less than I deserved or lowered my standards, but I realized that instead of writing him letters and wishing on a “magical” pink-colored stone, I could just go about my life and let whatever is meant to happen, happen.

I still have a ways to go on this journey, but I hadn’t realized how much progress I made until a handsome stranger locked eyes with me on the subway yesterday and I smiled back, before getting off at my stop – and it occured to me: I haven’t thought about running into Mr. Right in such a long time.

And that was it. I did it. I finally let go of anticipating our encounter or wishing on stars to meet him.

And today, I’m a living, breathing person. I have dozens of stories that he doesn’t know. I’ve been lucky to love some wonderful men, and I’ve learned from the ones who have done me wrong. There are foods that I would never give up, for any diet, and I admittedly have memorized most Backstreet Boy songs. I have a scar on my left wrist that’ll forever remind me of the car accident that changed my view on charity. I’m full of endless hope and can be inspired by even the slightest of sightings, conversations, or words. I’m short, but my personality isn’t.

Regardless of when he stumbles into my life or what he is really like or what color his eyes are, I am just as important of a character, of a person, as he is. And finally, he isn’t my top concern, my highest priority, or the thing I worry the most about. I don’t dress to impress him, imagine all of the ways I could meet him during the activities before me each morning, or curse the universe for delaying our impending marriage.

Instead, my look, my style, is my own. I look forward to the moments of my day where I’ll do something that’s fulfilling and helps others. And I thank the heavens above for giving me the chance and the drive to devote my passion, my enthusiasm to the most important, most beautiful, and most life-altering relationship I’ll ever experience: the love I have for me, or what I’d like to call myself…Ms. Right.

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A Single Girl Struggles (But Stands)

In New York, there are certain areas of the city that residents stay away from: mainly those ending in “square.” Near Macy’s and the Empire State Building at Madison Square, and with all the shining lights and smelly streets in Times Square, just to name two. Once you see certain things once, there is no need to return, unless you have a guest visiting who has never seen them– and then as a New Yorker (no matter how long you’ve actually lived here), you feel a moral obligation to show them the sights.

While during the winter season, it could be argued Bryant Park is one of those areas to steer clear of with the Trump Ice Skating Rink and little shops – for me, it is a part of town that’ll always hold a special place in my heart.

Maybe it’s because it featured the many timeless houses of couture for decades during Fashion Week or because it is home to the New York Public Library, or maybe because I used to spend Tuesday afternoons listening to a children’s choir and drinking coffee from a local vendor – but Bryant Park, even when it’s crowded with tourists and shoppers, is absolutely beautiful.

As I usually do on Sundays, I spent a large portion of this past Sunday afternoon writing, applying to freelancing positions (base salary just doesn’t cut it!), and coming up with new ideas. It is a time of the week where my obligations are not pressing and I can take a breather to do what landed me in this city in the first place: dreaming. And so, I ventured to my park, set up shop in one of my favorite cafes, appropriately stole Wifi, and went to town.

Two hours, a chicken soup, and hot tea later, I gathered my laptop, bundled up and eagerly went to walk around the park, even if I had to brave the cold. As I crossed the street, prepared to get the same rush of energy I always do – I was hit with a wave of sadness.

You know, that feeling that makes your heart heavy, knocks the air out of you (and not because it’s less than 30 degrees), and you get this almost uncontrollable urge to burst into tears? I tried to brush the odd feeling aside and continue embracing one of my favorite Manhattan scenes, but after about five minutes, I couldn’t take it and knew that if I didn’t catch the train home, I would be that girl on the street, sobbing, and attracting unnecessary attention.

By the time I finally made it to the 100s and into my apartment, I sat down on my bed and let myself cry. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t expected, and it came without a reason. Once the weight lifted off my heart and I felt sturdy enough to stand, I gathered the pieces together and tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with me.

I couldn’t blame it on the menstrual menaces, it didn’t come from an old familiar longing to be with a man, it wasn’t the result of a bad fight with a friend or the loss of a loved one. Really, I had an incredible weekend and up until my Kate Spade boots touched upon the park, I was in a delightful, hopeful mood.

So what happened?

Unsure of what was going on with me and fighting the need to be weak, I escaped to the Internet to take my mind off of my unexplained breakdown – and there it was, waiting in my Gmail, the solution to my regression: an email from Mr. Possibility.

This message wasn’t a bad one, nor have we really repaired anything since he explored other possibilities. We still talk, we’re still friends, and I have no plans to cut him out of my life. But what I realized was – I hadn’t really let myself get upset about what happened.

Regardless if it was merited or not, if either of us wanted a relationship, commitment or exclusivity, or if I had a right to be sad– I was. However, because I am on this journey to standing up for myself, choosing myself before attempting to woo a man into the role of boyfriend, and letting go of these self-defeating thoughts, I thought I needed to be strong. Not just for me, but for the women (and men?) who were walking down this road with me, too.

But that’s the thing about paths, sometimes you need to sit down and rest, sometimes you step on a rock or twist your ankle, or you run out of momentum, and there you are, at a fork in the road, wondering which way is the best route to take. While tenacity and self-love may be the ultimate goal, knowing that it’s okay to be imperfect, to cry when you feel pain, and allow yourself to fall apart when you need it – are all steps along the way.

Maybe I hadn’t realized it at the time, but Bryant Park was part of one of our really memorable dates. He took me ice skating, which really involved waiting in line for an ungodly amount of time and then being nearly knocked down by speeding 12 year olds, while Mr. Possibility and I stood (yes, stood, not skated) in awe of how fast they could go. We laughed, held hands, and I watched his cheeks go from his normal Irish-inspired-white to rosy. It was right around this time that I realized he wasn’t just some guy I was seeing or some guy that would be fleeting from my life in a moment’s notice…but that maybe, just maybe, he was a possibility for something more someday.

I’m not quite sure what I think now, but I realized that by remaining tough in front of all of my friends and on the pages of this blog, I wasn’t being honest with myself. Sure, I’m not broken down. I’m not destroyed. I’m not eating chocolate chip cookie dough like its going out of style. I’m not throwing away everything he ever gave me or deleting emails or writing his name for the entire world to see (nor would I ever about anyone). I’m not beating myself up or blaming myself or thinking his curiosity is due to me.

But I am human.

And though I’m diligently working at finding serenity in my single self, I did meet someone who I could imagine a relationship with down the road. Even though I’ve made great strides in this journey and I did take a dive into unchartered waters, I ended up with most of my hopes drowned. Even though I’m not at a place where I want a relationship, I never wanted my trust to be broken before anything had time to blossom. Even though I never considered him my end-all-be-all and I approached the dating scene with a new-and-improved point of view, what could-be turned out to be something that’s currently-not.

Even though I picked me, he didn’t pick me. And for that Sunday, I let myself feel it, let it out, and let it go. Showing and experiencing weakness doesn’t mean the enthusiasm behind the “recovery” goes a few notches down, it just means that tears are sometimes the trail that leads to peace.

Plus, the best thing about being knocked down and falling (either to a heart break or in love), is that you get to be a single gal who stands up, dusts herself off, and struts her way towards something new, confident in the company of herself and knowing that at times she may stumble and she may plummet, but she will never stay down for long.

Thank you to everyone who submitted photos for my new page,Addicts Unite. If you’d like to submit a photo of you reading the blog with a link back to your blog/Twitter, please email Lindsay!