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When You Stop Looking

I once read somewhere that the reason men are constantly portrayed in movies and in books as observers is because women are so alluring to watch.

Some study completed some place by some group determined that men are captivated by women and more keen to watch their movements because yes, they are visual creatures, but also because women are constantly touching themselves. And no, I don’t mean like that (although, I’m sure the men may imagine that scenario a time or two), but us ladies are always doing something to attract the wondering eye of a guy.

We flip and run our fingers through our hair. We lick our lips. We straighten our clothes. We pick lent off our coats. We re-situate our intimate wear. We cross and uncross our legs. We apply gloss or balm. We make sure our skirt isn’t riding up. We zip up our boots. We take our feet in and out of our heels when they start to hurt. We tuck a single strand behind our ear.

I’m sure men do some of the same things, but the women just don’t seem to notice. I’d like to accredit it to the fact that we’re too busy with our own movements to get swept away by watching another person – and really, if we’re honest, men aren’t as pretty to gaze after.

I hadn’t really witnessed or believed this finding until a few days ago, as I was riding the train down to my job. I always feel my most beautiful in the mornings (or after a nice run or making incredible love) – so when I stomp my way to the subway at 7:15 each day, I feel powerful and stunning. As usual, there was no seat available on the downtrain train, so I was forced to stand. I removed my iPod (currently obsessed with “Firework” by Katy Perry, for the record), placed one hand on the rail, and started reading the paper in the other.

I become so engrossed with an article that I lost track of time and once I looked up to see I was one-stop away from my destination, I had to scurry to put up everything and prepare for the walk. As I placed my paper in my bag and went to put my buds back in my ears, I glanced up and saw four different men watching me. And not just the creepy dudes who you pray will stop gawking at you because you get uncomfortable– but men who were at least moderately attractive, within ten years of my age, and dressed nicely.

Embarrassed that I was being studied and nervously wondering if I had something on me, I cautiously looked down and attempted to hide the tiny grin that was making its way across my face. As soon as the train came to a stop, I rushed out and prayed my cheeks weren’t as red as the sweater dress I was sporting. I still felt incredibly flattered and taken aback as I walked the six blistering blocks to my job (damn you, New York winter, damn you!) and it made me think about this idea behind looking.

We’re told, as the members of the Single Women Army of the World, that when we stop looking – we will find love. When we are completely free of any obsession, any depression, any insecurity, and finally, beautifully, easily, just simpily happy with ourselves, we’ll find that man that we’ve dreamt of. Because if we’re not looking, if we’re not wondering or dreaming or hoping – he will magically appear out of the framework and become some surprising element in our lives. When we tell the story of how we met, apparently, we’ll say: “I wasn’t even looking for a boyfriend and here came Mr. Right, I didn’t even know what hit me!”

Well, maybe as women, we don’t gawk on the 1 train, but are we constantly emotionally searching? In the eyes of a stranger behind his classy Whiskey or Scotch? Or the man with the blue eyes who walks his dog at the same time each night that we return from the gym? Or what about the guy who gets his bagel from the same vendor, and we constantly cross paths as I walk back from Dunkin’ Donuts?

In the quest to find true love and our lifetime partner, do we ever really take off the binoculars and rest? Is there ever a moment when a glance doesn’t seem like a possibility or the sight of a reoccurring face that we start to recognize, become a sign of fate? Is it a reasonable request to call off the search team, raise our red flag of defeat (or just of pausing), and just let go of desiring happily ever after we meet our husbands?

Ask me three months ago and I would have easily debated this idea – but now, after reaching step 4 (and feeling close to step 5) and becoming more and more comfortable in my own two high-heeled feet – I really have stopped looking. I don’t lust after each attractive man who crosses my path. My future doesn’t reveal itself in the eyes of a stranger as he passes me, and if some dude works up the courage to hit on me, I don’t match my name with his last, and I certainly don’t feel rejected if he doesn’t pick up my bar tab.

Because instead of looking for a knight-in-shining-armor who will “rescue” me from my single life – I’m embracing it. And frankly, I’m starting to quite dig it. And instead of searching and pleading and enticing a man – I’m challenging myself to find who I am. Discover what it is that I need, that I want, that I deserve, what I’m capable of achieving. To believe without hesitation or reservation that anything and everything I desire will be mine, if I just believe in a simple and reassuring thing – myself.

So even though four men whom I will never see again (and I’m sure were amused by my embarrassment) were watching me, possibily undressing me with their eyes, or wondering what it would be like to share a dinner or a bed with me – my thoughts were far away from dreaming of a life with them. Instead, I was focused on going to my job, listening to my song, reading an article that interested me – and had I not of needed to exit the train – I would have never noticed them…noticing me.

Maybe when they, whoever “they” represents anyways, say the best things come to those who are not looking, really mean that the most amazing experiences are the result of not necessarily ceasing looking – but rather, gazing inwards. More about falling in love with yourself instead of an image you want to create in your mind or a box on a checklist you want to complete.

Not looking doesn’t mean you close your heart or close your eyes, it just means your priorities change. Instead of becoming a “we” the utmost goal to meet – loving the “me” you are  becomes much more important. And if we’re honest, reaching self-love is an obstacle that’ll bring more happiness, more joy, and more peace than any man could ever deliver. No matter how long or how lovingly he looked our way.

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In My Hands

Because temperatures in the city are extremely low, winds are terribly unforgiving, and my lips are dangerously getting close to being chapped – I have felt like a big round fluff of layers for the last couple of days. Sitting on the train yesterday, I started to unwrap myself, from my jacket to my scarf and my muffs, all the way to my gloves. As I pulled off my black leather best friends, I started gazing at my hands.

Now, I’ve always been told I have my mother’s hands and it is true. If you put our hands next to one another, pull her 50-year-old skin back a bit, they look identical. It makes buying her jewelry insanely easy and quite entertaining, since I get to try it all on. Nevertheless, at that moment, I started thinking about my hands and all of their many purposes.

I looked at the scars – one from a car accident that changed my life and my perspective on the human spirit (forever making me believe in angels and a philanthropic mind), another from a little too intense tickle fight with Mr. Idea, and a final one from getting too close to a withering candle. Unless I pointed them out, these scars are not noticeable, but to me, they represent the experiences that have taught me lessons and a very special man I’ve loved. These same hands have held a tennis racquet for years, danced across piano keys since I was seven years old, and held on tight to monkey bars. They’ve made their home on a keyboard or around a pen, stringing together words to release stress or inspire masses.

They’ve shaken hands with editors from all sorts of magazines, strangers I was introduced to only once and never laid eyes on again, and dozens of businessmen who I was instructed to network with. They’ve been kissed by my father my entire life and a handful of men who were into that romantic-type of thing. They’ve been rejected when extended for a dance, and they’ve denied certain pairs that reached out to them.

They’ve been decorated in every shade of nail polish, manicured to-the-nines, and also ridiculously filthy. They’ve kneaded dough, caught baby cousins as they were falling, and been lathered, rinsed, and lotioned countless times. They’ve joined with my best friend as we happily and drunkingly skipped down streets, safe in each other’s grip. And they’ve held her up as strong as they could in the most devastating moment of her life as she stood before everyone who came to pay their respect to her late mother.

They’ve intertwined with men starting on the first date, only to unlock at the final goodbye. They’ve been grabbed in the middle of night and placed on a hairy chest. They’ve traced the outline of a face that I never wanted to stop looking at. They’ve brushed the lips of a mouth that seemed too perfect and too honest to ever say anything evil or misleading. They’ve reached, they’ve pulled, they’ve grabbed. They’ve gripped the back of a lover in a moment of urgency and slipped away only moments later.

They’ve been held and tested, declared sacred, and they’ve challenged sincerity. They’ve felt that flutter of hope the first time a possible-someone wanted to hold them, and they’ve wiped away the sadness when trust became destroyed. They’ve cleaned messes and created them, been swollen in the mornings, and tired from typing at night.

I would say with my own two hands, I can do just about anything. And they’ve already been through quite some touching, quite some feeling, quite some healing. But at the end of all of that doing and going, leaving and staying, they’ve remained pretty much the same. They have new scars, veins that push up more than others, and of course, they will attract some wrinkles in the years to come -but they are still in tact.

They say that everything is in our hands – in our power – we have the ability to make anything happen in our own will. They say we are the masters of our fates, the captains of our own souls, and all that is, all that was, and all that will be is a result of our own doing. Our choices in partners, in dances, in cooking, in moving, in shaking – are all up to us.

And the beautiful thing about it is, though our hands won’t keep us from feeling that lovey-dovey optimism – they will break our demise if we start to crash. They will be dependable when we need them to fix something and soothing when there is no one there to run their fingers through our hair.

But most importantly, because they belong to us, because we make the choices, and we guide our lives in and out of handshakes, hand holding, and handymans – we get to decide when we wash them clean of whatever it is we please.

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Our Greatest Fear: Mr. Disappear

Once upon a summer mid-morning, I met a guy at the retail store I was working at in between freshman and sophomore year of college. He wasn’t outlandishly beautiful – more like the Southern-traditional type with light-hair and light-eyes, and a little twang to make him a tad-bit sexy.

Being the go-getter gal I am, I approached him, and as he watched me casually drop subtle hints of my attraction – he responded by flirting in return. Within ten minutes, he had my name and my number, and a date was soon to follow. Let a few weeks pass by and Mr. Disappear and I became an item that was syndicated by Facebook and everything.

While we lived two hours away from one another, the fireworks bursting between us were too intense for us to ignore, so we vowed to just make it work. I made the first trek to his town and we enjoyed a weekend of snuggling, kissing, and going on mini-adventures to restaurants and amusement parks. All the while, he showered me with compliments and long lists of reasons why he adored me. In the weeks that followed, we spent countless hours on the phone, constantly exchanged text messages, and he did what he said he would do when he said he would do it.

I was a little afraid (alright, maybe a lot) of falling for him, but I allowed myself to because he gave me no other indication that I should do anything else. I accounted my fear of crashing to old emotional wrecks I’d barely lived through – and deemed that he deserved a fair chance.

So, we moved forward with the relationship – easily, forgivingly, and ever so openly. We never had sex and never took it too far, but I could feel the walls around my heart crumbling, and though my barricade was faltering – I felt protected by the promise he made to me in our intimate moments.

One weekend, he was supposed to come to my college town to spend a few days with me. My roommate was kind enough to go home Friday through Sunday so we could have the whole room to ourselves (remember dorm living?). Unknown to Mr. Disappear, I had planned on finally doing-the-deed with him because I felt comfortable enough to trust him and knew that giving that side of me to him, would feel right and feel wonderful with my newfound confidence in our union.

On the Friday he was to arrive, I had a class until 12:30 in the afternoon and we had planned on him being outside my residence hall around 1 p.m. As soon as my professor let us out, I sprinted towards my room, while my friends in the same lecture called out after me “Have fun!” I opened the door, automatically changed into sexy lingerie and put on a tight wrap sweater dress that showed off my every curve. I added some extra curl to my already-wavy hair, touched up my makeup, and dabbed a splash of my expensive, luxury perfume in selective places. A friend of mine who was over 21 at the time had supplied me with a six-pack of Mr. Disappear’s favorite beer, which I had stashed in my mini-fridge to surprise him with – so I checked on those to make sure they were getting cold.

I finally got around to looking at my phone and realized I hadn’t heard from Mr. Disappear yet – so I sent him a text making sure he was alright, while silently saying a prayer for his safety traveling up the mountain. Then, I sat down at my computer, checked my email, and then my Facebook. I noticed I had a new message, and never one to let any inbox get cluttered, I automatically opened it.

When I noticed it was from Mr. Disappear, I swear I could physically feel my heart break. I read through the message quickly, which was easy because it was simple and short, and read: “I’m not coming this weekend. I’m sorry, I can’t. Don’t hate me.”

My first reaction, of course, was to call him. Shaking and my heart running away from me, I dialed him and his phone was shut off. I called him again, and it went straight to voicemail. Then, I started to panic and my stomach turned into deeply embedded knots –and I called my mom. When I heard her voice on the other end, I completely fell apart and any sentence I tried to make was indiscernible. The only thing she managed to say other than “Breathe” and “Calm down” was “Come home.” In haste, I threw a random assortment of clothes, my cosmetic bag, and one pair of shoes together, and rushed out to my car, tears violently splashing down my cheeks.

I’m not sure how I made it home without crashing, but the minute I reached my driveway, I ran into my mother’s arms, felt my body collapse, and then headed to my room to sleep. And sleep is what I did all weekend. I also called him several times in the day and night throughout the weekend, and his phone never returned on. He also didn’t respond to a text or to any Facebook messages. When it was time for me to head back to school for a newspaper meeting on Sunday, I blocked him from my account before I drove, and with a sullen-stance and sweatpants on, I made it through deadline without crying.

That night, he called and gave me a range of excuses that included “I just wasn’t ready for a relationship” and “Things were moving too quickly” and “You’re just too wonderful for me” – all of which did nothing but make me more depressed and angrier. I replied by calling him a coward and to be honest, we haven’t spoken much since.

I wouldn’t include him on a list of men I’ve loved or men who have meant the world to me. But he did have an everlasting effect and it is one that this journey is attempting to rid of. I’m sure this issue is rooted from more than Mr. Disappear – but in my book, he’s the one who intensified it.

I’m afraid of being left. Of being abandoned. Of letting myself love without boundaries, without hesitation, and with the fruit of hope – and then having this person I trusted with so much…just walk away. And even worse than breaking up with me is completely disappearing to the point where it feels like I don’t matter, like anything we shared, or anything that was special and unique…was really just an illusion. Just a dream that turned into a cruel nightmare.

Ever since Mr. Disappear, I’ve had this irrational (but maybe rational?) fear every time I start liking someone new that they will just get-up-and-leave. That for whatever reason – that I will become not “good enough” or things are will be “just not right” or “I’m not worth staying around for” – and then, any investment I made into the relationship would become obsolete. The men who followed Mr. Disappear did everything in their power to reassure me that they would stick around through the thick-and-the-thin, the good and the bad – but to no avail, I haven’t been fully comfortable with a man ever since. Even if Mr. Disappear wasn’t a man who I loved, he was a man who left – and as great as love feels, when someone decides to leave, it hurts to the same degree.

Going through this journey, I’ve discovered how many people, men and women alike, have this fear of abandonment and I believe it’s due to the fact that to be in love, to feel magic, to explore relationship-territory, you have to be vulnerable. You have to let yourself take a risk and you have to trust in the unknown. But just like a child learns not to touch a hot stove after they’ve felt the initial sting – once you’ve been burned once, you’re hesitant to extend your hand out again.

I’ve also realized that no man, no blog, no woman – can make taking that dive any smoother. I’m still going to hold my breath, bite my tongue, and take a while to let someone in. I’m still going to have an alarm that goes off in the back of my head that begs, “Well what if you never hear from him again?”

However, this step process to gain self-love has taught me something about listening to my rational side instead of my emotional one. And when that fear of being left enters my mind, I think: “Alright, Lindsay – so what if you never hear from him again? Would your world come to an end? Would you go home crying to your parents? Would you put your life on hold?”

And now, at my age and in my city, the answer to all of those questions is no. Because I’m no longer that 19-year-old girl who wants nothing more than to be loved by a guy who she was smitten over. I no longer make a man the center of my world. I no longer depend on a guy to bring me fulfillment and happiness. While I would be upset if certain dudes disappeared – I know myself better and I surely know what I deserve in terms of love, and thus, while I may crack, I won’t be broken.

Because no matter what – even with a ring, even with a title, even with saying those damned three little words we all desire – nothing is guaranteed. A person can always leave. But if you’re lucky, and if you’re smart – you know that regardless of who comes and goes, who breaks promises and who keeps them, at the end of the day, at the end of the path, there is always one person who will never leave you. And that’s yourself. So, if you can depend on that constant, on that relentless love, then you can go forward to the next partner, the next fling or even The One – and know that if they do decide to disappear, you’re still never alone.

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A Post a Day to Keep the Love Addiction Away

With New Year’s on the foreseeable horizon, I’ve been thinking a lot about what my resolution will be for 2011. In many ways, I feel like this blog is one giant promise to myself to…well, love myself endlessly. If that isn’t a resolution, I’m not quite sure what is.

However, in years past, I’ve resolved to not go on a date for three months (so I stop freaking out about being single), take a cooking class, spend more time in prayer, or of course, the old classic of to lose weight. I wouldn’t say I’ve ever had a weight-problem, but my figure has definitely changed over the years and for the first time, I can honestly say I’m very happy with how I look.

Part of the reason why picking “dropping 10 pounds by March!” is not only a popular resolution, but also a prescription for failure is due to the fact that dieting isn’t really what makes a person healthy. As the all adage says, you really must change your lifestyle and your eating/exercising habits permanently to see consistent and worthwhile results. You can’t just cut out sweets and carbs until you see a little fat slide away – or you’ll just watch it all sneak back up on you faster than it left.

I think the same goes with my love addiction and journey to self-love. Furthermore – I think it is the hardest part to accept.

I’ve had a few close friends and some readers ask me a few simple questions: “Well, what happens to the 12-steps and to the posts if you do get a boyfriend? What if you meet Mr. Perfect-for-You before you complete everything?”

Well, that’s quite the question, isn’t it?

I can’t technically write a blog about the experience of learning to love being single and love myself sans a man, if I am in fact, falling in love, right? If I become part of a “we” instead of just a “me”. If I am not struggling with wondering if any dude on this planet will ever find me irresistible and irreplaceable because I have someone whispering those anything-but-nothings in my ear every night. If Mr. Unavailable suddenly becomes Mr. Available, or I happen to stumble across or be swept away by Mr. Princey-Poo.

But something I was very specific about when I started this blog and still hold true to three months after writing a daily post is that I’m making no rules for myself. I am not limiting dating, nor am I putting a complete stop to negative thinking. I am not giving myself a deadline for when this blog ends or when I complete all of the steps. I’m not against meeting the right guy or being in a relationship – but my attitude, or should I say, my dating lifestyle – has to shift. Part of the reason I didn’t place restrictions is the result of realizing single isn’t a stage, it isn’t just something we “get through” – but a part of our lives that’s necessary for growth and for strength. Being single doesn’t stop your life, it progresses it. So why put anything else, even love, on pause, or shift your life completely, just because you’re a solo lady? Instead – why not just change yourself?

If I’m going to ween myself off obsessive thinking, worrying about being single for the rest of my Earthly existence, and putting myself down – I have to literally change who I am a bit. These habits have grown into dirty little pests and to rid them of my daily life requires me to resolve to be a new person and be a better woman. The reason I decided to solve these issues is not due to a man telling me I needed to or to beef up my resume or make myself more alluring to the opposite sex.

I simply did it because I had to for my own sanity and to progress myself as an individual. And in many ways, this journey is like losing weight – I have to shed the reoccurring beliefs and languague I was using that caused me pain. And to do this, I can’t just go on a ” dating diet” for a year or six months or four years until I find my husband-to-be. Instead, I have to make trusting positive reinforcements and engaging in an empowering attitude towards embracing myself for everything I am and everything I’m not – a normal routine.

Even when the day comes when I exchange vows with someone, I still want to be in a place of self-security. I still want to have strength and confidence in myself without someone else validating or reassuring me. I still want to speak to myself with words that are loving and promising, instead of self-defeating. I still want to be my greatest fan and my best friend. While the 12-steps will ultimately come to an end, the journey to self-love is a lifelong adventure that I will continue to trek through – even after marriage, babies, menopause, and retirement.

So, what if I do get a boyfriend? Would a boyfriend break my progressing healthy self-image? Would it ruin my self-proscribed: a post-a-day that keeps my love addiction away, medicine? I don’t have a prospect in mind currently, but if he happens to cross my path or lock eyes with me on the train, I won’t look away. I also won’t pursue. Because the focus isn’t on him or getting to a place in loving myself so I can finally meet whoever this dream-man is. He isn’t the prize at the end of the game or the victory to be won through all of this hard work. He isn’t the pot of gold at the edge of the rainbow or the breeze that follows a good thunderstorm.

No, the beauty of the journey isn’t in it one day stopping or meeting my “goal love weight”.  It is rather in the fact that it really…never ends. Because love for myself doesn’t cease when I start loving someone else. It actually, just grows more.

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A Man of His Word

As a journalist, it’s my responsibility to get under people’s skin. This doesn’t always mean in a negative way, but to get a story or to get the best angle – sometimes you have to ask a lot of questions. Even more so, you are drawn by this idea that there is something more than what people initially reveal and it is your job to evoke those concealed emotions out of them.

And usually, I do a pretty good job at interviewing  by fiercely, yet kindly, easing out information that’s below the surface. Because of this so-called “talent” – I’ve been pretty successful in my career, but I’ve allowed this skill to throw me off course in relationships.

Why? I don’t really take a man at his word.

He may say something, but as far as I’m concerned – it goes in one ear and right out the other. Maybe even more destructive, I tend to hear what I want to hear and heed red flags until I have to pull out my white one and surrender. Somehow, even if a guy has laid it all out there for me – the good or the bad or the very ugly – I’ve questioned it. I’ve debated it. I’ve wrapped it around my head three or four times and drawn my own conclusions instead of taking what he’s promised or said at face value.

As I’ve described, I’ve met Mr. Faithful, Mr. Fling, Mr. Fire, Mr. Idea, and Mr. Unavailable over the course of my dating history. Now, I’ll admit that men (and women, too) sometimes promise things or relationships or feelings or promises they can’t fully deliver. I think at our core, we all want to do right by those who make an impression on us, romantically or not, and I highly doubt anyone goes into a committment thinking “I’ll break this one day, even though I said I wouldn’t!” If you do, I suggest you stop reading my words and seek serious help, alrighty?

Nevertheless, if I go back to these dudes, all of which have left and continue to leave distinctive impressions on my soul, and think about the words they’ve used to describe themselves or their intentions – I may have saved myself a little heartbreak if I would have listened. If a guy tells you right at the start that he isn’t over his ex-girlfriend and isn’t ready for a relationship: that’s what he means. This isn’t a line he uses to pick up the ladies or a vulnerable side he pulls out to distract you from seeing that he truly, honestly, just wants to meet a woman who will lick and heal his wounds. He doesn’t want this woman and this woman isn’t you, so why put yourself in a situation where you seek a man who is unattainable?

Or if a guy tells you he wants to have sex – or rather doesn’t say it, but only calls you at midnight when he’s had a few too many – that doesn’t mean he magically falls in love with you after an orgasm. It means he came (pun intended) to see you for a specific reason and goal. And sadly, if a guy says he worries about breaking your heart or hurting you, he does actually have a soul, but it’d be in your best interest to walk away before his premonition comes true.

I won’t say there are not exceptions to these ideas, but I’ve learned, often the hard way, that sometimes you can learn so much more about the person you’re falling for if you catch yourself and start really listening, instead of projecting. Because anyone can put on Mr. Right’s cape and ride in on a horse with a bouquet full of tulips,  if we rent the stallion from a stable, hand the dude $30, and give him a sword and a script. If you project an idea on a man, instead of seeing him for his true-blue colors, all you will see is your reflection.

Now, as I’ve said trust is one of the most important building bricks in the foundation of a great relationship, especially the one you have with yourself but also with a partner. And as far as love is concerned, if you don’t truly listen to what someone is telling you, you never can develop that security or promise that’s required for an everlasting union.

And step one to gaining trust both in myself and in the men that I date is opening my ears and closing my mouth and imagination.

It also means that when a great man with a kind heart comes along, I must be able to turn the same token around and realize that if a man says he’ll be there – I have to have enough courage to take him at that word, too. If I forever let the bruises of the yesterday cause harm to the love I’ll grow today, then there is no opportunity for prosperity tomorrow. Just because one man lied, or I decided to construe my own meaning out of his words, doesn’t mean they are all one-in-the-same.

Possibly though, even more strenuous than accepting a man who will never love you in the way imagined or learning to gradually open up your heart that’s been shattered more times than you’d like to count – is also learning to listen to yourself. To the words you put out into the world and into the ears of men whom you’d like to accept as your boyfriend on Facebook (even with the new annoying interface). Because if you accept a man at his word, in return he will accept you at yours – thus making each and every single thing you say, so vital. If something isn’t okay or isn’t fine or doesn’t feel good or makes you uneasy or feels like settling, you have to stand up and say: why, yes, I frankly do give a damn about that.

If I want to meet a man who I can trust to say what he means when he says it and be a man of good word and honesty – I have to be a woman of the same principle. Because what is the use of language if it isn’t dependable? If we couldn’t trust in what we read and  in exchanged sentiments from page-to-page in the magazines or pillow-to-pillow with our lover, would we ever get anywhere?

That is, anywhere other than subjected to below-the-fold and in the corner, or crying in the shower (where we need not worry about mascara), wondering: “why didn’t I just listen to him from the get-go?“