Tag Archives: blogging

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The Next Heat Wave

I’ve been eating my words lately. Or rather, sweating them.

Compared to last summer, I was convinced in late June that 2011 would be different. I would barely use my air conditioner, though Mr. Possibility so lovingly installed it for me at the end of May, promising me I would need it sooner than what I thought I would. Let’s hope he doesn’t read this post because I hate to admit when he’s right.

The second I leave the cool air into the 90-degree heat, my body starts to melt. I sweat in places I didn’t know I could sweat and I can feel droplets of stickiness slide down me continuously. The ten blocks I would have walked now seem like 20 and I decide to take the train instead. I not-so-smoothly double-back in front of stores with their industrial size AC units blaring because that shot of cool air gives even a powerful orgasm a run for it’s power. Anything in my purse – from my NY Mag to copies of my resume – serve as a makeshift fan, and though it may make me rather ridiculous and cheesy, I’ve considered getting one of those battery-operated on-the-go fans to lower my body temperature while waiting for the train. My clothes can’t come off faster once I reach the frigidness of my room in my Upper West apartment, and I hope the tenants who can see into my windows don’t mind me standing butt naked, still wearing my heels, downing water, and worshiping my air conditioning. I still stand proud and hold true to the fact that it was the best $140 investment of my life.

With a few weeks left in July and just a handful of months until my birthday, I can feel this blog’s expiration date coming to a close. As I move to Step 10, sweaty and uncertain, a few pounds lighter, a million lessons stronger, one boyfriend and a dozen of wonderful new best friends richer, and one bank account that’s dwindling as it should smack-dab in the middle of my 20’s, I can’t help but think about what’s next. What comes after Confessions of a Love Addict? I’ve already decided the journey to loving oneself is never-ending, so though this blog and it’s daily writing commitment will end, the commitment I’ve made to myself and to my life only grows. I only tighten my grip so I can loosen the boundaries I’ve had on myself for so long. I vow to love myself without regard to wedding bands, love songs and sentiments, or any Mr. Possibility that may enrich (and beautifully complicate) my life.

What’s the next heat wave I’ll experience? What will be the next turning point? The last one found me naked in a Victorian tub, crying about a guy who was never mine, and realizing I was acting far more insecure than I really was and letting a parade of penises steer my life instead of claiming myself as a woman, as a person. And so this blog was born and this incredible journey that’s taken me to many places, most of which I never anticipated.

So what words will sweat out of me next? Where do you go after you decide to love yourself? To accept yourself? To always ask for more and demand the best – out of your friends, your love, and yourself?

Tell me readers – what’s next for Love Addict?

Daily Gratitude: I’m thankful for this blog, even if writing every single day sometimes gets the best of me. 

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There’s My City

Driving back to Brooklyn with Mr. Possibility today, we crossed the expressway at sunset, the skyline illuminating its everlasting shine. As he always does, he said “There’s your city.” I turned to him and grinned and then placed my attention back to the place I sometimes feel is mine and at other times feel like it’s not even within my grasp.

Like I did when my father would zip down old curvy country roads in his black Toyota, I rolled my hand in the wind, feeling the pressure and pretending I could touch the building tops. I always find myself reaching and extending when I see New York in the distance – perhaps the view from afar is even more enchanting than the view from the Top of the Rock or looking down from the Empire State.

Stuck in traffic though, I felt a pain that hurts me to admit, but lately, the city has lost its luster. Or maybe, it’s just me.

Yes, Mr. Possibility is accurate by giving the city to me – part of it does belong to me. It gave itself to me many, many years ago when I was a snaggle-toothed seven-year-old, grinning in a pink jacket as I saluted Lady Liberty and giggled at my daddy buying five pieces of New York Style pizza in a single day. I loved it then and I love it now, but like a guy can make you feel when a second date doesn’t result in a third, I’ve felt like New York has rejected me.

With some recent changes and a disappointment I can only credit to myself, I’ve wondered about my footing. I haven’t felt sturdy and stable, but rather wobbly and uncertain, trying to squint into the future, or at the skyline, to try and see  a glimpse of what’s next. I’ve been pulling at anything I have in me to gain some hope, to see the silver lining on top of smog and heat, and the offices of opportunity that have turned me away. And in Mr. Possibility’s car, watching the sun fall along with my spirits, I remembered I was returning to a borough and not my actual Upper West Side pad, which made the city seem even further away than it already did.

I watched my hand flutter in the wind in the passenger’s side rear-view window and I realized I was pointing toward Brooklyn, not toward Manhattan. I was going with traffic instead of fighting against it. I was not claiming or revealing myself to my city, instead I was going with a flow I didn’t want to ride. And so, with Selena Gomez’s “Who Says” blaring in the background, I turned my hand over. I placed my palm toward Manhattan and I whispered a silent prayer to let opportunity and faith find me. To let me rename myself and reroute my path so I can find that joy again, that peace, that confidence I’ve always had in New York. And in myself.

Because if it’s my city, I can’t be turning my back to it or to the wind. I have to take it as it is, even when it’s tough and rough-around-the-edges. Even when it doesn’t give me what I want and when it takes me far from where I expected. If it’s my city, I have to always remember to make it mine…and give it (and me), a little time.

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A Time to Rub Feet

When your only wardrobe options are ugly panties and cocktail dresses, you know it’s time for laundry.

Deciding I couldn’t actually go to work in a little black dress tomorrow, no matter how sexy and curve-defining it is on me, I finally gave in and paid the extra $10 to have someone else do my laundry for me today. I became one of those city-folk who simply didn’t have the time: today is my only day without an “extra-curricular” activity after work, and if I needed to clock three miles before the gym closed, buy groceries, and write a few freelance posts – I couldn’t waste time at the mat.

I’ll give credit to my friend K who only had great things to say about sending her wash away, amazed I hadn’t given in yet – and welcomed me to New York when I agreed. It was a great investment of my hard-earned cash, especially since it’ll be ready tomorrow morning before work, folded, and waiting at the door for me. It’s because of this decision that I’m sitting, writing, in running clothes (only thing I have left), eating a delectable dinner consisting of humus, pretzel crisps, and orange juice, after a killer run and deciding if I’ll go to bed early or watch last season’s Project Runway.

After dropping off my 30-pound bag of separated whites and blacks, I called my dear friend L, whose voice always make me feel at home. Our bond, like the very best of friendships is one that knows no distance and has no boundaries. We pick up right where we left off and when I have an irrational fear or pestering doubt, her name is quick to appear in my phone. We get each other in a way that only best friends can get one another, and if I was to put it into words, it wouldn’t even hold a candle to the reality of feeling it.

As we try to each week (and usually fail miserably at with our respective busy lives) we caught each other on the ins and the outs of our day-to-day’s, with emotional, irrational outbursts sprinkled here and there, too. A newlywed, she talked about her new apartment, new town, new job, and the endless laundry that took four loads and five hours on Saturday. I talked about freelancing gigs, Mr. Possibility, my messy apartment and busy upcoming week, and the fun of the last weekend.

In response to my giddiness, she said: “You’re just a big ol’ black hole of happiness! I don’t even know if I can talk to you!” We giggled for a second and I reminded her there is bad in my life but that I’m trying to focus on what I’m blessed to have. Then, as I’m forever intrigued by the life of a married 20-something because it’s so far from what I want right now in my life, I ask her to leave the room so she can dish on the hubby. She instantly agrees and heads out, but less than a second later, she is distracted, exchanging some words with Mr. L and then says, “Well, we’ll have to talk about that another time.” Annoyed, I snapped back: “You don’t have to listen to him, he isn’t the boss of you!” She replied, “I was just rubbing his feet before you called. He had a rough day.” I probably said a few unkind words toward Mr. L and she asked if Mr. Possibility did sweet things like rub my feet instead of asking for the favor for himself, and then we eventually hopped off the phone.

While I was running, I couldn’t get the sour taste or visual image of Mr. L asking my friend to rub his feet while she was on the phone with me. It didn’t make sense why he couldn’t wait twenty minutes or why she obeyed him in the first place. I ran faster to distract myself, but by the end of my run, I still felt the need to call her and beg her to mouth off to him.

And then Mr. Possibility texted me from a meeting he had to attend for work: “What are you doing? I’m bored to tears.” Or translated into his language, “Entertain me! Humor me! Keep me awake at this stupid thing I have to go to!”

And so, while finishing up my to-do list, walking back to my apartment, making phone calls, and writing this post, I chatted with him. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to or that I minded, but it wasn’t my top priority. But I did it because he needed me to and because I care about him.

I wasn’t rubbing his feet – but I was comforting him. And while one is rather gross and requires me to wear gloves (ew, I do not like feet!), both tasks remind us to be unselfish. They also means knowing when to put aside yourself and do something for someone you love. I may not rub feet, but I’ll stroke ego and I’ll build pride, especially for someone who would do the same for me. Like for everything there is a season, there is a time to rub feet and receive text messages, and when to be of service to your partner or your friends.

So instead of igniting a fight between L and her Mr., I decided to bite my tongue. After all – it would be a little hypocritical of me. While I think he could have waited for her to end our conversation, I also interrupted their night with a ring, and while I came first in her life, he’s the one who sees her every single day. And who has promised to support her until her last breath – so I’ll hope if she asked for a nice rub down, he’d return the favor. Regardless if his friend fromNew York was on the phone or not.

Gratitude for today: I’m thankful for the clarity I find from the conversations I have with those who mean the most to me.

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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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The Gals You Just Need

I’ve talked about “just knowing” in terms of love and how I’m not sure of its validity. Though I’m far from pessimistic, the tiny dose of realism I indulge it makes me believe taking the wedded plunge is a lot like diving into dark waters, you hope you won’t hit rock bottom, but you could.

Maybe I’m wrong – there are some things I do just know. I just know I feel sexy when I lay around on a Saturday afternoon, air-drying my hair, and applying lotion to every crevasse of my body. I just know New York City is the place for me, right now, in this moment of my life. I just know nothing can comfort or soothe me the way a nice long shower feels or the smell of my mother’s Oscar de la Renta perfume, or how my dad’s arms do.

And I just know when someone is going to be a great friend of mine.

There’s no way to describe it, really – which is the same excuse those blissfully happy folks use when you ask them “how they knew” it was the right time to get married. But really, it hits you during a fluid conversation full of giggles and shared interests. Or when time passes quickly, along with workdays, and heartbreaks, when you’re around them.

For a long time, I felt very alone in New York. I had moved here, I had done what I set out to do, and I was proud. I had the apartment, the byline, and the confidence to keep pushing for more, but I was missing a critical ingredient to my happiness: friends. I remember calling my mom on a Saturday night, sobbing that I missed her and the girls I’d know my entire life, and wanted to know how to meet people I could be close to. People I could share my dating trials that I actually knew, instead of thousands of viewers who read my words, but will never see me face-to-face. I wanted someone to call after a tremendously awful date, from outside the restaurant in tears, who would meet me at a puppy store around the block with ice cream, and remind me that the reason New York is called Manhattan is partly because of all the men to pick from.

As mothers do, she told me to just wait. She said I’d find them when I least expected it, just in the way that love finds you when you’re not looking. And she was right – after I mastered my city, treated myself to great sex, – the sex and the city came together in the form of women who are so much more than replicas of the show’s characters. It wasn’t until I finally formed some friendships – some quite unexpected, some ignited years later than they could have, and some based on a certain obsession with publishing – that I finally felt like I belonged here.

Men are great and they dominate our minds and conversations more than any of us would like, regardless if we ever make an effort to correct it. Careers are challenging, changing universes we all get lost in, but if we’re lucky, make us into little stars that light up the path for someone else to follow. Cities are homes, homes are cities, but nothing is ever home-sweet-home unless you have someone to share the adventure with.

I’m not convinced a relationship is necessary to complete us and I tend to think women are total packages, independent of being in love with any man at all – but I do believe full heartedly that friendships are absolutely essential.

I can do without love. I could survive outside of New York City. I could not write anything for a year. But if I had no love, no city, no pen, and no friends – what would I be? I’d still be me, but not the best me that I can be when my ladies are by my side. And maybe you just know when someone will become a great friend, maybe you don’t. But I think you just know that you just need friends to make the journey…a journey.