Tag Archives: Dating

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In Love in New York

Make sure to keep your belongings with you at all times, but keep your heart closer. Stand clear of the closing doors, but don’t keep that heart too open. If you see something, say something, but don’t say too little or too much, too soon or too late. Step away from the platform edge, but don’t be afraid to take a chance on that handsome stranger. A train is now approaching the station, but you’re not going to catch it. Not this one or the next one.

New York is a dangerous place to fall in love.

I used to think the image of his loafers next to my stilettos was quintessentially cute. It seemed so New York, I thought while avoiding eye contact with Mr. P this morning. “Now it just seems commonplace. I’ve watched our feet walk or stand in sync for almost a year now.”

“Can you believe it has almost been a year since we met? Since I started the blog?” I asked him over cheap sushi last night, celebrating the beginning of my 401k. His eyes were glistening in the faux-candlelight, his new haircut reminding me of freshly-cut grass – I yearned to reach across the table and brush away the sad little strands, but that was his length now. I hate his hair short but it irritates him when it’s long. His face burns when his facial hair gets too thick- so he trims and shaves, leaving me with scratches on my cheeks from his addiction to nuzzling. I know so much about him, now.

“Look how much you’ve changed in a year. Look how different you are from when I met you…” he started to say. I cut my glance down to my Passion Roll – one of my favorites with avocado and spicy tuna. It was true, I have changed – a new apartment, a new group of friends, a great new job, a new sense of self, a new everything. I have grown leaps-and-bounds in the nearly 12 months we’ve known each other. But while he was once Mr. Unavailable and he painfully, slowly transformed into Mr. Possibility – he hadn’t changed that much. I pushed a piece around in the low-fat soy sauce thinking, should I lie and say he’s changed too? 

“…you’ve come so far and I haven’t changed hardly at all,” he finished, taking a swift sip of Saki and slamming down the porcelain container. My mother’s China cabinet all the way in North Carolina shuddered at the thud when it hit the table. I gave him my happy grin, the one that says: “My darling, I understand. I’m here for you. You’re going to be fine. Don’t worry.” It’s the one I pull out when I don’t know what to say, when the situation can’t be fixed with kisses or quickies, when the hard work isn’t up to me, but up to him. I reached across the table and rolled my thumb along the top of his knuckles, remembering the first time I noticed our hands looked alike. They still do but are we alike anymore? I took a sip of boxed white wine and I moved the conversation in a different direction: politics. That’ll keep him occupied for a while.

Why do I always go back to that place? Sure, it’s cheap – $20 worth of sushi and you get unlimited wine, but it always gives me a headache. Always, I thought, still staring at Mr. P’s shoes, finding my mind wonder back to that moment in that downtown joint. I had come far, I was different but he wasn’t. He was still beautiful and wonderful in all the ways I first fell in love with him, but he is also now human. He is a man who has hurt me, who has disappointed me. He’s a man who still surprises me, who recalls things I do not. He’s delicate in a way he’d never admit and more vulnerable than most of this world will ever see. He is loving by nature, defensive because he thinks that’s how dudes should be, and stubborn to a point of exhaustion. He is my mate, my partner, my boyfriend.

He is a man who loves me. But he’s a man with a past to overcome, isn’t he? 

A grumpy business man who has been taking the 1 train to Wall Street for 20 years from his Upper West Side apartment, which is probably rent controlled near a cafe where he orders the same dish and the Bodega he buys his wife petite pink roses (her favorite) – crashes into me, pushing me into the arms of Mr. Possibility. I sure do make a habit of falling on him, don’t I? 

He rubs my back and takes a deep breath in, his chest rising to another melancholy occasion. He’s lost in his thoughts again. Lost in what was, what he’s missing, what he thinks he can’t get, what upsets him. He’s lost in worries and he’s wallowing in self-pity – a trait that absolutely frustrates me, no matter who it is. 

My friends warned me of this. So did my mom, though I’d prefer not to admit her astrological advances were accurate. Hell, even Mr. P said once I found my footing, I’d question my stance next to him. They all said: The girl with a future avoids the man with a past. Thank you Evan Escar, whoever you are. Here I am though, listening to the MTA give warnings of safety while I hear different precautions in my head. The girl with the future avoids the man with a past. The girl -me – avoids the man – Mr. P – with a past. 

She avoids him? Why can’t she let him work through the past so they can have a future? Or does he need to be alone to do that? Is he right? I hate when he’s right. Now that I feel set and comfortable, do I suddenly want to leave? I’m different, I’ve changed, he’s simply stayed the same – can that still work?

Now that I’m starting to feel suffocated both on this grimy, hot train and in this moment, I look around the cart, desperately waiting for someone to rescue me. Someone tell me what to do! Anyone? You over there, you’re falling asleep reading The Times. I can assure you that I would interest you enough to stay awake. Tell me – does the girl with a future really avoid the man with a past? Can we move forward if only one of us…is moving? 

This is what New York is like though – right? Love dims when the sun rises over the East river, when corner stores open for business, when everyone orders the everything bagel, when everyone realizes that everything that felt so right last night, doesn’t this morning. Those who come to the city looking for love quickly find it is a glorified Hollywood myth. Love only come to those who withstand the decade of dating disasters in their 20s, only to find a nice, shorter, balding man in their 30s who can provide. They marry him in a rush, have a baby within a year, and then they become part of the stroller brigades of Park Slope and the UWS, causing a whole new generation of 20-somethings to see their happy little family and big bling and think, Sigh, I want that, too.

But can the girl with a future have that with the man who has a past? New York is such a dangerous place to fall in love – one day you believe in it, the next day you condemn it and on Friday, you’ve decided you’ll try for it again.

I follow Mr. P’s example and exhale, a little too loudly. He notices, and in between 50th and Times Square, he tightens his grip around my waist, pulls me into him, grazes my forehead with his lips nearly a dozen times. Quietly, sweetly. It feels like we’re alone: I can feel his breath in my hair, his thumb pressing into my hip bone. He takes his hand to lift my chin up to him and meets my eyes before giving me our normal morning goodbye kiss. I love you Tigar. I’m so proud of you. I’m so happy to have you. Have a great day at work, he whispers as we reach the station, the doors fling open and he gets out, smiling at me through the subway windows as the cart hobbles away. The girl sitting in front of me rolls her eyes in envy and I read her mind instantly. She’s the girl I was a year ago, wishing for what she just witnessed.

The next station is Penn Station transfer is available to the 2, 3, A,C,E trains and the Long Island Railroad…

…and you can also, in just a stop, transfer your heart from thinking that New York’s a dangerous place to fall in love to believing it is a beautiful one. And that maybe, the girl with a future can love the man with a past. That is, as long as there are no delays that block her way.

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When You’re Forced Indoors

So Irene was a dud.

My apartment was full of people, food, supplies, and booze, and the worse that happened was some pretty fierce winds and a lot of rain. I’m thankful that we all overestimated and Bloomberg attempted to make up for the snow-acopolyse by being fully prepped for a hurricane, but my roommates and friends all agreed: we were a little disappointed.

The puns on Irene were plenty (Me, Myself & Irene on FX, “Come on Irene” status updates, playlists dedicated to the storm, etc.,), and it gave us all one giant excuse to stay inside, watch awful television and procrastinate doing the things we actually needed to do like laundry and grocery shopping.  We all were braced for the worst and wanted to have a safe sleepover indoors without electricity, without television, without internet, without those things we all live by. I even wrote blogs a few days earlier because of all the hype – determined to sincerely write every single day for a year. But nothing happened, except my apartment became a center for giggling festivities and six pack drinking.

I know it’s a blessed thing that Irene passed quietly by – but why waste a weekend crammed up in a tiny apartment when we could have been enjoying our city? Why did we have to give up our Saturday?

To teach me a lesson, of course. Why else?

Irene made Step 11 real for me. It’s all about learning how to relax. And there is nothing like being told by your mayor that if you go outside you could risk your life, to make you sit tight and take a forced-breather. So that’s what I did – without anything or anyone to answer to, I sat back, opened the windows to witness the doom-and-gloom outside and did what every 20-something does to mellow out: gossip, eat, drink and sleep for 10 hours (give or take a few loud gusts of wind that woke me up).

I still have to learn how to meditate to complete the 11th step (have plans to join my friend A on Sunday), but for now, I can attest to the fact that Irene actually brought something rather positive. As Mr. P would say (and often does), she taught me how to “chill the f*** out.”

If only for a day or so, anyway.

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Dudes and Dogs

So my roommate got a kitten. She’s tiny with piercing blue eyes and her name isBowie.

When she started flirting with the idea, browsing Craigslist looking for eligible animals that were rescued or abandoned and now up for auction or for free – I admit I was a little jealous.

I’ve never quite been a cat-person, though I grew up with one who recently passed away. His name was Indiana Jones Tigar, named after one of my favorite series as a kid. We nicknamed him Indy, and he was adventurous and quick, always getting away from me with a smirk that spoke louder than his meow. And then of course, there’s M’s baby Milo, who as my “godson” is permanently embedded in my heart and I’ll admit, that when the earthquake shook New York, I wondered how he was alone in M’s apartment.

And now, there’s yet another kitten sashaying into my life and with her arrival, my heart sinks just a bit. While some women at my age, God bless ‘em, feel like they’re achin’ to have kids, I’m achin’ for a pet.

Specifically, one of those puppies with sad, sad eyes from the Humane Society commercials. Or maybe one that’s across the street from my friend K’s apartment in the WestVillage– the one that every time I walk past it on my way to her place, I fight the urge to ask just how much is that puppy in the window?

The time isn’t ticking on my ovaries anymore than it’s ticking on my ability to support a dog right now, but I have this overwhelming desire to own one. I want to come home after a glorious day at work, followed by drinks with my favorites, to a wagging-puppy-dog-tail that’s excited to see me and will lay by my feet at night. I want to have responsibility for something else, something to take care of, something to depend on me, something that’ll grow because of my loving nature and guidance.

Rationally though, I know I’m not in the right time of my life to adopt a dog. While I could support it financially, I couldn’t give it the time and attention it deserves and that it would crave. Walking a dog through Central Parkwhen it’s painted with an earthy palette while wearing my fleece peacoat seems beautiful and idealistic, but it’s quite unrealistic.

Animals, like relationships, aren’t as cute as we imagine and far more work than we’d like to realize. I’m fully aware of this truth, both with puppies and men (quite similar if you think about it…), and yet, I still want them both. I’m not sure which tail is cuter, frankly.

But sometimes, the right decisions and the hard decisions are one-in-the-same. Being an adult means sucking up what you want to decide what’s best. Ensuring your life and your happiness continue to excel means getting rid of those things, those people, or those ideas that hold you back. Even if one of them happens to be the image of a rescued, wet-nosed pup who adores you. Maybe even a man who adores you, too – though he’s not the best for you, as much as you’d like him to be.

Because when you take the plunge and commit to a puppy or to a guy, you’re promising to come home each night, just as you said you would. You pledge to be there to fill their bowl and build their ego, stroke their cute little heads when they need encouragement or to be soothed. To excitedly call their name, even if they’re not really doing anything you are getting excited about, and to play with them, regardless if you’re tired and have a headache or not.

Men and puppies require attention and time, both things that aren’t difficult to sacrifice when you have many other things that fulfill you. But the fever that comes with dudes and dogs is one that’s rather difficult to extinguish.

But I fight the puppy-fever by volunteering to help others with their pets. By giving Milo andBowiean extra pat on their tiny kitten heads, by complimenting dog owners on their adorable pets, by volunteering when I can at shelters. By bookmarking photos of dogs I’d like to have and stopping at every rescue center or puppy-for-sale store I see.

And man-fever? Well, I still have 26 days to figure out how to battle that high.

 

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Half-Hearted Love

I can’t believe I’m subjecting these heels to pavement, I thought as I crossed seventh avenue rushing to meet a stranger I met online. I also can’t believe I made a profile on Plenty of Fish – aren’t I too young for this? I wouldn’t respond to someone who called himself Play6969 in real life, why did I think I’d be intrigued when he messaged me “Watup gurrllll” in an anonymous inbox? 

Linds, what’s wrong with you?

Seeing the address a block away, I considered turning around and catching the uptown train. It wasn’t too late – I hadn’t actually seen the guy and I purposefully didn’t save his phone number, just in case he didn’t show, I wouldn’t be the whiny, pensive girl who reached out to see where he was, I’d just act like I didn’t care. Even if I did, I didn’t have a way to complain about it via BBM, and I’d be damned if I signed onto PlentyofBullS*** after being stood up.

Standing him up, though – that didn’t seem like such a bad idea. I could free myself from any troubles, from awkward first-date introductions, from telling him the basics about me that don’t really mean anything (I like red wine. I’m allergic to peanut butter. Yes, it is pronounced like the animal. Yes, I promise. Yes, it’s funny. Check please?), but I’m hungry. And he’s tall, right? Didn’t he say he was a doctor? If I had a Jewish mother, she’d tell me I’d be crazy not to go. I close my eyes and picture Fran Drescher”ma” on The Nanny, and enter the restaurant.

Mmmm, he’s stunning. Glad I wore the red heels, I complimented myself while praying for them to stop pinching my feet and for my skirt not to ride up. Maybe it’s a little too tight for the doctor type – or maybe he wants me to play nurse? Let’s see how engaging the conversation is. And he planned everything about this date, so let’s see how clever and creative he is – then maybe I’ll let him take my heart rate or maybe look at that thing, down there, that’s been….hurting? Yeah, something a little achy – like a lady part that’s pathetically lonely and bored of inaction.

He has a nice voice and he’s kind to wait staff, even talking like he’s old pals with the bartender, I analyzed while sipping on the drink he ordered. We would be hitting a few places around the Hell’s Kitchen, Times Square area – he had just moved here, after all. He wanted to see things he hadn’t before, try places he hadn’t tasted, perhaps wrangle wildlife he had yet to learn how to tame? I watched him carefully eat his food, taking incredibly small bites and demonstrate his near-perfect table manners. He even held his fork the European way, something I hadn’t seen a man do since my days of pageantry in the South. There the judges expect you to be a crystalized, real-life version of a Barbie Doll with humanitarian intentions, so they’ll give you a bit of class while eating overpriced Chicken Pot Pie at the table with ya.

The night continued in the fashion of most New York evenings – where anyone who didn’t live here would be amazed by the views, I had become in a short time, used to them, only experiencing those Louie Armstrong moments occasionally. And though we were walking around the tourist and rodent-ridden eight blocks of congestion and extremely bright lights, just as he wanted, Mr. Half just wasn’t that intrigued. The more he drank, the more reserved he became. By the last bar, it was so painful to consume our shared plate of french fries and specialty beers, that I finally had to pull the journalist out from hiding (she knows it’s not appropriate to interrogate on the first date, much better to listen), and ask him what happened. Where did my cheerful doctor who was going to inspect my body after a romantic night on the town go? Why was he so sullen that he matched the hideous gray walls in a sub-par bar charging $8 for a Bud Light?

He took another sip of Amstel, sat it down with vengeance, cut his eyes at the lines of liquor ahead of us, gave me a little grin, and asked me: “Is it possible to love with half of your heart? You’re a writer, right? You write about this stuff. Is it possible? Because as beautiful as you are, as much as I feel lucky to be here, as much as I’d like to take you home tonight, I only have half a heart left. The woman I thought was the love of my life took the rest.”

After nearly falling off my bar stool, I gathered myself and smiled at him, tears obviously welling up in my eyes. I took a deep breath, having recently ended my relationship with Mr. Idea, and answered as honestly as I could: “I have no idea, Mr. Half.”

It’s been over a year since that date, which happened to be our last (I never heard from him again) – but I remember taking a cab home that night, not because I was tipsy but because I was sad. For one of the first times, I didn’t make conversation with the cabby, but shut the window and cried as silently as I could, only pausing briefly to pay and head upstairs, to sob some more. My heart ached for Mr. Half, for myself, for all the people who put themselves out there, gave every bit of  a heart they have, only to end up with half of it at the end.

Relationships are funny that way – we all want to find that person. The person who is all that we wanted, with a few surprises we didn’t know we liked, but do. And in the middle of an ordinary day (as all days mostly are), we meet someone who makes us believe that it’s possible. Who is different and charming, but not someone who strays. Someone who wants to stay, who wants to give, who proclaims their love. Who feels warm in the winter and so easy to be around that summer days fade all the way into October. And though we swore that the last time would be the last time. That we would never invest so much of ourselves, of our hope, of our precious love into another person after being so broken before. That we would never have the ability to open up because we had become so hard that softness was a distant memory of what we used to be, not what we are now. That we would never subject ourselves to such scary vulnerability when history tells that it’ll just end up crumbling us into a cab speeding up the Westside Highway following a downright depressing date. That we would never be able to love with our whole heart because we merely had half of one left.

Even though we made all those promises to that box of wine (yes, box), to that half-gallon of Ben & Jerry while sobbing to The Notebook over our version of Noah that looks nothing like Ryan Gosling – we go against it all the second that butterfly lands in our tummy. From that first kiss or that first indication of “something is happening here.” I don’t know how to mend a broken, a half, or a whole heart, but meeting someone with potential certainly helps speed up the process.

So if I were to go back to that date, if I hadn’t met my own Mr. Possibility months later, if I had known then what I know now, I would tell Mr. Half to lean in and kiss me, madly. Because the only way to see if you can love with half of your heart…is to try.

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The Possibility of Unavailability

A while back on Labor Day of last year, I met a man.

I was returning home from a trip to North Carolina to visit my family at our lake house. I spent the weekend chatting with my mom over endless glasses of wine, getting appropriately sunburned, and pretending anything that’s grilled is void of calories. It was just how a weekend away from the city should be – full of laughter and remembering the good times, while trying to hide that happy anticipation to return to the home you made for yourself.

After a seamless flight, I caught a $15 bus back into the city, a relatively new thing for me. I was used to taking cabs and the subway, but decided to save some money and some headache. Foolishly of me, I put on some super-tall slingbacks and a summer dress belted at the waist with a rather floppy hat – not exactly bus riding attire.

With my red carry-on in hand, I boarded the bus and started to walk down the aisle, smiling at a cute man I wanted to sit in front of. And then, instead of gracefully lowering myself into the seat while maintaining eye contact – the bus driver stomped on the gas pedal and I went flying forward, dropping the suitcase and catching myself.

The cute guy’s friend asked if I was okay and I grudgingly replied that I was, before taking that seat with far less sass. The cute guy, who I now saw had pretty blue eyes, gave me a hard time and by the time we reached Grand Central, we both realized that we lived close, so we took the train together. We exchanged cards and I didn’t anticipate hearing from him, but the next day he emailed me.

It started off innocently enough. I originally thought he had a speech impediment, but it was just because I wasn’t used to hearing a true Northern accent on a daily basis. I didn’t accept his Facebook request right away, trying to decide if I wanted to pursue another bachelor or just stick with going to bars for fun conversations and empty promises. This guy, after all, made it pretty clear that he wasn’t looking for anything. He was just getting out of a relationship, was having a hard time getting over the girl and he needed space to grow.

To live. To find himself. To be single. Hmm, that sounds awfully familiar.

This was right around the time I started the blog, where I was tasked with the same challenges of learning to love myself, learning to fly solo before letting someone take the steering wheel at times when I allowed. It seemed like a platonic match made-in-heaven: two wounded souls, working through our issues with a person of the opposite sex, without any strings, without any sex, without any complications. It wasn’t supposed to be friends-with-benefits, it was just supposed to be friends. We were both after all, ultimately, unavailable.

And so he became Mr. Unavailable.

After helping him through a grand gesture that grandly bombed, our friendship just continued to grow closer. We’d go on non-dates where we’d wonder about town, talking and giving our best psychiatric advice, mending our own broken hearts while connecting them to one another. He’d talk about his lovely ex, reminding me of how I was so similar to her, making me quite angry at times, but eventually – he proved himself right. Being smart and lovely, she stumbled across the blog and guessed his identity. We met for drinks and now we’re quite close, with more than one very interesting thing in common.

But time passed and things changed. Mr. Unavailable and I became intimate. He started sleeping over. He introduced me to his family. He started calling me “baby.” We didn’t place a label, but we knew we were both starting to become less unavailable and more attached. We were developing this chemistry that translated easily into a relationship. I mean, we already knew everything about one another and our respective dating histories, doesn’t that make sense as the recipe for a perfect partnership?

Just as things were heating up and feelings were becoming more concrete, snow started to hit the ground, and his job sent him overseas for a while. It was then, that he gave me permission to create a new identity for him – one that would illustrate him beyond Mr. Unavailable. A character that would show that we were more than that, that what we were creating was full of hope, had promise – was a definite possibility.

And so, Mr. Possibility arrived on these pages and references to Mr. Unavailable mostly ceased. Why not just make it the same character and be honest throughout the blog? Well – a little bit of mystery never hurt anyone, and I didn’t want to give the wrong idea that a Mr. Unavailable could become a Mr. Possibility, until I was certain the possibility was possible.

I’m still not sure if I can attest to that fact – there are times when he is rather impossible and severely more unavailable than I would like. Having each other’s personal love resumes of disappointment, regret, and lost love has proved quite troubling for the relationship. Talking about the past and exes is also a difficult boundary to make, after it was such an open playing field for so long. It took us a while to actually call the relationship, a relationship, because I wasn’t sure I wanted to give up the single status (though I already had in every way except by saying it here or on Facebook), and I was still trying to trust him from things that happened before we were officially, official. I didn’t want the exclusively non-exclusive relationship anymore, but did I really believe that someone so damn unavailable would turn into a true possibility for love?

Six months later, I can really only promise one thing – every person you date has the possibility to become someone you will love. And every single soul you cross paths with, is unavailable in a way you may or may not ever know. We all have the possibility of being emotionally removed, turning away from our partners, never creating a relationship worth standing on, and crumbling to pieces before you can build anything. Each guy presents that opportunity, especially the ones who are unavailable to begin with – and outright about it, to boot.

But if someone seems like they deserve a chance, like there is undeniably a possibility for romance, then check how you feel. Make sure you are confident within yourself because they may not find stability on their own as you have. Make sure you want to support the weight of someone else as they go through a hard time, knowing you may not receive the attention and the love you deserve, in return. Make sure you are happy with your life and that you don’t need someone else to bring that joy to you.

To be with Mr. Unavailable, you have to make compromises. For him to become Mr. Possibility, you have to remember not to compromise yourself. We like to take care of Mr. Unavailable, but you shouldn’t date him unless he has truly transformed into a Mr. Possibility. And if you start to do that on the way to making the impossible, possible, you also have to know when it’s time to stop, turn around, declare how much you’d like to be beautifully open and available…but you can’t. At least not until messes are tidy and hearts are ready, you may just turn into Ms. Unavailable.

Maybe, anyway. There’s always, a possibility – right?