Tag Archives: Dating

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Nothing to Do With You

One of my favorite places inNew Yorkis a sushi place in the Flatiron district. I used to live in that neck of the city when I interned and they sweetly never carded me when I was underage, making me a regular. Also because if you spend $20, you get unlimited wine – that’ll hook a gal anytime.

I continuously return to this joint, even though I’m well over age and can afford more than a Jackson for dinner because it holds such great memories for me, and each time I return, I make some more. Case in point, Friday evening with a group of my lovely ladies, catching up after weeks of not being able to sync our busy schedules. As we go through our lives, telling the best stories from the time we missed, we somehow stumble our way to talking about relationships.

Tends to be inevitable, I suppose. At the table, two of us are in relationships, the other three are single. And while we disagreed on some things, one trend we all found to be true was best summed up by my friend, K:

“I don’t care how intelligent she is; even the most-together of girls completely loses her mind when she’s in a relationship.”

I don’t think we lose all balanced thinking – but there is something about dating someone or being exclusive with a man that does something to our ability to rationalize. We place meaning and emotion into every word, movement is an indication of how our significant other feels. What’s more important than what he does is what he doesn’t do. Say he usually places his hand on the small of your back and then one afternoon, he doesn’t – suddenly, we’re concerned he isn’t into us or he’s pulling away or keeping something from us. When in reality, he is most likely preoccupied by things that have nothing to do with you.

Come to find out a man’s world does not, in fact, revolve around their girlfriend. And if it does, he probably shouldn’t be dating her and make a valiant effort to go find a life for himself.  Similarly, does our every mood depend on the men we date or boyfriends? Let’s hope not. There are (and should be) many things in our life that matter that don’t involve our partners – we should have things that are independent of a dude.

Even though we feel this way, it is incredibly difficult not to assign meaning behind actions we see as signs of disinterest or growing away from us. I could outline all of the ways I’ve been guilty of reading into things far too much, but in an email my friend R (from yesterday’s post) sent me describes it perfectly:

A Sunday Monologue

By R

Me: Working all day on Mother’s Day. Twelve hour shift that ended up lasting thirteen. Had already been planning on inviting myself over to his house to stay the night. In need of action and company.

Him: Working a twelve hour shift in the kitchen (yes, he’s a chef and I LOVE it). Good mood in the morning. By mid-dinner shift, he won’t look at me, won’t touch me, and won’t even smile at me.

Me: Feeling a little upset about it, then feeling even MORE upset that I AM upset about it because that means that I’m letting him get to me.

Him: Closes up early, impervious to a couple jokes I tried to make earlier to cheer him up. Puts on his jacket and starts to leave without saying good bye.

Me: “Hey, Mr. Sex Buddy.”
Him: Turns around. “Yeah.”
Me: “You headed out for the night?”
Him: “Yeah.” Gives me a hug.
Me: “You okay?”
Him: “It’s a long story. Just call me and I’ll tell you about it later.”
Me: “Okay. Good night.”
Him: Leaves without a second glance.

Me: Feeling mildly crushed that I won’t get to hang out with him that night. Then, feeling very angry at myself for feeling upset. Start telling myself that I’m being ridiculous and I need to suck it up and that silly, stupid stuff like THAT is why I don’t date. No dating. Dating, bad. Sadly…sex, very good, therefore I must put up with dating and gushy feelings. Blech.

Girl talk with friends. They tell me to call him and still ask to come over. I say no. They continue to encourage the calling. I start freaking out over what I’m supposed to say when I call him, because what if I invite myself over and he says no? How do I gracefully escape from that rejection. He was in a reallllly bad mood. He probably won’t want me coming over. But I want to go SO bad. Does that make me clingy? Do I call? What do I say? How do I phrase what I want to say?

My blood pressure continues to rise.

Finally make it out of work and I’m so nervous that my heart it literally racing and my hands are shaking. I continue to hate/chastise myself for acting this way and I keep telling myself to stop caring so much and just go home and forget the whole night, but it doesn’t work.

I call him. He answers. He still sounds upset. Says he going to ride his motorcycle for a while and he’ll call me in 20 minutes. I try to find an opening to see if he wants me to come over, but I can’t find one so I don’t ask. We hang up.

I start driving home and try to call you. You don’t answer so I call S. I hyperventilate on the phone to her, she tells me to calm down and that he’ll call and I’m not being clingy like I say and that I need to come have a margarita with her. I continue to screech about how much I hate dating and what it makes me. S tells me to shut up.

I turn around to go meet her. I’m still babbling about how stupid it is that I feel this way and that’s its too early and that I don’t want a relationship and “this is why I DON’T. LIKE. TO. DATE.” I call myself ridiculous and stupid and really, truly hate feeling the way I’m feeling because I know I feel that way because I’ve let him in. I feel that way because I like him, and I’m scared to.

I feel clingy for wanting to be with him, I feel stupid for letting my feelings be dependent on his feelings (I’m fine until he’s upset, then I end up upset). It’s reminiscent of how dependent I became on Mr. Coward and I need to stop and I hate, hate, hate this feeling.

I calm down slightly when I get to the restaurant to meet S. She gives me a hug. I immediately order a margarita. He calls. Exactly 20 minutes.

Me: “Hey.”
Him: “Hey!”
Me: “Feeling better?”
Him: “Definitely. I feel a lot better.”
Me: “Good, I’m glad. I’m sorry you were upset.”
Him: “Yeah, we’ll the managers did _______, and the other chef I was working with today was acting like ________, and he yelled at me for ________, and I just wanted to get out of there.”
Me: “Well, I’m glad you did. You want some company?”
Him: Stunned silence for a second. “Yeah! I would love some! Are you still at work?”
Me: *Clears throat* “Um, yeah.”
Him: “Great, I’ll see you soon then.”

I feel so relieved, too relieved to even be angry at myself for feeling so relieved that he called. I talk to S for a few minutes, finish my margarita, leave a four dollar tip on a six dollar tab and go to his place.

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It Is Scary to Care

My friend R recently started a no-strings attached, friends-with-benefits type of relationship with an old pal from high school. Having been through a hell of year and in dire need of a few (or many) orgasms, she agreed to release some tension with a person she’s always sorta had a thing for, but more importantly, someone she’s comfortable with.

Though R is in North Carolina and I’m in New York, we’ve maintained a close friendship – often sharing every intimate detail of our personal lives with one another, no barrier too gruesome or risqué to cross. And since both of us are rather open, our conversations tend to be a tad dramatic and almost always wildly entertaining. Since she’s been with the Sex Buddy, I’ve received phone calls and text messages, asking for advice and describing her romps.

But this morning, the chat I received was less about hanky-panky, and more about something far more intense than any hard-on or sexual dilemma: feelings. She claimed she almost hyperventilated before they spent the night together because she realized she was starting to like him, as opposed to just liking his down under action.

Maybe When Harry Met Sally’s assumption that men and women can never truly be friends is accurate or maybe it’s another indication that sex messes up even the most nonchalant courtships, or maybe it’s a truth that dates way past either of the aforementioned: it is scary to care.

There’s always that turning point in a could-be relationship where ends stop being loosely tied and emotions connect on a level that neither can prepare for. There is a period where you can place your heart on hold and enjoy the moment, until those moments increase, along with tension and the need to let your heart off the hook, and onto your sleeve. And that’s when brevity turns into the hope of longevity; and defining what you have or what you’re working toward starts to take over those crazy-girl parts of your brain, and thus, you find yourself hyperventilating while texting your friend.

Because when feelings develop, fears and questions come along with them: what if he doesn’t feel the same way? What if I get my heart broken? What if this is all too-good-to-be-true? How does he view me? What if he cares more and I end up breaking his heart? Is he seeing other people? Do I care if he’s seeing other people? Does he care if I am? What are we????

I don’t want to count how many times I’ve entertained these thoughts with different men at different points in our pseudo-relationships. I’ve laid in the arms of guys as they play on their Blackberrys, wondering if they were texting the girl they’d share the same bed with the following night. I’ve put off “The Talk” in hopes eventually the dude would beg me to be his forever and ever, and I’d never have to have a proper conversation defining what we were doing and what we were. I’ve held everything I felt, especially what I didn’t want to feel, inside for so long that without a notice, in the middle of a sunny, beautiful July afternoon, I inappropriately exploded a fury of frustration over Cobb salads and sangria.

And that’s the worse part about being scared to care – if you don’t let yourself do it, you’ll end up scaring the person you care about away. Or worse yet, scaring yourself so badly that you never end up caring in the capacity you’re capable of or that you deserve.

There is no denying that falling in love and willingly giving parts of yourself to another person is terrifying. I have a theory that to truly be in love with someone, you have to be not only brave, but be a tad crazy, too. No rational, independent person would place their trust, their heart, and perhaps their life and future in the hands of someone who has no tangible obligation to stick through the thick-and-the-thin with you. Being vulnerable isn’t a pleasant feeling, but if you can get through the initial pang that your heart could be ripped out of your chest – you’ll find something equally scary but comforting too. Or at least it tends to be comforting for me, anyway.

When you do put yourself out there, when you do allow feelings to grow, become stronger and more connected; when you give away pieces of your soul and place work into a relationship when it faces conflict, and when you take a chance on love – you don’t know if it will work out. You can’t predict and you can’t place your bests in a space where safety is guaranteed – but you can place a wager on yourself.

And if history does repeat itself, the fact of the matter is that even if you’re scared to care – you’ve been scared to care before. Even if you deeply in love and you notice how perfectly you match with someone else – you’ve felt that way before. And even if whatever you hoped for doesn’t come to be – you’ve been let down before, too.

So you overcome the fear. You fall in love. You revel in the magic. And if you have to, you overcome the heartbreak. Because no matter how scary it is to care, it is even scarier to never care again because you’re afraid of doing something…you’ve already done.

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The Love She Needed

She was 24-years-old, just out of a relationship that dragged her down for far too long, and months away from starting flight attendant school when she met him. At some smoky bar in the Smokey Mountains of North Carolina, he stood in all white, his top unbuttoned, and her in a black jumpsuit I wish she would have kept from the 80’s so I could wear it now. It was love at first sight in every cliche sense of the saying for him, and she couldn’t have been less turned on.

She thought he was arrogant and a damn Yankee and she didn’t want to go out with him. He pursued her for six months before she finally gave in and four months later, they were married. I guess when you know, you just know – but for my mother, knowing has been a gradual process that’s often sneaked up on her.

Especially when it came time for me to arrive in the world, three weeks early, at 6 pounds, 1 ounce, and the same big blue eyes I have today.

She calls herself the “reluctant mother” -always hesitant of every move she made in fear she would somehow damage me or not live up to the parent she wanted to be. Though she grew up with three little brothers and a big sister, she didn’t develop an interest in having children and she wasn’t a natural around them. At her baby shower, she had no idea what a receiving blanket was and when I was born, her sister and mother stayed with her for over a week to teach her the basics of baby-ing.

Up until I was six months old, she was convinced I didn’t like her and that I preferred my father’s care of hers. But then, at a department store as she was trying on shoes while keeping one hand on my belly, to make sure I was still inhaling and exhaling, I cooed at her. Startled that something was wrong, she quickly looked to see if I was okay, and she said I just smiled up at her with such a sincere love that she realized for the first time that she was a good mother and that her daughter loves her. It isn’t the only time she’s felt my love, but in more ways than one, she says I forever changed her. She needed to have me, to soften, to relax, to stop taking herself as seriously, and to realize perfection isn’t mandatory, especially in parenthood.

And as I’ve grown, I’ve realized that I need her, too.

I’ve tried to put into words dozen of time, through many blog posts, articles, and stories how I feel about my mom. If any love is profound and remarkable, it is the love I feel from my mother: it is one that’s consistent, undeniable, unconditional, and derives from a place so deeply embedded in my soul that I think I’d be lost without her. You would think writing about such a relationship would be an easy task since it is such a simple reliable sort of love – but that’s far from the case.

The bond my mother and I share is undefinable and no amount of sweet sentiments or colorful stories could give it justice. Nor could I fully describe what I see when I look at her or how painful it is to not be able to call her up for lunch or for shopping trips throughout the year.

But what I can say is that this woman, whose beauty radiates from the inside out, is my very best friend. She is the first person I call, no matter if the news is sour or sensational. When I’m upset and need to calm myself down, I silently whisper the same words she would use to soothe me. When I can’t sleep, I scratch my own head, as she would do when I would have trouble resting. When faced with a difficult decision, her advice I take the closest to heart, and while dating, I wonder what my mother would think about the man before becoming seriously invested. I tell her just about everything in my life, even those things she may not want to know the details of.

And while I’m so very thankful that I grew up in a home full of love and laughter, with a mother who sang “She Drives Me Crazy” by The Fine Young Cannibals when cleaning, I look forward to the memories my mother and I have yet to create. Like when I take a special guy home from New York to meet her. Or when I get that dream job and I hear her excitement match mine, as she’s been my greatest fan my entire life. Or when I stand in a room with all of the women I love the most and she helps me into a wedding gown. Or calling her in the middle of the night to ask her questions about my own baby and hearing my child call her “Grand Mommy”, as she’s already decided that’s what she’ll be called. And when I start to age or approach  menopause, I hope I’ll have my mother to answer my questions and assure me to keep my faith strong, stay with my husband even when I’m having crazy mood swings, and to remember how beautiful I am.

Through it all, through all these experiences, and all the years to come, there may be things I worry about and struggles I have to face. I may lose my footing and lose my balance and my heart, and I may switch directions before finding the best route. But while there may choices I make that aren’t the best or men I date that don’t deserve me or pain I face that no one can erase but me – there is one love that will never change.

Maybe that’s why it’s called a mother’s love – it is one of those rare and angelic things that we’ll never quite understand until we’re mothers ourselves. But we do get a taste of it if we’re lucky enough to see ourselves through our mom’s eyes, and if you live your life seeing yourself the way she sees you, you’ll always feel beautiful and if she can see herself through yours, she’ll feel the same.

I love you mom, I can’t wait to see you in a month!

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Happily For Now

For the volunteer group I’m part of, we recently had the group of young, budding writers create their own fairytales. As expected, the boys’ stories were ripe with fights between worlds and superheroes rescuing the day, while the girls wrote about princesses, friendships, celebrities, and falling in love.

As I’m going around to the kids, supervising and encouraging them to keep going when they get stuck, a sweet little girl in pigtails and polka-dots looked up at me and said, “Lindsay, I’m done! Look!” She had almost filled a full page in her composition notebook and because we usually encourage them to write a few pages, I told her I wanted to read it when it was finished. She replied by saying, “But, I ended it with ‘And they lived happily ever after.’ There isn’t anything else! That’s the end!”

Out of reflex and without hesitation, I bent down to her level and asked: “But what happens after they get married?” She blushed and answered: “They are happy! They have babies! That’s it!” Not willing to let another one be fooled by the delusions of forever-and-ever marital bliss, I sweetly challenged the 10 year old: “But don’t you think it is more like a beginning, not an ending? They just got married! Think of all the things they have left to do now.”

She looked at me funny and then smiled, “Well, I guess they have a party after they get married and then they have children and then those have children.” Hoping I made a little progress, I told her she should write at least five more sentences before it was time to read to the class. Looking like something was brewing upstairs, she nodded excitedly and continued to scribble. I walked around to the different tables, reading over stories, and answering questions, as all the volunteers and I attempted to keep control of 15 children who had far more energy than we do on a Friday afternoon. As I was supervising, the girl would come up and show me her progress, sentence-by-sentence. Each time I’d push her to write a little more and off she would go to squeeze in some more lines. When it was finally time to share their fairytales, she volunteered to go third and her story sounded like every other Disney-designed plot line, except for her last sentence:

“…and they all lived happily ever after, for now.”

Clapping for her and sharing unspoken sentiments, the other female volunteers and I exchanged knowing looks – this gal had it right: in today’s time, forever seems a tad suffocating and far-fetched. Doesn’t it?

But forever-and-ever-and-always as a child isn’t that scary; it is more comforting. After all, the stories we hear and the make believe we play all end when the prince drops to one knee, lovingly begs us to spend the rest of our life with him, and we say “I do.” We conclude happily ever after when we make a vow to another person, tying us to them in what we think (and hope) will be an everlasting partnership. But if we think about it – the wedding is just the start of the next segment of our lives, a chapter (or maybe the rest of the story) we’ll share with someone else. It isn’t a conclusion, it is an introductory sentence.

So why aren’t there fairytales about marriage?

About the reality of promising our loyalty and life to another person forever more? It is indeed a vast commitment that carries more weight than we understand until (or if) we get there. Why don’t we teach our children and our teenagers about what it really means to be an active, giving, and loving participant in a relationship? What it means to be a partner and what we should expect out of man? I have yet needed to be rescued from my “awful single existence” by a man in a tight-white getup, giddy-upping his way toward me – but I’ve dated some pretty incredible men. They aren’t always dreamy and they don’t come with a fortune or titles, but it has been the reality of who they are that’s turned me on the most.

I’m no expert in relationships – if I was, would I be writing this blog? – but I’ve learned a valuable lesson in the last few years that’s made me want to be less of a princess-in-waiting and more of a lady in transition: stop thinking in terms of forever and take people, especially men, as they are. Not all women but quite a few, never lose the rose-colored glasses we were handed as little girls playing house and wearing plastic sparkly crowns.

But the truth is, no man will be perfect and unless you’re Kate Middleton, he won’t be a prince either. Even when we wear the lace wedding gown and sport a diamond on our left hand, there is no promise that they will be standing next to us all of our dying days. We aren’t princesses and guys don’t hold a magical solution or power to free us from our unhappiness or our lonely nights. They are added additions that if we’re lucky, will develop our character and add a few interesting plots in our own story. They don’t make us and they aren’t the only part of our existence, and our lives don’t end if we decide to marry a special one.

They come and go, and one will come and stay, maybe forever, maybe for several years, and maybe just for a night. Regardless, the advice to take is from little Miss Polka Dot: enjoy what you have and be happy that he makes you happily ever after…

…for now.

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Sexually (and Mentally) Liberated

A few years ago, I was lying out in Sheep Meadow, alone in the company of a bathing book (trashy one you wouldn’t otherwise read), when a man on a bicycle approached me. I was underage and pretending I wasn’t with permission from a fake ID that somehow worked, though it featured a girl who was blond and green-eyed, quite the opposite of me.

Classily sipping on a mimosa out of a paper bag and ignoring the fact my chest was turning red, Mr. Bicycle jumped down, shirtless and sweaty, and asked my name. With little makeup on and even smaller concern about it, I chatted with him for half an hour or so until he claimed he had a late lunch to get to. Per his request, I slipped him my number and went about my tanning afternoon, not that interested in him but intrigued enough  hope he called.

Skip to a week later and I’m sitting across from Mr. Bicycle on our second date at a place on the lower east side that’s dimly lit and offers food that’s not only overpriced, but overcooked, too. I’m not a picky eater unless I’m paying for it, in which case I want to get the best sizzle for my steak, but since Mr. Bicycle was forking over dough for the bill, I politely downed my dinner with a smile.

Half-way through, I decided that Mr. Bicycle has potential and was someone I would agree to a third date with. We hadn’t kissed yet, but I wanted to. I wasn’t ready to have sex with him, but I figured he was pretty good and pretty blessed in that department, based off his mannerisms and his build. I didn’t know much more than the basics about him: age, background, occupation, his affinity forPeru, his dislike of Asian food. Unlike me, he actually resembles my fake ID (which I hadn’t told him is fake), eyes as green as Sheep Meadow and blond locks that fall effortlessly around his face. He also has dimples, which time and time again, seems to be a feature on a man I continuously attract.

The night was coming to a close and the city was in an unusual state for a July evening, the humidity wasn’t suffocating and the streets were not buzzing in activity or tourists. For once, New York rests and while it was the second date and Mr. Bicycle had no promise of anything really, I rest happily in the smirk that comes with a date gone well. He asked to walk me back to my apartment, to make sure I got there safely like a gentleman, and I let him. As we approached my doorway and I reached for my keys, he pulled me into him and kissed me sweetly and passionately.

It would have gone down in my book or in this blog as the best first kiss of all time, if what came next didn’t happen. After the 45-second-or-so lip lock, I smiled up at him and turned to open my door as I said, “Thank you for a great evening, Mr. Bicycle.” He stopped me, turned me around and looked me dead-in-the-eye.

“Aren’t we going to go upstairs and f***?”

Stunned and taking myself as “not that type of girl,” I immediately became offended and plainly dismissed his advance. I fidgeted with my key in a rush to get inside and away from this guy who was so inappropriate, when he asked yet another uncalled for question: “C’mon, Lindsay, aren’t you sexually liberated?” I ignored him and stepped inside ad I told him again to have a nice evening, before I ran up the many flights to my apartment, consumed with disgust.

I recently told this story to a friend and as I went about what I usually portray as an unfortunate series of events, I found myself not relaying it without as much style as I usually do or with as many convicted statements like “Can you believe he did that on a second date?” or “What a f***ing a**hole, right?”

No, instead I found myself finding the story….quite commonplace. I mean, what girl hasn’t encountered a guy who has no class attempting to get in her pants? It’s not like every man doesn’t try at least once, anyway – right? If he doesn’t, we question his orientation in a heartbeat – those poor nice guys just often don’t make the cut. While I didn’t want to sleep with Mr. Bicycle that night, had I wanted to – should I have felt bad for doing so? Was he out of line for proposing sex – perhaps. Could he have gone about about it a better way – definitely.  But is it wrong for him to act on sexual urges? Nah.

It took me a few years, a few partners, and a few earth-shattering orgasms for me to change my tune a bit. Or maybe, it took until I did what Mr. Bicycle spotted I hadn’t done yet: sexually liberated myself.  

I was never raised or taught to “wait until marriage” to have sex, though I was brought up in the church. I think my mother is more realistic and she just warned to be careful and to make sure I trusted the person I was giving a “special part of myself to.” I have always valued my private and special parts and I think thus far, I’ve been rather selective of who gets to explore them.

But I’ve also stopped judging myself for having desires. I’ve stopped holding myself back and placing rules and restrictions on myself that are based off nothing but what I think I should do or what I think is acceptable by standards I haven’t even defined.  I’m in awe of my friends who are sincerely sexually liberated -the ones who demand their sexuality to be respected and make no excuses for the lives they lead or the beds they’ve laid.

Maybe I shouldn’t be envious – maybe I should see sexual liberation as an act of opening your mind, not spreading your legs. It’s more about giving yourself permission to say (or scream) yes; it’s about trying new things without basing your decision on outside perceptions, but by what you’re comfortable with and what you want. It’s about valuing yourself as special, as you are, and deciding what special (or just foreign, tanned, and ripped) people you want to share those special spots with.

Too much emphasis is put on our numbers, who we do or don’t sleep with, and what that says about us. When in reality, all sex says about any of us is that we’re…human. There is no better sexual awakening or liberation than realizing that what you feel, what you want, and what you do is exactly what you were made to feel, to want, and to do. So feel it, want it, and do it – in whatever way makes sense to you. Because to have successful sex or successfully let yourself go to enjoy that sex – the first person you have to release…is you.