Tag Archives: faith

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This is Your Life

Right now, in this fleeting second, as you read this blog and drink your morning coffee and wish for the weekend to return, you’re living. You’re breathing and thinking, worrying and wishing, dreaming and desiring, imagining and realizing — all at the same time, without trying, without considering. Your thoughts are spiraling and vivid, wild and without condition — and here, in this short time that it’s taken you to click this link and read this paragraph, you have existed.

This is your life.

On Saturday night when you put on that tight blue dress that hugs in places you want to be hugged, with a scarf to hide your tan lines and with the summery-smooth taste of a Blue Moon to hide your hesitations, you danced. You let yourself be awkward and offbeat, you shook and you smiled at the man in the checkered shirt with just a little bit of chest hair peeking at the top. You let him kiss you and maybe — well, definitely — you kissed him back. You felt the music float you through the night, the sweet words of lyrics dated fifty years ago that you still believe in, carry your hopes high again. You twirled with your friends as you did when you were a little girl, and even though you’re not as carefree and naive as you used to be, for those few hours that poured past midnight, you enjoyed yourself. You didn’t worry about being called the next day or being interested enough past a few free drinks or a dip in the middle of a crowded bar in the West Village. Instead, you just went with it. You accepted that…

This is your life.

Last week when you watched the 200+ emails pile in your inbox over the weekend, you carefully pined through them all, giving responses when needed, happily deleting the rest. You felt the rush and the push of news, relishing that you get paid to pen, paid to delegate, paid to express your creativity every single hour of every single day. You thought of those pages behind you, those stories you wrote and you published, including the ones you cared about and ones you can’t remember enough about to Google. You looked at your byline and considered your business card, the one you worked so hard to achieve (and figure out how to order) and though you might not know what’s next — or really what you even want to be next — you took pride that this 9-6er that’s never actually 9-6, is your reality. It’s the means of your existence and that thing you needed so badly to seek. This, this career that’s every bit as intriguing as it’s demanding…

This is your life.

The past few months as you’ve watched your friends pair up and shack up, lose and find new loves, question everything and value it all — you’ve wondered what you’re doing wrong. You’ve felt the anxiety that only comes from possibility, of something unplanned and scary, and yet, so exhilarating. You’ve seen — and felt — the ups and the downs, and tried desperately to not be desperate, but more importantly, jealous of the happy, smiling, coupled faces on Facebook. Or the new addresses that come with two names instead of one. You’ve tried to not resent the apartment that keeps you safe that’s often covered in the dust of the past and the dog fur of the present, even if you dream of a little place of your own that your little wallet can’t currently sustain. Instead of closing your eyes to paint what the next three or five or ten years will be, you’ve tried to open — and full-heartedly embrace that…

This is your life.

This body, that skin, those eyes, those runner’s legs and that big ol’ booty – they all belong to you. They’re parts of your whole and part of what makes you beautiful, though what exudes from inside will always attract more than anything else. This body, that’s full of flaws and scars, curves and freckles, it’s imperfectly perfect in a way that was designed just for you, just in a way that makes you radiate. You might not have the whitest teeth, the flattest stomach or stand the tallest in the crowd, but you’re proud. You work hard to keep your head held high and your weight at a comfortable rate that’s fit for you. That’s good for you. You take care of this body — mostly, anyway — that one day will do way more than turn heads or get you from uptown to downtown on a hot, humid summer day. This body will make and deliver babies, it’ll stretch and it’ll grow wider than smaller, it’ll sag and it’ll wrinkle, but it’ll always be yours. It’ll be part of how the world sees you, it’s bare reminders of what you’ve been through so that you remember that…

This is your life.

This, right this very moment, is your life. And you’re wasting it. You’re wasting these moments worrying and fretting, drowning and  holding on way too tight. Beating yourself up over the ways you don’t fit in or you’re not on the right track. How you’re single and don’t want to be, when you’re texting your ex and you’re trying so hard to lose five pounds that you’re missing everything. You’re not seeing any of it. You’re not experiencing any of it.

In all of it’s beauty, to the depths of it’s spirit and the harshness of the bad and the confusing. This life that’s everything and nothing like you expected and will continue to move and to change, to bloom and to crumble all around you, all the time, every single day, for so many years to come. So many memories that you haven’t made yet, so many people you’ve yet to meet. Or fall in love with. Or have to let go of. This is your life and it’s worth more than anything you face or all the scary parts you’ll have to overcome. Especially the ones when you’re having to get over yourself. Because before you can have all of those things that are undeniably yours, all of the things that you want so badly you can squeeze your eyes so tight and barely see them, you have to accept that this.

This is your life. And it’s just getting started.

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I Don’t Have My Shit Together

Staring down at my hands, thinking about the scar on my right thumb and the pinky finger nail that always outgrows the rest, I did anything and everything to distract myself from the conversation I was about to have. I needed to be tough. I wanted to keep my happy face securely stretched wide and open to conceal any doubt or bitterness I felt. If I kept smiling and willing myself to believe that I was satisfied, that I was indeed fulfilled and secure, then it would actually be more than a painted grin by my friends at Cover Girl.

But J saw right through it. As she usually does.

We ordered wine and I had an appetizer — always one to suffocate discomfort with salty and crunchy foods. Though I’ve grown so close to her in such a short matter of time, I didn’t know just how much I could share or how much would be too much for a friendship that was still blooming. After a few sips of Chardonnay that I secretly wished was Cabernet, she gave me the eyebrow raising cue to start talking. And as if the floodgates had been tightly sealed and protected against a barrier of makeup, glitz and teeth whitening for a very long time, I felt them crumble away. Not bit by bit or piece by piece but in one transformative release, letting out everything I felt, all that I feared, and the words sat out there, dangling on the edge of a turning point, waiting to be realized, hoping to be accepted.

I sputtered out each messy thought, every last fear and the growing pile of frustrations that I’m frustrated I feel. I let it all spew out as I let myself go, feeling the tears splashing angrily down my cheek and crashing on my lips, reminding me that if I’m still feeling this much – no matter how bad it is – I’m still alive. Pain and well, being honest and vulnerable, makes you feel just how human you are. Once I finished, I embraced the sense of relief and emptiness that came with it. I had said everything and here I was, wondering if I was the only 25-year-old gal in New York to be a walking disaster of indecision.

And then she said the one thing — the only thing — that could make me feel at peace and better about my current predicament.

“Linds, everyone feels that way,” she slipped out the reassurance in a casual, endearing way, making sure to keep eye contact while grinning a knowing look that eased my embarrassment. “The truth is, no one has their shit together, even if we act like we do. The grass is always greener somewhere else. Someone else always seems better off.”

Here I was in Chelsea, at a fine lounge (that I used to go to all the time with Mr. P), crying my eyes out because J was right — I didn’t  and still don’t, have my shit together. Excuse the language, but J picked the best words anyone could –and depicted it in the most accurate way.

I could talk about how I have many luxuries and privileges that so many do not because that’s also true. I don’t struggle to make rent and I luckily love the job I have. I’m healthy and vibrant, settled into an existence that doesn’t really have too many physical, actual pitfalls — but there’s something about this age that is infuriating. Something about being a mid-20-something that makes everything and nothing feel good and bad all in the same breath, all at the same time, all in one sweeping emotion that can overtake you with anxiety if you let it.

I’m somewhere in between college and turning 30, letting go if the love I enjoyed at 22 to find the man I’ll spend the rest of my life with. I’m not quite secure in the city I love, not yet able to afford to live alone, not sure if my next move will be alone or with a roommate or a boyfriend. I don’t know what the next five years will bring, and if the past few are any indication of just how silly predictions are, then well, I’m really in for a shocker.

But even if I feel older than I really am, placing myself under more pressure than anyone else, I feel like I should have it figured out by now.

I feel like I should know what my next career move is or at least have a plan. I shouldn’t rule out short guys or unemployed men or balding guys. I should be more realistic and possibly less picky about the men I date or I’m going to end up alone. And if that’s the case, I need to figure out how to be okay with that. On that note – I need to understand what it means to settle and if I’m settling in any aspect of my life. Or if I’m expecting too much? I really should save more money. I should drink less and pay more attention to my diet. I need to plan out meals and stick to a budget. I should understand my 401K, the effects of my birth control on my body and go to the dentist every six months. I should mange my time and spend equal times with friends, and never ever put guys before girls. I shouldn’t compare myself to others and I should not cry during cheesy romantic comedies that by now, shouldn’t get to me anymore. I shouldn’t get anxious or upset over the small things or the big things or anything – I should be more mature. I should keep a workout schedule and have all the children I’m supposed to have by a certain age. I should figure out what that age is and start preparing for it. I should save up everything I can so I can move apartments and pay more in rent, but feel more at home. I should get an expensive dog walker so I stop worrying about my puppy being alone too much. I shouldn’t talk about having a pet on a date because that’s too intimidating, it screams that I have too much responsibility. It says I’m not spontaneous and sexy and fun. I should not spend so much money on clothes or drinks or trips and instead, invest in my future.

I should have my shit together.

But as I put on a should-show in front of J, she should-ed me right back. She’s in a happy, loving relationship. She has an equally great job. She lives in a lovely apartment with two lovely felines, and yet, even as she has some of the things that I want – like a wonderful man to come home to – she has the same feelings I do. The same shoulds. And so does my friend M. My other friend J. And K and practically everyone else I know who is stuck in their mid-twenties, and early 30s even, figuring out what the hell is next. And getting over what should be next.

It’s easy before you reach adulthood to know what’s coming because it’s all mapped out before you – after middle school comes high school, after high school you go to college. During college you have internships that lead to jobs. Then maybe you go to graduate school and then you land in a new city with a brand new job, and then you…

…you start living your life. You start having so many experiences… and just as many mistakes. You give up on figuring everything out.

And if you’re smart and lucky enough to catch it early on, you realize that the most important part about having your shit together is accepting that you might never get there. And more importantly, you might not want to after awhile. Sure, at times you’re more balanced than at others. Some weeks are happier, while others are busier and more expensive. Sometimes you feel like you’ve accomplished the world and on some mornings, getting out of bed is enough. There are no shoulds to life or no magical prescription to take away your worries or your uncertainties about the future. The future, instead, is always this ominous, illustrative idea that’s far-fetched and seemingly impossible when you’re standing in the present. But you’ll get there. It’ll work itself out. You don’t have to should your life away to make all the things that will happen, actually happen.

The life you’re meant to live will work itself out… even if you don’t do the right things or follow the right timeline. Even if you make every wrong decision you can possibly make. Even if it doesn’t turn out how you think it will or in the ways your friend’s paths take shape. Because having your shit together is a nice idea, but it’s not half as fun as living a full, complicated, beautiful, messy and passionate life… that’s probably full of shit – but still pretty fantastic.

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I Know Better

The second I saw him, I knew this night was a waste of a brand new dress from Urban.

I really did know better. I really had been here before. This, actually was precisely the reason I stopped going on online dates. It was why I deleted all of those accounts. I had met too many people who seemed like Mr. Everything on paper, er, on screen, only to spend five minutes before searching for the closest exit. But after a few months of duds met in real life, not the digital romantic playground, I decided to give it another go, let myself give clicking yet another chance to help me find someone I just might click with.

But again, I knew better. I knew how this likely would play out. And I was right.

We had spent the last few days texting up a storm. He seemed interesting enough– educated, tall, from the Midwest, new to the city, likes running and has a dog. He remembered to follow up and was somewhat funny, at least iPhone to iPhone. He suggested margaritas on Friday night near our respective apartments, and I didn’t need much convincing. It was raining when I arrived, appropriately five minutes late, and I saw him standing with an umbrella.

He wasn’t six foot. My shoulders were wider than his. He couldn’t make eye contact and didn’t hold the door open for me. He isn’t actually living in the city, but interning. He couldn’t hold a conversation longer than I could exhale out of nothing more than utter frustration. He didn’t ask about what I did or what I like to do, or anything at all, frankly. He kept talking about how he likes to get drunk, whipped through his drink in a hot second, and I quickly came up with an excuse to leave. As I walked back to the restroom, I stopped the waitress to ask for our check and something in my step, or maybe my tightly-sealed pursed lips, made her sense something wasn’t quite right. With a thick Queens accent she asked if everything was okay and I jokingly whispered that yes, except that I was on the worst date in a very long time.

She laughed as she offered, “I’ve been there. I’ll bring you a shot, on the house.” When I returned to my seat, there was a tequila and lime waiting. Without explaining to the terrible date, I took it down in one swift swoop, and I left that heaven-sent waitress a 35 percent tip in return.

After awkwardly leaving my date (without physically running away), I stopped at a place on my block for a drink. It wasn’t even 10:30 at night, and feeling ten years older than what I really was, I decided having an extra pint would satisfy my FOMO. Or at least, drown it. Plus this particular bar attracts a younger crowd that’s not common to the Upper West, and I wasn’t about to waste flawless makeup and a sexy dress on that pitiful example of a date. Maybe at the very least, I thought, I’d flirt with a stranger and feel like the night meant something after all. The only place at the busy bar was smack dab in front of the tab, smushed between two couples and looking over the discarded plates of naked chicken wings and leftovers of spinach and artichoke dip that someone didn’t finish. I took a deep breath and said my P’s and Q’s to sandwich myself in between, and as if I was a regular, I asked for their signature pilsner.

I really did try my best to salvage whatever night I had by looking interested in the game that was on. Or smiling at the very few men that were without women — and without wedding rings — at the establishment. I tried to look away from my phone, even as it lit up with words of encouragement and frowny faces from my friends about my no-good, terrible date. But with a little more than a gulp to go, I grew tired of the woman to my right throwing her hair in my face as she laughed at jokes that weren’t amusing, and the duo to my left who seriously couldn’t keep their eyes or tongues off of one another. I gave the scantily dressed bartender a dollar and headed — okay, hurried — to the sanctuary of my apartment.

And though I write about relationships and I’m generally level-headed and somewhat realistic about the dating scene in this city, the flood of disappointment, of frustration, of total annoyance came over me the second I was finally alone in that elevator, heading up to the 7th floor. I melted onto my bedroom floor, not even taking off my high-wedged heels, not even turning the air conditioner up in a scorching tiny space that’s only bearable because of the low setting I maintain for Lucy while I’m away. She jumped into my lap and cuddled herself around my arms, as she usually does, and with that first warm embrace all night, I let myself cry.

Just a little.

I let myself spiral around the tornado of  what if’s and the waves of jealousy over my friends, who spent their Fridays at concerts and beaches and double- dates and dinners with men that they not only love but men who undeniably love them back. I let myself curse that stupid bus where I met the last stupid guy I cared for, and somehow, I’m stupidly still affected by the aftermath of our breakup. I let myself mull over the fact that it’s been two years since I broke up with that guy, and two years since I’ve given a second-thought to or had butterflies with anyone else. I let myself consider what my life would look like or how it would feel if I was in fact, single and never married, never had  children. I let myself believe that I could muster up the courage to find a way to be happy flying solo, forever.

And then I let myself dream about that gentle, safe harbor that I often imagine when I’m feeling desperate, it’s my happy place where that handsome man, whoever he is, lives with our blue-eyed children in a brick estate with a thick, green lawn, where plastic-y toys, tiny shoes and love are spread about the house. I let myself shed that black cloak of professionalism and realism that I wear in the city that doesn’t value romance or blush-colored ideas about love —  because focusing on bigger, worldly issues is respected much higher than matters of the heart. Or of emotion. I let myself think about the things that a girl my age is far too young to think about when I have so much living, so much life ahead of me. I let myself let go of those fears that being happy in a relationship isn’t possible or that relationship is so far away that I shouldn’t waste time worrying about it now. I let myself believe that my next great love — possibly even the love — is actually much closer than what I predict. I let myself let it all go as I let myself fall apart…

Just a little.

And then I picked myself up off the floor and washed my face. I buried myself in my new white down comforter that I’m brave to buy with a dog. I settled into the stillness of the night, the quiet that’s so rare in Manhattan. I looked outside at the building tops that I’ve grown accustomed to, and I spread myself out in my Queen oasis that I’ve become comfortable sleeping alone in, often in the dead-center of the bed. And though I know better, I decided that tomorrow was another day. And the day after it, another chance. Perhaps the one that follows, another man. And even if I know better than to believe in love after so many signs pointing to never-happily-ever, I’d rather have faith in what I don’t know than in the thoughts that bring me to the harshness of a hardwood floor on a Friday night.

I do know better, but I don’t know enough to give up.

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The Five Year Scam

As part of our final grade my senior year in high school, my English teacher had us write a five-and ten-year plan for how we envisioned our future life. Already quite deep into my love affair for this sparkling city, my cinco-de viva plan (or however you say that in Spanish?) — for 22 — went something like this:

Living in a luxury apartment in the heart of midtown, hustling and bustling with the best of ’em. Working as an editor at a big magazine, going to fancy parties and wearing fancy things, but writing about important topics — other than accessories and blow jobs. Dating a handsome man who would fall magically in love with me and propose at the top of the Empire State building.

What my life actually looked like at 22:

Living in a rundown brownstone that consistently reeked of reefer, sharing a communal bathroom with strangers. In, um, Harlem (but told my parents it was the Upper West Side so they could sleep at night). Working at a small trade business magazine, writing about tax benefits, sales, marketing and entrepreneurial success stories. My paycheck didn’t afford fancy things and my title didn’t offer fancy parties, but I did master the fine art of making Ramen delicacies. I started this blog a day past the big 2-2, and started my tumultuous relationship with Mr Unavailable/Possibility a month later.

Funny how things don’t really go according to plan, right?

As I (gulp) approach my 10 year out of that Southern high school and my (gulp) five year out of college, I find myself thinking about how I once pictured my life and how it really is, and maybe more interesting, how much of what I thought I wanted at this age, I don’t anymore.

I can blame it a little on conforming to the ways of the city that never sleeps, of how it tricks you into seeing endless options for as far as you see skyscrapers radiating in the distance. The city makes you believe in anything you set out to do, anyone you hope to find and any chance you dare to take. It doesn’t swallow you up for giving something a shot, instead it encourages you to take another leap, have another date, spend a little more money, buy that plane ticket, try something new again.

And so I have been.

I’ve been busy learning and soaking up just about as much as I can from my job. I’m coming up with excuses and finding opportunities to travel. I’m signing up for races I’m not convinced I should run, but fully dedicated to trying. I’m dating when it feels right and stopping when it doesn’t. I’m coming and going, quickly and slowly, just as I want, just as the mood strikes, just how it should have always been.

Because five year plans never turn out in the sweet little ways you think they will. Your illusions of how things are supposed to work out are just that, illusions. They are beautiful pictures crafted with the best-intentioned hand, but ripe with ideas of what life looks like, not what it actually feels like. Not what it actually means to live.

Because living doesn’t include plans and it doesn’t go on a pre-determined schedule or a course or events. It doesn’t follow rules and it refuses to make them. It doesn’t fit into a box of certain size or fit itself underneath a sweetly tied bow.

Instead, it surprises you.

Your five and ten year plan seem silly in comparison to your actual existence. What you dreamt for yourself still rhymes in the some sort of way, but those plans feels more like a scam. If everything worked out just as we hoped, just as we mapped it out, we would miss all the fun. All the good stuff. All the anger, the disappointment, the fear, the love, the passion, the struggle, the conquering, the battle, the success, the failure, the romance, the roughness. The shine after it all.

You’d miss the best parts of your 20-something years.

Especially the part where you look back on your life and those choices you made, out of spite, out of intrigue, and you find yourself smiling at the experience. Thankful you didn’t always pick the easiest road, but the one that seemed the best, and maybe the hardest, at the time. You would miss the part where something hits you — probably in the middle of an ordinary day — and you realize that blueprint doesn’t fit you anymore.

And that no plan really does at all. Maybe it never did to begin with.

Because finally, after fighting the should-be’s and the could-be’s and the supposed-to’s and all the pressuring words that did nothing but haunt you, you have found yourself released from the language. You’ve found yourself free from the scam — I mean, the plan — and happily ever after without a clue of what’s next.

And you know — or at the very least, you hope — it’s going to work out in a way that no pencil, no high school paper, no fortune teller, no anyone or anything could have ever predicted.

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Don’t Forget How to Dream

“Wouldn’t it be something if this time next year, we were sitting here with your boyfriend?” My sweet Southern mother said while sipping on Perrier in Central Park on Memorial Day. It’s our tradition — and my Mother’s Day gift — to fly her up for the long holiday for some always-needed girl time.

“It would be nice, but if not, we’ll find something better to do. I’m not waiting around for a man, especially when there is never a guarantee of one coming or even sticking around once he’s here,” I said, stuffing pastrami and cheddar cheese bites into my mouth. “I don’t need to have a boyfriend next year or the year after or whatever. I’m just fine, just single.”

Lucy tilted her head at me like she does when I’m singing loudly in the morning and my mom copied her expression as she replied, “Well yeah, of course you’ll be fine. And happy, I’m sure. But you’re dating because you want to meet someone, not just to kill time, am I right?” Annoyed at her ridiculous ability to be right about everything, I snapped back at her with a long monologue about how I finally found peace with being single and I didn’t want to talk about what might be or what could be or what will be or what I want or what I hope for.

“…if I think about and imagine a relationship, it’ll never live up to my expectations and most dates… well, all dates currently, are just disappointing. And I don’t want to be disappointed anymore, so I have decided to not think about it,” I finished, feeling like I conquered a non-existent argument. My mom took off her sunglasses and rested her hand on my knee and asked:

“When did you stop being such a dreamer, Linds? Did you forget how to dream?”

Though she left a week ago, I find myself asking that same question over and over again, trying to decode just when I stopped entertaining fantasies in my head — and why exactly I deemed them unhealthy. She knows me very well — probably better than anyone else — so it’s not a surprise that she can spend five days in my New York life and instantly decode the weak spots that I try to gloss over. We spent the holiday walking about town, getting caught in the rain, dancing at Irish pubs, singing karaoke and having deep conversations about soul searching and dealing with change as we caught trains throughout this big ‘ol town. And somehow, without trying at all, my mom can see through every facade and great illusion I try to weave, and see exactly what’s wrong.

And well, articulate it in ways I haven’t been able to until now. In the last almost two years, I’ve focused so much on living that I’ve stopped dreaming.

Oddly enough, that was kind of the point of this blog from the get-go: I wanted to learn how to love myself with or without a man, and ultimately, figure out how to live in today instead of worrying so much about tomorrow. But somewhere along this passage to single-and-lovin’-it, I lost track of the lady who loved to dream. She may not be too far away — if you look at my current bedroom walls, you’ll see a map circled with places I want to go, photographs bought at pop-up street fairs of couples happily in love, clip-outs of homes and apartments that are so expensive I lose track of the zeroes, and quotes that continually lift me up when I feel myself slipping away.

But when it comes to talking about the love I haven’t felt yet or the man I haven’t met or the post-Mr. Possibility relationship I’ve yet to have, I’ve been trying so hard to be so strong about it all, that I haven’t let myself believe — even for a second — that maybe, love is actually on the way. Actually someday soon, even.

Instead, I’ve been protecting my heart and well, my mind from failure. From getting my hopes up so high that they have no place to go but crashing down. From getting excited about a third date because in this city, it usually means nothing. From thinking — and beautifully, wishfully dreaming about the life I hope to have ten years from now.

Or even one year from now.

Today, as I cleaned out my bookshelf, I stumbled across a postcard from an old friend that read: “Take time to dream.” Unable to wrap my head around the coincidence, I sat down on the floor, in the middle of the pile of books and papers and just cried.

It wasn’t out of desperation or longing. It wasn’t even out of sadness. I cried for the younger, the less street smart, the less experienced me that used to doodle about things she wanted. The me that cut pictures out of magazines because one day I’d work for one and one day I’d have everything that I read about on those pages.

And maybe that’s why I’m a little scared to dream now. I do have most of what I ever wanted: an incredible job that’s challenging and entertaining. A safe, comfortable place to live in the city that’s always held my heart. A group of dynamic and funny friends that keep me sane, regardless if they’re a subway stop or a plane ride away. A sweet puppy who never lets me end my day upset or feeilng unloved. A healthy body that looks great in red.

So the thing left to dream about is… love.

Or about the ways my career will change and grow over the next few years. Or about the NYC addresses that I’ll write on envelopes but haven’t walked past yet. Or the people who will change my life that I haven’t met. Or the races I’ll run or the stamps I’ll have on my passport.

Or maybe — if I really dare myself to dream — perhaps, I’ll live with a tall, handsome, successful and kind husband in a great Upper West Side apartment, be a best-selling novelist who is able to travel and able to remind herself that it’s only with imagining that anything can ever happen.

I’ve always dreamed about many impossible things, and many of those so-called silly ideas have come true. So why should I forget how to dream now? How can I forget to dream when my dreams have always been the start of everything that’s ever meant anything to me?