Tag Archives: Fashion

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Louie Doesn’t Lead the Way

While the last few weeks have been absolutely amazing and overall, very positive – they have also been quite stressful. We’re approaching the close at the mag, my next-door neighbor (and great friend) is moving back to the countryside, and a few opportunities have me biting my nails in anticipation.

And on top of all of it – it’s that inevitable time when bloating and breaking out are the norm.

So, on Tuesday, as I entered the subway, my hair frizzed up due to the rainstorm, my arms tired from carrying my gym bag, purse, and work to bring home with me – you could say I was a little annoyed. Even though I didn’t technically have to go to the gym (we never are forced, ya know?) – I knew running would help me release stress and I’d feel so much better about the spinach pasta I was anticipating making later.

When the 1 train arrived, I waited for all of the people to exit and then quickly boarded to catch a seat because standing up for 12 stops isn’t fun in four-inch stiletto heeled-boots. I sat down and started to read over an interview I was writing the story for in the December/January issue, and as I usually do, my attention inevitably turns towards the characters on the train. This is especially when I’m not in the greatest of moods. People watching, even as silly and stalkerish as it may seem, gives me inspiration and food-for-thought. This time was no different.

As I studied those around me – a homeless man, a child and her mother, an older man, a business man, a fashionista, and a sleeping woman – my eyes caught a girl, probably just a tad bit older than me in a red jacket.

She was tall and slender, with curly blonde hair, black tights, and peep-toe flats. I knew they were designer, but couldn’t pin-point which one (not a gift of mine). Her skin was beautifully flawless with just the hint of natural coloring and her silk sweater dress hugged her in all the right places. I’m as straight as a gal gets, but she was sincerely beautiful.

While I was watching her, I started comparing myself to her. I immediately thought: She has better hair. Prettier skin. Nicer clothes. She’s more cool and collected. She looks more like she belongs here than I do. She probably has a fabulous job or doesn’t work at all. And look, she’s married. She’s probably madly in love too, and never had to go through a self-made 12-step program to be happyily single and love herself. She’s probably already in love with herself – I mean, who wouldn’t be? Every man in this train is probably one flip-of-her-hair away from drooling.

Now, part of the path to self-love is shaping the language I use to talk to myself. Instead of self-defeating, non-progressive words, I’ve been attempting to use encouraging phrases and boost myself up as my mother or my best friends would. But for this day, no matter how secure or happy I am about certain parts of my life, seeing the lovely lady in the red jacket made me feel down-right awful.

When the train reached my stop, I gathered my bags and started to get up, conscious of the older man with the cane to my right. I hesitated to let him get a lead and make sure he was okay, and out-of-nowhere the pretty red jacket girl shoved her way out of the subway – using her Louie Vuitton to push away those in her path.

She nearly knocked down the poor old man and when someone huffed at her, she shot back at them an incredibly rude pout, and continued walking. I followed behind her, after letting the trembling man get off, and headed towards the stairs. Not only did she use her Louie to get down the stairs ahead of everyone, but she almost sent someone fumbling down the stairs. And again, when someone said something, she acted as if everyone was else was merely a cockroach on the subway getting in her way.

I get that people in the city are notoriously rude or in way too much of a rush, but most people I’ve encountered have been nothing but kind and gracious. While they may not be friendly, they haven’t ever been as ridiculous as Ms. Red Coat. And just because I moved to the North, doesn’t mean I forgot my Southern manners – and I try to shine as an example to those around me by being courteous, forgiving, and thoughtful.

After witnessing the complete disrespect for other people by this woman, it hit me how silly it is to compare myself to someone I don’t know. No matter how sophisticated or gorgeous or put-together someone may appear – there is no way to get underneath their skin. Just by looking at me, no one would ever guess all of the things I do, the things I stand for, or the things I feel. Looks are really just that, an image sent out that isn’t necessarily true or false.

But one truth that I’m sure of – is that Louie doesn’t lead the way. Love does.

And not romantic love – but compassionate love. That love that we give to another person simply because they are a fellow human being. Because they are breathing and they are alive, they deserve the same respect and courtesy as we give to someone we love or adore. That’s a part of love addiction that doesn’t need fixing.

Even though I may dream of the day that I can afford a real-live Louie (not a Chinatown one) – a bigger part of me longs for the day when I can be rich enough to write a check to help that innocent old man on the train have a safer life, far away from impolite women in red coats.

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The Here-And-Now

I’ve only been a self-proclaimed love addict for just-shy of two months now. But as I said at the beginning, I’ve been battling with these constant thoughts and fears of “being single forever” and “not being good enough” and “men just don’t fall in love with me” for a very long time. Basically, my entire adult (ehh…and teen?) life.

I can think back to times in college (and even post-grad in some deeply-obsessive moments) when I would literally force myself not to look at my phone for allotted amounts of time. Because somehow, if I didn’t actually glance at my cell phone for say, 10 minutes, the Mr of the Week would text me back in a more timely fashion (instead of hours later or if at all). And then once he would text, I would make sure to double the amount of time it took him to respond…so I would seem aloof and unavailable. Because men want that, right?

Even if in reality, I was nervously twitching on my couch, eating chocolate pudding, and distracting myself painting my fingernails, and analyzing any possible hidden meaning between the two lines in his latest text. And if it I so desired, forwarding the text to my dearest (and supportive) friends to see if they deciphered something I didn’t.

Now, since this recovery journey started, I haven’t exactly met someone I could actually see myself with (other than Mr. Unavailable, but we all know how that story goes) – so I haven’t tested my reaction to texting conversations. However, a few changes in my habits and perceptions have noticeably changed:

Literally Busy (Not Faking It)

If I was to meet a new Mr and I did happen to swoon over him – I’m not quite sure where I would fit him into my life. And really, those longing romantic notions that I have always had, have tapered away a bit…maybe because I haven’t had the time to nourish them. In between working 40 plus hours a week at the business magazine, managing big dream-promoter, ChickSpeak, writing this blog, running daily, and attempting to have a social life –I find myself thinking sometimes: Now, why was I so obsessed with a boyfriend?

There’s no way I could fit a serious, committed relationship into this schedule – and really, I’m getting to a point where I’m almost (dare I say it?) happy to be single! I still have days when I want to cuddle or sneak a kiss or be paid a compliment – but I really feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. And for once, I’m okay with it.

Being More at Peace

I’ve never been one to think in the here-and-the-now, probably due to what I call “hyper-ambition” – but recently, I’ve noticed a shift in my thought processes. I tend to look at things with more of a practical perspective instead of an emotional one.

For example, last week I was in fact expecting a text message from Mr. Unavailable, and even though he’s not someone I want to date, he was taking longer than usual, and a little voice inside my head pleaded: “But what if you never hear from him again, then what? That would be the most awful thing on the entire planet. What would you do?” In the past, when these pestering worries would come up, I’d play into them and sincerely freak myself out. But this time, I thought, “Well, I’d be fine. I’ll still go to work tomorrow and get to have that fun girl’s night out next week. Oh, and I have that event to look forward to.” I’m learning to throw away the negativity and the obsession and turn it into optimism and reality. And in return, I’m getting out of my head and feeling more at peace with my life and myself.

Freeing from Frustrations

Of all of the things chasing a dream by myself has taught me, the most important one has been to enjoy my own company. While I never feel alone in the city (because it keeps me company just by being so alive and inviting), there are many evenings and days that I spend alone. And honestly, some of those moments are my favorite. Exploring the town is fun with a pal, but you notice more when you’re just with yourself. And instead of wishin’ and hopin’ that my hand was being held by a man, I’ve grown to enjoy it being held by a Macy’s bag or a hot apple cider, instead.

However, not putting pressure on myself to “meet someone” or “flirt with a dude” or “go out for the sake of romantic possibility” has allowed me to just…relax. I’m not afraid to spend an evening just dancing and not have one single dude buy me a drink. I’m learning not to look at a guy in some bar in some area on some (or every) night, lusting at the thought that he could be my Mr. Right. Currently, the best nights I have are spent laughing away, cherishing my youth, and if a man happens to walk in and shake up evening –then be it.

If not, I’m still ridiculously thankful to be right here, right now, just me…and the me I’m becoming. My, oh my, what’s next?

 

 

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The Love-That-Got-Away: Mr. Fire

I’ve been trying to figure out all day how to begin this post and each and every single time I sit down to start it – I find myself lost for words. As someone who was born with a pen in her hand, this is out of the ordinary.

But then again, if I really think about my relationship with Mr. Fire – being speechless seems pretty fitting.

We all have that guy in our lives. The one we meet in some peculiar way and instantly, our whole world comes crashing down around us. Each barrier we set up to keep our hearts and bodies safe is utterly destroyed, and suddenly, we’re standing there exposed and vulnerable to any and every charm this man throws our way.

Mr. Fire and I met my sophomore year of college through the student newspaper, where at the time; I was serving as Lifestyles Editor. For whatever reason, I was on a local history feature kick and was intrigued by a bagel shop that had been in my college’s town for decades. After doing the central interview, I needed an extra angle from a current student who worked part-time at the shop. The place suggested a guy whose name I couldn’t spell to save my life, but somehow finagled my way to his Facebook – and three messages later, we had an interview set up.

He snuck up on me (much like the relationship that followed) by coming in the backdoor of our office and when I saw my friend M’s eyes light up, I knew he must be somewhat attractive. I spun around in my chair, tilted my head to the side, smiled, and said, “You must be Mr. Fire.” He nodded, went into a long speech (as he usually does) – and within a few seconds, I was hooked.

He was tall. He was funny. He had character. He was active and fit. He had a large group of friends. He was open. He made me feel comfortable. He listened. He challenged me. And about a week later, I found out he was a great kisser too. Our first official date was to a concert I had press passes for and he served as my “photographer” for the evening. As we attempted to dance to the music and he wrapped his arms around me, a little glimmer of hope inside of me said, “Maybe this will actually turn into something real.”

Our courtship or relationship or whatever you call it (we never defined it) didn’t last very long, but the impact it had on me was significant. The chemistry we had was so bursting with passion, with energy, with this complete connectivity that I couldn’t deny. He finished my sentences and widened my viewpoints. He had so many of the amazing qualities that I always desired in someone. And of course, when he kissed me – the world, literally stopped. It truly enforced that some people are meant to come into your lives, regardless of how long they stay, and change you.

During the time we were together, a lot of huge things starting happening in my life, for the better and for the worse. I went to my interviews in New York and he assured me I’d have killer success, and he also managed to keep me on the phone for two hours each night I was there (a huge feat for a New Yorker-wannabe like me). Before the interview for the position I’d eventually be offered, he sent me a “Go get ‘em Tigar!” text message that I kept long after our relationship ended. He encouraged my goals and told me about the trips he’d take to see me during my summer in my most favorite place on this planet. He may have even mentioned Versace and that made me fall for him a tad bit more.

And then, my dad went through one of the most difficult periods he’s ever gone through, and even though it was Easter break, Mr. Fire spent an hour on the phone checking up on me and ensuring that I was okay, breathing, and safe. Having experienced more loss in his own life than anyone should have to endure – he knew what page I was on.

When I returned from this horrible experience, he literally drowned me in gifts, food, and attention. He chased after my legs when we snuggled on his bed and tucked me into the inevitably inviting nook we all crave, and I was surrounded completely by just him. He picked me up in his kitchen, spun me around, and told me “Don’t you worry. It will all be okay.”

And all was well and promising, until the morning it wasn’t.

I had spent the previous day at one his games (he played on a club team on campus), met his mother, and then went to a party to celebrate their victory. At the get-together, he seemed cool, distant, and unusually unaffectionate. Most of the time, he was always finding an excuse to touch me, wrap his arms around me, or steal a kiss –even in front of his friends or teammates. After one-too-many beers, we ended up back at his apartment, where in all of my 5’7”-glory (heels on, of course) – I demanded why he was acting so funny. When he failed to respond, I returned with half-rage by attempting to leave and walk home if he didn’t want to be around me. To this, he responded by scooping me up, calming me down, and making me fall asleep.

In the morning, I rolled over, looked up at him and apologized for acting ridiculous and questioning. To which, he stroked my head, kissed my forehead, and said the words no girl ever wants to hear from the man she’s falling hard for: “Linds, I think we’re moving too quickly.”

In a matter of days, everything I thought we were building together was all-but destroyed. At first, he needed space. Then he decided he could only talk to me on the phone, text message, and Facebook, but not see me in person (to which I replied: “Are you out of your mind?”). Finally, I decided we shouldn’t talk for a week so he could get his mind straight and figure out what he wanted.

And in the end, he didn’t want me. Because I was going to New York and he was staying overseas for a month over the summer – literally putting us on opposite sides of the globe – he thought it was best we didn’t explore a relationship. He also reassured me he wasn’t interested in anyone else and couldn’t (and wouldn’t) be dating anyone seriously….

…until a day later, pictures of him and another girl showed up on Facebook. And not just any girl, a girl I had been introduced to, hung out with, and he had made fun at some point. At the time, it was absolutely devastating and made me feel like the biggest fool in the entire world – but within time (like a few years), I forgave him. They are still together, nearly three years later, and seem incredibly in love, and for that, I’m happy for him (at least somewhat, anyways).

Before I graduated and moved my way to these big, bright, shining lights I love so much, we ran into each other at a neighborhood bar. We were both in serious relationships at the time, but he said he “at least owed me a beer,” and I agreed, but added, “And an explanation.” Over the course of several hours, we discussed what he felt, what went wrong, and he apologized profusely. At some point, he said, “I always regretted how I treated you, but I didn’t feel like I had something to offer you with your New York dreams. I know you’re going to go far and I don’t know how to be just a part of that.”

I’m not sure if this means he wasn’t “man” enough to step up to the plate or couldn’t handle a gal who was going places, but it does mean that we simply weren’t meant for one another. No matter how much passion, how much fire or intensity, or possibility I saw for us at one point – if someone can’t take you for who you are and love you, pride aside, they aren’t worth it.

He is an incredible man who I know will be successful in whatever he does and in whatever marriage he enters – and I hope when he thinks of our time together, he smiles. He remembers the energy. The love-that-got-away from both of us. And somewhere, down deep where we hold our most precious and sacred memories, I know that our flame of happiness and of hope that we sparked for each other – remains lit.

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And Then, I Surrendered

You would think with yesterday’s post – I would have attempted to be a little more upbeat about my appearance.

Maybe it’s the grime in New York or my hormones are all screwy or I’m PMSing, but for some reason my face keeps breaking out awful. Even worse than it has ever been in the past. I figure, I’m 22 years old, when does this preteen/teen zit-face crap stop? I mean, seriously? I go to an interview or attend a networking event and I have such a lovely red pimple on my cheek? So professional.

Ughhhh.

So of course, I wear makeup. And I’ve gotten really good at picking makeup that doesn’t look cakey, but of course, with a zit, you put more on (even though you’re not supposed to) to cover it up. End result? I feel like I’m unattractive. And thus – my confidence goes down.

I woke up Friday morning with a new sucker on the left side of my cheek. And just by the feel of it and how it is starting to sprout, I know it’s going to be a big one. Years of getting them teaches you how to prepare for them. So, already, just by looking in the mirror when I get up, I feel awful. And then, I get mad at myself for feeling this way when I know I’m trying not to with this journey.

I put on my makeup, go through the motions, and already feel oily and gross –but I put on a cute outfit and just go for it. By lunchtime, I’ve seen myself in the bathroom mirror several times (thank you, Starbucks) – and each time I find a different flaw. I quickly combat my thoughts with positive reinforcements, but it fails to make me feel prettier.

I go out to H&M to buy a new jacket (the cold weather finally got me), where I was bumped into excessively and got further annoyed. After I paid, I made my way to Guy & Gallard for their soup and half-sandwich deal that I love so much. While I was paying, this rather attractive man started chattin’ it up with the very-obnoxious girl in front of me. She had tanning-bed written all over her and she was leaving nothing up to mystery…if you know what I mean. And he was intrigued? I then felt more unattractive and stomped out of the store, nearly spilling my soup in my carry-out bag.

As I walked down the street, I noticed that no man took note of me. That’s a lie – no man I would remotely be interested in took note of me. I started to wonder, why don’t I turn heads? Is it because I wear makeup? Because I’m not hanging out? It is 50-degree weather, why would I bare-it-all? Is it because of this massive oncoming zit? Guys like natural, we all know, but what if you don’t like how you look naturally?

Again, I say: ugghhhh.

I walk up the four flights of stairs up to my office, literally stomping as hard as I can – because I can and no one is around to notice the temper-tantrum I’m throwing for myself. I even half-way punch a wall on the way up (because I can’t really punch) and then get petty with my co-worker J via IM when I sit down to eat.

And then, as I’m yelling at myself, putting myself down – I stopped.

I stopped analyzing and dissecting myself. I stopped looking at the mirror and searching for reasons to pick out flaws. I stopped getting angry because some man didn’t look at me. I stopped making myself believe that I was not worthy of attention because of a zit.

I simply said, “Lindsay, this is you. It isn’t changing. You are beautiful and if you wear makeup, you wear it. Your hair gets blown in the wind, so be it. If you get a pimple, you do. It won’t be forever. If a guy can’t take you or find you attractive when you’re having a rough breakout or it is cold outside, then screw him. You deserve much more than that. So stop it. Go rock out in your heels in the street and accept yourself, your zits, and your insecurities. You got this.”

And just like that, with that boost of momentum, I listened. The negativity slowed down, I touched up my makeup. I breathed. I carried on…

…all the way to the Flat Iron district to a double sushi-date with drinks. And I laughed, I smiled. I gave myself encouragement and I told those me-hating thoughts exactly where they could go.

Yes, ladies (and gentlemen, if you’re reading) – I surrendered.

Guess there is a first time for everything. Onto Step 4? Hmm. Let’s see.

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The (Wo)man in the Mirror

It’s because of my Moon in Scorpio, according to my mother. It’s because I don’t see how truly beautiful I really am, according to my father. It’s because I don’t pay attention to men who walk past me on the street, according to my friends. It’s because, maybe, I’m just not attractive, according to my self-defeating mentality.

Regardless of whom is right (if at all) – I’m admittedly a very jealous person. And I always compare myself to every single woman I see.

I don’t think it matters where you are – New York City or North Carolina – there will always be pretty girls. There are the girls who have the best fashion sense you could ever dream of and always seem to know what to wear now, and anticipate what to wear next. There are the girls who have kick-ass bodies and yet still eat greasy cheeseburgers and Snickers, and never go above a size 2. There are the girls who have beautiful, flawless skin with rosy cheeks that just naturally radiate without any makeup whatsoever. There are the girls who have sleek long hair that’s super soft and looks great even when it’s pouring. There are the girls who have perfectly sculpted and long, lean legs that look amazing in everything.

Now, I always think: I’m not any of these girls.

I think: I’m a petite, just-about 5’4” 20-something who still looks like a teen-something. I work out five days a week to maintain a curvy (and hopefully thin) figure. My skin is very far from flawless and I hate wearing makeup, but feel the need to do it anyways. I wish I could dress more New Yorkish, but I don’t have the money or the attitude (and I can’t give up my Southern roots). My hair isn’t frizzy, but it also doesn’t grow, and when it rains, I might as well bury myself under a hat (which I don’t own). And as for my legs, well – I do love my heels.

Now, I’m not complaining and I sincerely don’t think I’m unattractive – but I also know that I’m not perfect (and I also know those girls are not perfect either) I am an all-American girl who has flaws and things that make her lovely, too. I know my qualities and my pitfalls, and for the most part I accept them.

But, there is always this nagging little thought in the back of my head when I do walk by a girl I’m jealous of:

Why would a guy ever pick me when he can have her?

Now, with my new found confidence and overcoming love-addiction mission, I have shifted my thinking to be a little more rational. I do remind myself that looks aren’t everything, that while all humans are a tad superficial (c’mon, you know it), a pretty face or smokin’ body won’t keep someone interested forever. I do remind myself that I don’t even know these women and they could be a not-so-great-catch and just have been blessed with looks. I do remind myself that guys also look at me – and regardless if they do or if they don’t, I still know what I have to offer, and that’s all that should matter.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

It is so difficult not to compare yourself to other girls. It is so hard to not turn my head down when a more attractive woman gets on the train. It is so hard to go out with friends who you know are ten times more beautiful than you are – and if I’m being honest, it’s hard to friends with super-model-look-alikes in the first place.

Does that make me petty and ridiculous? Absolutely. Does it make me human and a typical girl who judges herself? Of course.

Certainly, I should never tell myself I’m not worthy of someone’s attention or affection. They may be able to have the other girl walking by and she may turn their head longer – but I have something that no one will ever have. And that’s me.

It is only when we officially accept who we – imperfections, beauty, and all that’s in between – that we are even close to being ready to share it with someone else.

So you, whoever you are reading this, go right now, and look in the mirror (I’m not joking), and tell yourself (out loud!) that you’re beautiful.

Because you are. Without a doubt.