Tag Archives: Friends

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Avoiding That Girl

We all know those girls.

You know, the ones who define themselves by the men they are dating or in a relationship or sleeping with. Every single word out of their mouth or text message they type is about the Mr of the week, of the month, of the year. They are the girls who we never know as single women and wouldn’t classify as independent of self–sufficient. When we make plans to hang out with them or grab a drink or schedule a phone date, we know the majority of the conversation will be geared towards their love interest. Even worse, we also anticipate the dreaded question of “Well, are you seeing anyone yet? Geez, you’re always single, girl!”

These women are part of our core group of friends and though they may irritate us, we also love them and respect them for who they are and how they function. We know how to handle them, how to cut them off, and how to smile and nod while effectively tuning them out.

How do we master the art of dealing with such women in question? Probably through experience – because  no matter how hard we try or how much we say “we’ll never be like that”  or consciously fight against it – inevitably, at some point in our lives – we become that girl. Not perpetually and not fitting every distinctive quality, but some of our actions become similar to the exact woman we don’t really want to be.

Somehow, when we first start dating a guy or feel that click or ignite that spark – something inside of us becomes obsessed. We analyze every little thing he does. We linger on his every word. We think so far into the future that we’ve decided we’ll be the lady who would love him even if he starts to bald. We imagine how the next holiday would be with him. We save text messages, voicemails, and emails, and even if we’re not, we play hard to get in an effort to keep him around.

And of course, as we’re dragging ourselves through the dating trenches – we have to have a team of ladies to confide in. Even if they’ve never been in a related situation, we want to know their opinion. Even if they hate the guy we’re seeing, we hope to entice them to change their mind. Even if they are so fed up with us chatting it up about Mr. Dude – we keep going and going.

I never thought I would be that girl and it wasn’t really until Mr. Idea that I realized that when I like a man, he becomes the subject of most of my conversations. When he is infiltrating my heart, he also becomes a toxin in mind, making it impossible for me to come up with anything of substance other than what little foundation I’ve found with him. When I try to think of something interesting to say or a new topic – I usually try to relate a dating story of some sort into the mix. For whatever reason, people are entertained not only by love, but by the trials and the disasters that get us one step closer to “I do.” Or at least we’d like to think so, right?

Ever since I started this blog and this journey, I’ve found myself purposely attempting not to talk about men as much. When people ask who I’m dating or what I’m up to or how my life is playing out – I steer clear of the “well I went on this really terrible/amazing/ridiculous date” conversation, and dive more into non-love, non-romantic topics. However, I still have found myself detailing the newfound friendship with Mr. Unavailable, and recently, the magic that could be with Mr. Possibility (you’ll meet him soon, promise!).

But, the major difference between how I use to obsess about men and how I handle it now, is that while I may talk about someone who intrigues me, I also know when to cut myself off. When I’m knee-deep into attempting to rationalize my feelings or my actions or the kiss I shared, I’ve learned to put a stop to the polluting thoughts and make myself go down a different conversation path. And when my friends, who are ever-so supporting in all I do, ask me about Mr. Possibility or Mr. Unavailable, I will respond with an adequate answer, but I’m careful to put all chatter to bed before I let it run away from me.

And somehow, by switching gears and ensuring I don’t become that girl who I don’t want to be – I’ve found more peace in love. Because not saying it out loud or listing every action or reaction or touch or fear, makes it seem not as intense. And without that intensity, there is not that pressure, and I’m allowed to just experience dating. I don’t have to report back to my friends mid-date if it isn’t going well and if I get nervous about something, I console myself instead of including four of my closest gals. It’s not that I’m keeping them in the dark, it’s just that not everything needs to be a discussion in the light. Sometimes, men and moments are meant to be intimate.

That intimacy, after all, sure does feel pretty darn good without all the headaches of obsession.

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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 Blame Game

As I’m preparing myself to go back through all of my important relationships, I find myself spending a lot of time parked in memory lane.

Now, for some of these relationships, enough time has passed and the initial sting of the end has long been gone and relieved. For others (or really just the last), the memories are incredibly vivid and the wounds are far from healed.

Thinking back on the men who have entered and exited my life, who I’ve loved and lost or let go, I’ve tried to figure out what patterns I’m continuing and how to learn from them. While the Mr’s have varied in looks, ages, occupations, and duration by my side – the way I’ve reacted after each relationship is basically the same.

I’m an active player in The Blame Game.

Somehow, when a relationship comes to a close – regardless if I ended it, he ended it, or we ended it together, I always seem to blame myself. If only I was more attractive, he wouldn’t have left me for her. If I would have slept with him, maybe he wouldn’t have moved on so quickly to her bed. If I would have given him another chance, maybe we’d be together and it all would have worked out. If I wouldn’t have said what I said or freaked out or over analyzed, maybe we’d be in love. If I wouldn’t have been so inquisitive, maybe he wouldn’t have felt smothered, and that I was “too much.”

If only I wouldn’t blame myself for everything that went wrong.

I catch myself saying sometimes, “You’re just not good at relationships.” Which is far from the truth because I don’t really think someone can be “good” at relationships, nor can they succeed or fail. Love isn’t like a test, a career, or a goal to reach –but more so, just something that naturally progresses in your life. Technically, no one is “good” at relationships until they find their person, but even then, it is not all smooth sailing, rainbows, wishes, and butterflies. Truth be told, relationships are work. Being a pro at them would mean you’re unaffected by arguments or struggles, and that’s not really a healthy union in the first place.

As hard as it is to not feel guilty for the end of a relationship, there is never a one-hundred-and-ten-percent person to blame for why things fall apart. To say you have no part or complete part is not giving the relationship or the love the credit it deserves. And, it is selling yourself way too short.

My mother has told me for many years, so eloquently, “You can’t screw up what’s meant to be, Linds.” While those words may not seem like much, they have comforted me in many dark hours, hysterical fits, and analytical trances. One of my favorite books is The Alchemist and in it, there is a line that says something along the lines of: when you’re truly meant for something, whatever it is, the universe aligns to make it happen.

So really, regardless of why a relationship went astray, who made a mistake, who fell out of love, or what argument caused the last straw to break the relationship’s backbone – all is working out just as it should. Even if we think someone is The One and for whatever reason, fate decides to craft a new plan; we can rest assured that something better is in store for us.

A lot of my recovery is based on speaking differently to myself and thinking more realistically and positively about old (and to-be) loves. Instead of blaming myself for the end of my significant relationships – I’ve discovered that turning around the approach can help tremendously.

Mr Curls broke my heart in the seventh grade, but I moved on just fine. Mr Faithful had my heart for three years, but after quite the epidemic, I learned to completely let go. Mr Rebound served his purpose and introduced me to college, but we’re able to be friends now with ease. Mr Buddy and I went down a path we probably should have steered clear of, but now we talk almost daily. Mr Fire may be the one who got away, but there is a passion (that doesn’t upset me anymore) that’ll remain…probably forever. And as for Mr Idea, though I may have sincerely fallen in love with him, what I learned was more important than our romance.

So who’s to blame? A little bit of them, a little bit of me, and a whole lot of fate.