Tag Archives: Health

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That Un-Loving Feeling

It was right before dawn. I could hear the birds beginning the same sweet chorus, in the same little tune, they sing to wake up each new day. The sun was peeking into the darkened room, creating stripes of honey gold across my bare arms, and enticing my eyes to greet the inviting embrace of the great outside.

Though the gradual energy of the morning sought to spring me into a tomorrow I hadn’t experienced yet, its warm simplicity didn’t interest me. I was still in the day before – or so I felt – after spending the night restless, uncomfortable, and battling thoughts I couldn’t admit to thinking. Thoughts that threatened to change what I felt was a very important part of my existence.

Even if this something was obnoxiously snoring and possibly drooling down my back. The same back that turned away from him at the end of the night, feeling emotionally broken, undesirable, and still full of anger from yet another explosive fight. In an effort to win back some of his pride and my opinion of his honor – he had wrapped himself around my body, pressing down on me with his weight, and hiding his face in my curly locks. He wanted me to feel protected, loved, and to know that he cared about me.

But all I felt was suffocated. And confused. Bitterly sad. Every bone in my body, as achy as they were from not getting the rest they deserve, wanted to spree from his arms secured around my stomach. Yet, my body was like my heart – so heavy, so hesitant, so highly conflicted, I couldn’t even turn away from the sun glaring down at me. Or wipe away the steady stream of tears trickling its way down my cheek, as I prayed he wouldn’t hear my muffled sniffles.

Hadn’t I wanted this relationship? Hadn’t I fought for it endlessly? Hadn’t I fallen in love with this man, with this person, with this 6’4″ tall drink of water, who seemed to be everything I wanted? Hadn’t I introduced him to my family, to my friends, to those parts of my soul that a few rare gems ever know? Hadn’t I agreed to be his and desired his commitments to me? Hadn’t I longed for him, for this smell, for his presence in my life, for his laughter to fill the heart wounds I was still healing?

Flooded with questions and cheeks flushed with the rush of a clarity I didn’t want to accept, I rolled over to face him. He grumbled, as he always did, to let me know it wasn’t time to get out of bed yet. I agreed with him silently and placed my fingertips on the side of his two-day four o’clock shadow and around the perimeter of his lips. He squeezed my side and pulled me closer, recognizing that I was awake and admiring him. I placed my hand along the back of his neck and nibbled his chin, as we playfully always did to one another. With his blue eyes still hiding under their lids, he gave me a sweet sleep grin, and whispered in a voice that’s just between lovers: I love you, Linds.

And in my head, I thought, “But I don’t love you. Not anymore.”

In the weeks before Mr. Idea and I parted ways, we stopped sharing love and started sharing sentiments no two people should ever say – especially ones who are supposed to be in love with one another. We knew exactly which words would dig the deepest, cut the sharpest, and last the longest. We were not so much in a battle with each other, but placed with the difficult challenge of defending our own egos, which at the time had reached godly-like stature. We couldn’t agree on anything – from what to eat for dinner to how often we had sex. We both were looking for an excuse to be the one to walk away, be the one to pull the rug out from the other person, and send them crashing into the same emotional distraught we were feeling.

Yet, after each argument, each hateful feature that spewed from his speech or mine, he always apologized. He never took responsibility, but of any weapon of mass destruction I had against him, the one that was the strongest were my tears. And those, during the end of our relationship, fell daily. And nightly.

As much as we were not getting along and as awful as our exchanges were – the person I was really battling was not Mr. Idea. It was myself. I couldn’t believe after all the time it took to finally get over Mr. Fire, to put my heart back out in the line of love again – I found myself in the same situation I experienced with Mr. Faithful.

I had fallen out of love.

I had lost my interest. I had lost that love and found that un-loving feeling. The red flags I could let slide at the beginning became too bright, too impending that if I chose to ignore them, I’d be deciding to lower my standards. What had made me ga-ga over him in the first few months had suddenly became the same qualities that made my stomach churn. I didn’t crave him. I didn’t want to make love with him. I didn’t want to touch him. I didn’t see a future with him that was happy. But I could see a tomorrow beyond the mountaintops that was beautiful and full of promise.

That vision, however, for as far as I could see, didn’t include waking up to snoring and drooling, with a man who as much as he could have tried, would have never been what I wanted.

So many times in the past, when I was lonely or hating the single title I had been sentenced to, I feared I’d never fall in love again. I’d never feel that undeniable something that you can only feel from the splendor of someone you’re crazy about. That silly rush of emotion and passion that tell us, “Yes, this could be something.” Now, I don’t question that I’ll one day meet someone who will give me all the right feelings in all the right places – but I fear how sustainable that love is.

To hell with falling in love, what about falling out of it? Is it possible – or dare I say, reasonable – to love the same person, the same way, and with the same velocity as you did from square one? I don’t think so. I think like self-love, like that relationship that will always need developing – romantic love, in its best and most everlasting form, needs to be honest about the waves of change. We can’t, after all, avoid them.

Maybe there aren’t any perfect loves, perfect people, or perfect ways of staying in or leaving a relationship. Maybe falling out of love is just as much part of the game as falling into it. And maybe, just maybe, the best thing we can ever do is admit and accept that someone isn’t right for us. Even if at one point, we swore they were Mr. Right. Even if that means we have to hit the road again, alone. Prepared for another go, another expedition to the dating trenches – another shot at finding a person that won’t only remain by our side, but we’ll want them there, too.

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I’m Female, I’m Single, I’m Human

The whole origination of this blog, the reason so many websites, organizations, and therapists make money, and why Carrie Bradshaw is a household name is due to one fact:

Being a single gal isn’t easy.

And the journey to learning to love yourself, no matter what, is one that is full of trials, complications, thoughts, changes, and mishaps. Sometimes, you get hit with responses you never considered and you have to learn to readjust and turn your direction. Often times, to find your way, you have to be willing to travel through the bumps, and the misguiding, misleading avenues that steer us to destinations we never intended to visit.

When I started writing this blog – it was never for anyone but me. I promoted through Facebook for my friends and I wanted to use it as a space for me to be completely honest, to start making better decisions about relationships, and to make a commitment to falling madly in love with myself. I had reached a point where men had literally consumed each and every single one of my thoughts, my choices, my actions, my life – and I was so exhausted of giving them energy, time, and spirit-I had to make a change. I’ve never been officially diagnosed as a “love addict” and I’m not trying to make light of those who have been – I merely coined the name and proscribed myself a healthy dose of reality.

As some readers have pointed out and perhaps even my friends – I go back and forth. Some days I’m fine and others I’m a mess. Some days I want to be hell in heels and walk away from every man that’s done me wrong or has the opportunity to hurt me. And others, I long to be wrapped up in someone’s embrace more than anything else in this big ole’ city. The comments in yesterday’s blogcaught me off guard and if I’m honest, maybe hurt my feelings a little bit. My first reaction was to defend myself and defend the purpose of the blog and of the journey – but then I took a step back.

And ya know what, I realized they’re right.

I am one quite incredibly ridiculous walking contradiction. My mood changes with the wind, along with my preferences, my tastes, and my desires. Sometimes I feel like I need a man to complete me and other times I don’t want one at all. There are days whenchildren light up my day and then they completely freak me out. Certain mornings, I wake up longing for a relationship, and some nights I go to bed totally alone and unbothered by it. I can go from crying and obsessing, to calm, cool, and collected in the same 12-hour span.

I’m not making excuses for myself, but I am human. And truth be told, I’m not a recovered “love addict” by the terms of a professional or of my own. I mean, I’m only on Step 5, actually.

I’m not an expert. I’m not the woman who has everything together and the leader of the troops for those battling the dating trenches. I don’t have a background in psychology and if anyone asks me for advice, I always say my thoughts come from experience, not from expertise. I’ve never believed that overnight or in six months’ worth of blog posts, I would ultimately be cured of each and every quality that caused me issues. I’m not a lot of things – but one thing I am…is honest.

As happy and as thankful I am that people can resonate with what I write, that it helps people – and apparently provides entertainment and mocking rituals for others – I write because it helps me. When I put it on paper, when I publish it, when I dig through my own feelings by giving them life on a page, I work through my own problems. The way I approach things and the decisions I make may not be the best ones and I could quite possibly be a Southern gal who lands facedown on Northeastern pavement – but I’m not afraid of that. I take responsibility for my choices and more importantly, I stand by the freedom to make them. If the blog and this journey has taught me a single important lesson, it’s that I have the strength, the ability, the confidence, and the will to stand alone.

And this blog isn’t about the men who cascade in my life, about Mr. Possibility, about Mr. Unavailable, or Mr. Fire– they have a space on this blog because I’m working through my past and I’m attempting to create a future that’s healthy and promising. It isn’t about those who read it, those who dislike it, or those who are recovered from obsessing about guys or those who claim they never have – it’s about me. I can’t be the voice of reason, but I can be the voice of me, Lindsay, a human, a single woman, trying to figure out what’s best for her, and allowing others a window into the life she lives.

And that life isn’t one that’s made of fairytales and I’m not (regardless if you believe it or not) searching for a Prince Charming to ride away into the sunset of Madison Avenue with. I’m not trying to be like Sex & the City (frankly, even with my high-heel obsession and desire to live in the Village, I know how unrealistic the show is. However – the dating dilemmas it portrayed are more than real – just like this blog). I’m not attempting to tell anyone how to lead their life or that they should listen to me. I’m a woman writing a personal blog and it is what it is – personal. Perhaps I get a little too gritty and maybe too intense, but I make no excuses. I’d rather be honest with myself, with all of the readers about how I feel, even if they decide not to agree. Thank you, for reality checks from time-to-time, but also know I’m not oblivious to red flags or glaring neon signs – even if I do decide to turn a cheek and test it anyways.

I’m sincerely, profoundly, aiming to love myself. I may take chances on men who quite possibly don’t deserve them and I may stumble and I may fall – but I’ll still be writing. I’ll still be learning. I hope you, whoever you are, will still continue to read. And by all means, comment.

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All of My Exes Are Closer Than Texas

I’d like to have a word with Mr. Zuckerberg.

No doubt the man will go down as one of the geniuses of my lifetime, as someone who greatly impacted the way people communicate and connect worldwide, and possibly, thanks to the movie, as a somewhat royal jackass – but sometimes, I wonder what life would be like without Facebook. For something so incredibly new – a mere seven years old – and already seem like such an important part of daily life for millions of people from Africa to Australia, is wildly impressive.

There are indefinite pros and cons to the technological revolution that makes sure connectivity is not just an option, but rather a saturation into normalcy. Do Facebook or Twitter serve as a novelty anymore – or are they officially acceptable methods of communication? Or if you’re anything like me, tools for stalking ex-boyfriends? Or those who I wish would have become boyfriends? Or both? Why is it that all of my exes aren’t far, far away in Texas, but super close on Facebook?

When Mr. Zuckerberg created Facebook, his idea was to keep people in touch -and perhaps he never thought implementing a section for “relationship” status would be as paramount as it is, but somehow, a single change or update has the power to completely make or totally break my day. And my confidence.

But worse of all, it can make me feel like every man who has ever loved me, I have loved, or was just momentarily a huge part of my life, has moved on. And here I am still stalking their Facebook.

Just from searching through the many social networks I’m signed up for, I can easily update you on the many Mr’s:

Mr. Faithful – still on the way to becoming a chiropractor, in a serious relationship with a gal I don’t know for over three years now. For Halloween, they wore matching outfits and during the many blizzards, they played outside each time. And took pictures.

Mr. Rebound – currently living in Chicago, accepted a great new job that he loves and was recently promoted to a higher position. In a relationship, though not sure for how long, with a lady who looks strikingly similiar to him. He appears to be balding, as well (she isn’t, for the record).

Mr. Fire – preparing for a move in May, seemingly still madly in love with the girl he posed in pictures with (in a hot tub, to be specific) a day after we broke things off. Still a hotshot in the sport he loves and apparently managed not to get pulled over by a cop for speeding a few weeks ago. And, both he and his Miss pulled for the Steelers last night.

Mr. Temporary– newly engaged, owns a house (wow!), and working in the school district he always dreamed he would. Looks like he recently got a puppy and has updates about what he eats, thinks, and breathes. Riveting, really.

Mr. Disappear– living in the same city and though he’s nearing the big 3-0, has yet to receive his Bachelor degree, and is in a relationship with a woman who is quite pretty. He happens to be completely bald, has a season pass to Nascar races (cringe), and hasn’t upgraded his taste in beer, so he’s still milking Bud. Ugh.

Mr. Smother – excelling in his career, residing in North Carolina, and recently started a relationship with a lovely blonde. Strangely enough, in the years that have passed since I cut things off, he hasn’t changed his profile picture. Not even once.

Mr. Fling – finishing up school after a medical bout and as charming as he is, has the ladies parading his wall constantly. I don’t blame them. And sometimes, I join them.

Mr. Idea – absoultely no idea  (no pun intended). He removed me as his friend, so thus communication paths are closed.

Central theme from the majority (minus one, actually) of these profiles? They have all entered into new relationships.

For most, the pairings are serious and they seem very happy with their new significant other, regardless of how significant I used to be in their life. A handful of them I still talk to, two or three I’d rather never speak to again, and maybe one I still wonder “what if” about. Regardless of how I feel toward these characters, I’m still connected to them and any information I want to know is at the reach of a click or a keyboard.

Well, maybe not any information, but the kind that makes me question what it means to really move on.

In an age where we’re bombarded and alerted to things we want and don’t want to know about – when can we officially say we’ve let go of any possibility, any longing, any angry or depressed sentiment, and have let the past be the past? Is it when we no longer feel the need to know what’s going on in their lives or when images of them newly in love don’t rock our hearts anymore when they show up on our feed?

For most of my exes, when we initially parted ways – I had to remove them from Facebook, block them from Gchat, delete every last email we exchanged and their phone number, stop following them on Twitter, and if we had a mutual friend that wasn’t that important to me, I’d go as far to ax them as well. I simply couldn’t bear to see the man I deeply cared about or allowed deeply in me…happy.

Or maybe not happy, but living their life without me. Okay, happily living their lives without me, while dating other people, and I was stuck being single. Because I wasn’t enthralled in the fire of a new romance or nearing happily ever after – anyone who once titillated my heart or my lovely lady parts – wasn’t allowed to be either. Because if they were in love or found someone they were interested in, that meant I hadn’t moved on and they had beat me in the mourning process. But relationships and especially the time needed to really let go of someone isn’t a competition or a race to the alter.

Or is it?

The measure of success after a relationship comes to an end isn’t determined by how quickly or easily you move from one bed, one embrace, one relationship status to another. It’s not measured by how much it hurts or doesn’t pain you to look at someone else experiencing romantic bliss sans you. Moving on isn’t defined by clicks, minutes spent stalking, or if you’re still intrigued by what’s going on in someone else’s life. Most living things are curious and if something is at your disposable or available through the world of webs, it’s natural to take a peek. If anything, it’s expected.

But instead of dwelling on the fact I’m single and dedicating an entire blog and year (or years?) to my life figuring out how to be content in my solo shoes, I’ve started asking myself a simple question:

Do I want to be that girl? Do I want to be the gal by his side? The one making out with him in a hot tub?

And that answer is even more basic than the question: no. I may not be falling head over heels, dreaming up visions of my future children, or deciding if I want chicken or fish, but I’m happy. Without a man. Without validation from another person. Without having to change my Facebook or make status updates about “my hubby” or how my boyfriend did something incredibly sweet.

Instead, my life, my Facebook, my social networks are about me. About the life I created for myself without depending on someone to build me up, boost my confidence or ensure me I could, in fact, reach my goals. I captured them just fine on my own – and frankly, wouldn’t have it any other way.

So regardless if everyone else is secure in their coupled-up oasis, for me, I know I’ve moved on, I’ve let go, I’ve released the ghosts of boyfriends-past because I don’t want to go back. Maybe more surprisingly, I’m not entirely focused on moving forward – but rather, setting my status, my updates about the things, the places, the people, the current life that means the most to me.

And that life, is just fine without someone writing on my wall, wearing matching outfits with me on Halloween, without having to fake an interest in the superbowl, without someone proposing to me, or inquiring about my whereabouts. It may be complicated at times, but it isn’t open, and it isn’t an exclusively non-exclusive relationship. It’s totally undefined by the Book of Faces or Twitterverse. It’s a life that I hope my exes stalk, so they see, regardless if you have a partner or you don’t, you can still find a love that brings you happiness. Even if it’s your own.

P.S. Confessions of a Love Addict is making Valentine’s Day more about the single ladies and less about flowers that’ll die in a day. Submit your Valentine here.

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My Eye is the Beholder

My southern upbringing, every journalism class I ever took, and each article written about what to do on a first date or when attempting to pick up a dude, have all taught me an important lesson:

Always look someone in the eyes.

Seems simple enough and typically, I’ve followed this rule of thumb throughout my love and career life, and I have always utilized its full effect from across dimly-lit parties in midtown. Somehow when striking up a conversation or luring someone into your presence is easier when you not only come across as confident and secure, but when the other person feels like they can trust you. Maintaining eye contact is a non-verbal way of saying, “Hey you, I’m listening to you. I’m understanding what you’re saying. Keep looking at my baby blues and keep talking – you can feel comfortable around me.”

I’ve never been coy or shy and at times, I could probably use a little more reservation, but keeping a friend, a man’s, or a source’s attention hasn’t been a difficult task for me. Those who know me would credit this fact to my outgoing personality, the self-assurance I carry as easily and frequently as my purse, and to my fearless, relentless spirit. But perhaps there is a secret weapon that gives me an extra burst of boldness:

Makeup.

Now, before I start sounding like an infomercial promoting any beauty brand who offers me free loot -let me say I’ve had a love affair with makeup since I was a little girl. I remember my mom sitting at her antique vanity with one of those porcelain mirrors that had a handle, powdering her face, rubbing lotion on her hands, and spraying perfume in selective places. I used to lay across her bed after I finished getting dressed for school and just admire her morning routine. She was (and still is) the most beautiful lady I had ever seen, and I wondered when I’d finally be able to have my own set of blushes, eyeshadows, and have that imprint in my lipstick that defined the curve of my lips. Before my dad and her would go out for dates, she’d always let me dab a little of her signature smell from Oscar de la Renta on my wrist along with a little shimmer on my eyes – and I’d always feel like I was really, truly, a woman. Even if I was only ten.

Little did I know at the time that my mother was wearing more than sparkles and orchid-pink lip color, but she was putting on makeup to hide what she perceived as flaws. As a young girl, makeup never meant anything more than playtime and a symbol of being a grown-up who was allowed to wear such lovely things every day. Really, it wasn’t until middle school that I realized these toys were actually needed to cover up problem areas. Or as I’ve always not-so-lovingly called them: zits.

I’ve never had incredibly bad skin, but throughout high school, college, and even now – I have breakouts that I can’t quite predict or fully prevent. It wasn’t until recently, about a year ago, that I finally gave in and tried Proactiv. I’m not one to shamelessly promote anything because I know everyone’s skin, life, opinions, and tastes are different – but for me, this has been the only formulation that’s actually been a solution. I’ve tried antibiotics, topicals, dermatologists, everything you see on beauty and health shelves, and Proactiv has been the one to give me actual results. It dries out my skin something fierce, but I’d still pick a little tenderness over a face freckled with pimples.

Even so, before I tried this product and reaped of its rewards -I spent over a dozen years dealing with problematic skin. And thus, all of the times I popped and applied pressure that made my issue worse – left me with some scars. To anyone but me, these not-so-ghostly-shaded reminders of past problems aren’t that noticeable. However, being the admittedly somewhat-vain lady I am, I’ve tried everything I can find to mask them.

Why? Because when I’m not covering what I see as imperfections and I’m out in public, especially when talking with guys, I feel like instead of looking at me in the eyes, everyone is staring directly at the things I believe makes me look…ugly.

Recently, I had the opportunity to have champagne and cupcakes with Julianne Hough, best known from Dancing with the Stars at an event for Proactiv (see, I really am a huge fan). With her puppy Lexi in tow, she shed some advice not only about clearing up skin and her road to success, but she said something that stuck with me: when you don’t have to worry about something on your face, you turn your attention towards yourself. Or, basically, focusing on inner beauty becomes more important than outer beauty.

Sure is easier said than done when we’re all our worst critics. Right?

As I left from the event a tad tipsy and overly bubbly, I thought how every man I’ve dated has always told me that I shouldn’t wear as much makeup, that I was simply beautiful without all of the gunk. Most of the time, this sentiment has pissed me off and made me feel like they were trying to boss me around -but perhaps I was just missing what they’re saying. I mean, they had all seen me totally naked- emotionally, physically, and makeup-less, so they could have a point. Plus, they are dudes and when they have a zit or two, it isn’t as popular or socially acceptable for them to buy some Maybelline. Maybe its true that we all have flaws, that we all can’t be airbrushed before we leave for the day, that leaving our insecurities at the door isn’t always possible, but if we turn our attention inwards instead of caking on the confidence outwards – we’d eventually feel better about all of the things that make us, us. Even if that happens to be a few leftover marks from bumps months ago.

With that in mind, I decided to be a little brave and shy away from my drawer full of makeup. Well…not completely, but mostly. Instead of my regular ritual, I merely applied a dab of concealer under my eyes and around some redness, a swipe of mascara and chapstick and headed outside. At first, it was difficult to hold my head up walking past strangers on my block, but being the zealous lady I am, I decided that I had every right to be proud of who I am, even if my scars felt like they were on display for Manhattan. Pushing myself further, I went to the grocery store to return a movie and buy some goodies for the week, and underneath the floursencts that seem to place a spotlight on my face – I started making eye contact.

And you know what? Handsome men still flirted with me. Middle-aged guys still basically fell over themselves to open doors or help me. A woman even complimented me on my blue eyes. The glimpse of my reflection in the frozen food isle didn’t scare me.

Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but often times, my eye is primarily the chief beholder who determines how beautiful I am. And maybe, all this time when I thought makeup was making me pretty…it was really who I am and how I acted that gave me a glow. That radiance I have that others seem to notice, must not come from a bottle or from being a model, but from just being me. Pesky pimples and all.

P.S. Confessions of a Love Addict is celebrating Valentine’s Day a little differently this year. We’ll make it more about the single ladies and less about flowers that’ll die in a day. Submit your Valentine here.

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Something To Talk About

New York may attract the dreamers and the artists who express in every medium imaginable – but it also harbors and encourages the nosy.

Those of us who consider people-watching a pastime. Who have mastered the art of appearing engaged reading the Monday edition of The Times, when we’re actually eavesdropping on a riveting conversation three seats down. Those of us who can be entertained by the very best and the absolute worse displays of human emotion, affection, and self-destruction. Those of us who find ourselves inspired by strangers as much (if not more so) as we do from those we actually know the names of.

For a journalist and a woman who is easily combustible when given fodder for intriguing content – I picked the best city to live in. I may argue it picked me, but nevertheless,  though I love strutting to the rhythm of my powerhouse iTunes playlist while navigating the streets, I find myself removing the buds to tune-in to conversations I wasn’t invited to be part of.

Maybe it’s because of this blog or the universe’s way of encouraging my quest to self-love, but lately, the name of the eavesdropping game has been men. Or rather, women obsessing to a ridiculous degree about the guys who are, are not, could be, should be, or will be in (or out of) their lives.

Case in point, a few night ago I was changing in the locker room of my gym, when I overheard two girls discussing a dude one of them had met at a bar the weekend before. The girl was so distracted by going through each and every single detail about what he texted, how much time was between those messages, and what she thought he meant by them, that by the time she finished explaining everything, her friend had already changed into workout attire. She then realized she was behind her buddy and frantically started pulling off her work clothes to catch up. Obviously contemplating what her friend should wear as she waited for her to get ready, the other gal instructed, “Well, since you met him at kind of a trendy, clubby, flashy place, and you were dressed up – that’s how you should be when you get dinner tomorrow.” The girl with the dude and the date, stopped pulling up her sweatpants and with intense emotion said, “I know! I’m so stressed out that he’ll see me and think ‘Oh my God, that’s not who I met the other night.’ I really need to stop by H&M after this and pick out something. Or maybe you have something – are we still the same bra size? He’s taking me to some place downtown that I Googled, looked on New York magazine’s site, and on Menupages – so I think I have the scene figured out.”

Her friend placed her hand on her hip, tilted her head and matter-of-factly said, “You just never know, though. Ya know?” To which the girl nodded and replied, “I know. It’s going to be a disaster and I’m going to screw it up, I just know it. I always do.” By this point, I had been stretching my legs for far too long to hear their conversation and needed to literally run -but as I turned to look behind me, the scene of the girl stuck with me: athletic pants, an edgy sweater, two socks, and one running shoe on – gazing up at her friend in complete distress over a guy she’d met once.

Once.

Now, I started this blog for this very reason. I was that girl. If I’m honest I was far worse than that girl, if you get right down to it. My obsessions were intense and borderline-psycho. When I met a new man and he did actually call, email, text, Facebook, Tweet, or some other technological option of getting in touch with someone – I became instantly smitten. I lingered on his every last word, romanticized the way we met, came up with reasons why it must be fate, and tried to imagine what it’d be like to be his lady. Even if I didn’t quite remember what he looked like, what he did for a living, or if there was a spark – the fact that he was interested in me, meant I needed to make sure he stayed that way. And what better way to keep someone intrigued then to figure out the perfect thing to say, do, act, and seem like, so that the reason he decided to contact me in the beginning, would only continue.

And for the few first dates that turned into something more, regardless if they became boyfriends or flings – the obsession with talking about boys didn’t come to a stop…but only intensified. No matter what I had going on, what great adventures I was attempting, what strides I made in my career – I always defaulted to discussions about the man in my life. Or the one I wanted to be in my life.

In the spirit of honesty, I’m still not cured from being that girl. Like this weekend when a group of gals all-but had an intervention with me concerning what I felt about Mr. Possibility (hence yesterday’s post). Of course I appreciated and listened to their concerns, asked for their opinions, and described certain parts of my something-relationship with him in complete detail, my feelings were different. Unlike guys in the past, Mr. Possibility’s presence doesn’t rule all of my conversations. I tend to believe that if there weren’t any complications, he’d probably be mentioned a lot less. Regardless – that night, as I went on and on, played Devil’s advocate, tuned into their viewpoints, and tried to believe the most rational reasoning, I found myself exhausted of the conversation. I could hear the ridiculousness in my voice and the way I was putting myself down, going around in circles, and frankly – not having any sort of compelling conversation because I was lost in my own obsessive delusions. At that point in time, in those hours spent drinking and catching-up with my friends – why was I wasting my time talking about a man who was across several oceans?

Wouldn’t I rather know about their lives? About the half-marathon one gal is running and how she wants to be running buddies? About how one found the absoulte perfect job that would fulfill her dreams? Or how one managed to help bring a book she edited to the best-seller’s list? Or just about the cool recipe they came up with? And wouldn’t they rather know something more about me…then a damn boy?

Surely, we want to know these things about our friends and they want to celebrate in our success and be there for us in our trials, but somehow – the topic of men always seems to be far more intriguing. In that night alone, we compared our crazy sex and ex stories (which sometimes tend to be one-in-the-same) talked about what we wanted the very most at that moment – and two responded with “A man! It’s cold!”

Guys can be quite confusing, engaging, and incredibly entertaining – but don’t we have something more to talk about than them? Something that’s more meaningful, more interesting, more beneficial to our lives and our personal growth? Something that showcases who were are as individuals, the women we’re growing into, and the battles we’ve fought to get to where we are?

Of course – but do we always want to talk about those things?

Really, discussing relationships, no matter if we agree or disagree with them, want one or not, or have ever been in or fallen out of love- make us realize that we’re not alone. If we say these worries out loud, if we give them life by putting them in words, if we catch a raised-eyebrow or an understanding glance from our best friend -then we know that it’s okay to feel these things, it’s okay to be obsessive sometimes, it’s okay to not be the best player at this game of love.

It’s okay that at times, the only thing we want to talk about, even when we know we shouldn’t or when we know it makes us sound insecure or addicted – is the relationship we hope to find. Maybe we’re projecting what we want on strangers, getting way ahead of ourselves, and reading into details we don’t need to analyze.

Or maybe, giving them, or us, something to talk about, means saying the things you always hold back for fear of how they’ll make you appear. When in reality, they don’t make you that girl, an immature woman, or a non-recovering love addict – they just make you human.

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