Tag Archives: Health

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When I’m 80

Last night, Mr. Possibility and I attended the preview party for the new location of the Copacabana. For those of you unfamiliar with the Copa, it’s the iconic nightclub that launched the careers of Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, a place frequented by performers like Frank Sinatra, and the inspiration behind Barry Manilow’s song.

Basically, ask your grandparents – or ask me.

After fourteen years of piano lessons, I developed a certain affinity for playing the greats, both classically and the songs bore from the Rat Pack. There is something romantic and beautiful about that period – where love hung on strings and was cherished instead of something we all felt entitled to. I’m sure those in the era worried about finding their match like so many do today, but at least then there was a certain innocence to relationships, and class was still in style.

I was excited about the event because I expected to be brought back to the time of the Copa dancers, to courting, and to dancing that didn’t involve grinding in spandex with bump-its in our hair. Not to my surprise, the crowd was primarily older – I was probably among the youngest in attendance. The food was incredible and bountiful, the music continuous, and the sangria refreshing – but something was missing.

Even with a new location and the same owner, the Copacabana had lost its luster.

Sure, the space was beautiful and I’m sure will attract tourists near-and-far, but that’s the problem. As I sadly reiterated my opinion to Mr. Possibility, he said, “Well, it’s not that time anymore, clubs pop up and have their ride and then they’re gone. We’re onto the next thing.” In the age of over-demand, where everything is simply a thought and a Smartphone away, we don’t grow attached to things as we used to. Even nightclubs that gave some of the best singers their humble beginnings.

Toward the end of the evening, a handful of original Copa dancers, now well over 80, graced the stage and told their story. They each held more enthusiasm individually than the current group of Copa dancers did collectively. You could see, even from far away, the love they had for the Copacabana and for New York. This place symbolized their youth, where they grew into themselves and their sexuality, where they mingled with artists who would become legends. This was part of their story; the Copa was a place that helped define them as girls, and now brightened their eyes as seasoned women.

As Mr. Possibility draped his arms around me and kissed my cheek affectionately, I looked at him and asked, “What will my story be?” I wasn’t looking for a direct answer, he knew that and didn’t give me one other than a few sweet compliments and words of encouragement, but as we walked through Times Square to another bar for some more sangria, I couldn’t get that thought out of my mind:

When I’m 80, how will I view this time in New York? Will I look back and replace all my memories of being flawed as visions of me young, healthy, and beautiful? Will Mr. Possibility be a fleeting face that I call the first man I truly cared for in New York? Will my friends, the ones that took me so long to find in this city, still be my friends then? What will I think of this blog? Or of my writing style as it is right now?

I’ve always imagined myself growing older and one day having the wisdom that only comes from experiences. I see myself still active, still pushing forward, still thinking creatively, if my body allows. Like the majority of Americans who fear being alone, I don’t want to be by myself rocking in a chair on the front porch of an old plantation house in Charleston, but I also want to make sure I have that look.

That look that those Copa dancers had. That look that says, “I’ve lived a good life. I’ve seen many wondrous things. I’ve tried things and tested my limits. I’ve explored my sexuality and what it means to be a woman. I’ve liberated myself and traveled this world and I know this city. I’ve loved and been loved. And I’m here, at my age, to show my face and my cryptic smile that’ll never reveal all of the joys I’ve had with people and places that you’ll never see again or meet.”

Daily gratitude: Today, I’m thankful for the laughs I’ve had to give me the lines that already appearing on my face.

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Patience is a Virgin

I really feel sorry for my Facebook friends. Truly. I spam the hell out of my page – with posts from WordPress, Tumblr, and my own random thoughts/updates of the day. I disconnected Twitter because I didn’t want the people I actually know and I’m actually friends with to get completely irritated with me. Now, when I add a new friend that I actually talk to, I warn them of my overly active spewing.

Though it may be a little spam-rific at times, there are posts I have that cultivate conversation. When this happens, I find myself engaged in cyber conversations with people I normally don’t talk to often, but maybe I should. Such a thing happened today when I posted a status that read, “If patience is a virtue, then I’m not very virtuous.” Obviously, I was illustrating my frustration with finding peace in today and in tomorrow. Mr. Possibility and I are leaving for vacation on Monday morning for a week, and though I’m swamped at work, the hours between 9 and 6 can’t pass any slower.

In response to my update, a friend from NC said, ” My friend’s daughter, 8 years old, recently reminded us: ‘Patience is a virgin.’ Upon further reflection, and after several minutes of laughing, we realized that she had, in fact, made a good point, albeit unintentional.” After reading his message, I giggled and instantly liked, thinking about the meaning behind the words, the cryptic message an innocent kid sent without knowing.

A lack of patience only comes after you’ve experienced the many games of waiting. Like waiting to hear back about a job or waiting for a guy to text back after an incredible first date. Or waiting for a promotion or waiting to be approved for a loan, a house, an adoption. Or waiting to meet the man you’ll marry, the baby you’ll have, and the apartment you dream of owning, but don’t. Waiting for the perfect title or for the time when you can pack your bags up and head North.

Once we get to the age where waiting becomes commonplace and ordinary, we stop focusing on patience and instead, try to distract ourselves into some meaningless task until the waiting period is over. But we don’t really grow good at it, we don’t really learn to be peaceful and patient, we just find something to get us through.

Was the little gal right? Is patience only for the virgins? For those of us who have never wanted, never yearned, never hoped for something or someone so deeply that it hurt to wait? And what about when we are broken in, when patience is popped the first time we are put to the test? The first experience where we hold out for something, we cross our fingers, our toes, our legs and even our eyes wishing for something and then at the end, it’s one of those wishes that wasn’t meant to come true? Or a love we tell ourselves wasn’t meant to be?

Once we’ve lost our patience virginity, once we’ve become adults who want and need, instead of having everything provided, how do we learn to practice peace? Master the art of doing without but cherishing what we do have? Instead of being ancy and dissatisfied, twiddling our thumbs in anticipation, forgetting about giving people a break and giving life a chance to take over without controlling every aspect of our existence?

Can we re-virginize ourselves? I mean, I hear it’s a happenin’ trend now.

I don’t think so – but I do think we learn ways to cope. We learn to practice self-help, self-motivation, self-soothing methods that bring us some sort of calm in the in-between times of uncertainty. Because we’ve been there before, because we’ve felt these same things in these same way, we know how to handle it. We become better equipped to balance ourselves and we learn tactics for dealing with our fears and our frustrations. We survive and if we’re among the ones who strive, we eventually thrive. But we’ll never get back to that virgin-like state, that purity, that honestly, that only comes from being blissfully naïve, young and unaffected by the perils of patience.

That’s the thing about any type of virginity you lose, regardless if it’s having sex, living away from home, having a big girl job, having real world bills and rent, being someone’s wife, being accountable for your own actions, and being responsible for someone’s broken heart – once you let go and burst the bubble of oblivion…there’s nowhere to return to. No outlet to restore.

Instead, you just pack up what you have, who you are, what you’ve learned and you go out to face another day, another opportunity to lose another virginity, getting yourself one step closer to being one of those cool, independent, sophisticated adults we always wanted to be.

You know, before we lost our adult virginity and found ourselves laying in bed, feeling like a stranger naked in the company of ourselves, wondering: “Really, this is it? This is what everyone talked about? It’s really not all it’s cracked up to be.”

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Rough Around the Edges

A few weeks ago, I was out for happy hour drinks with the clan when my attention turned to an attractive brunette entering the bar. Wearing an off-white Diane von Furstenberg dress and peep-toe Jimmys, she gracefully found her table and tossed her locks as she sat down. The little makeup she wore highlighted her natural rosy-tint and her group of friends matched her easy elegance. She carried a Balenciaga clutch that she carefully sat on the table, reaching in to find her lipstick and apply it subtly without anyone noticing.

But I noticed. And I was surprised my friends didn’t see me turn green in envy as I watched her from across the room, wondering when I’d finally feel how I imagined that woman feeling. She seemed completely together, confident and assured, stable financially and otherwise, and beauty radiated around her.

Me, on the other hand? On the other side of the bar, away from the reserved tables she was welcome to join with sparkling wine and towers of expensive liquor, sipping on my signature pineapple and vodka (with a cherry) or house Merlot, I’m not like that woman. I’m not refined and utterly comfortable in my own shoes, though I often lust to walk a mile in someone else’s designer ones. I’m not a polished Manhattanite with a high-paying job, trust fund, or the ability to save every penny.

I’m rough around the edges. And sometimes, as much as I attempt to hide it, I know it shows.

I don’t always think ahead and I sometimes see each decision as the end-all-be-all to my future and definitely to my present. I freak myself out more than I calm myself down, and when it comes to thinking about the big picture instead of letting the little one weigh me down, I’m guilty as charged. I don’t keep my purse organized and clean, my clothes are not sorted by color, and my dishes are hardly washed before bed.

And while I’d like to think I’m quite poised, I don’t sit calmly and laugh in a not-too-high, not-too-soft tone, and I don’t (or at least I don’t think) I exude a sense of maturity and elegance. I don’t think about how I’m perceived or if I’m stomping in my heels instead of cascading, and if I’m greeting friends, I almost always insist on a hug. I’m even starting to get used to this Northern kiss-on-the-cheek salutation that’s not customary in the South.

I can’t decide if I like the way I am or if I’d rather be a smoothed out. Could I chisel away those pieces that keep me feeling like the woman I know I am, just don’t always show? Or is it that like a good wine, I’m really just going to get better with age? With more experiences and more trials that give me the skills and know-how I need to find my own footing. To find grace?

Is it better to be a little rough or finely polished? Or is there ever a happy medium between the two? Between maturity and immaturity? Between taking note of the little characteristics that go into making a person, and learning which of those qualities to tuck away until appropriate, or if appropriate at all? Between not feeling like you have to have the right thing to say, the right thing to do, and just saying what you want and doing as you please?

Am I a diamond in the rough….or just jagged?

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Louie Armstrong Moments

The morning my flight left from JFK, the last day of my summer internship several years ago, I set my alarm early so I could take in as much New York as possible before our extended separation. I decided to sit  in Madison Square Park, a place I frequented to people watch, lay out in the sun, and meet friends before heading out. Though not anything particularly spectacular, this miniature space of green housed several of my memories from that summer.

After stopping at a café across from my apartment, I grabbed a scone and coffee, and found a table near Shake Shack. For an August morning, it was rather chilly and the leaves were falling much earlier than I anticipated. Yet, the energy of the park, even at this early hour, was buzzing. There were families and dogs, couples and strollers, children and musicians, waking and rising, starting their New York days with conversation and caffeine.

I sat in a wrap dress and cardigan, my hair air-drying and curling, writing in this giant blue journal I kept almost daily while in New York. Even though I now live here permanently, that tattered and worn notebook remains one of my most prized possessions and will always have a home on any bookshelf I own. I scribbled sentences that don’t mean much, yet mean everything – and as I was finishing up the last paragraph, a single yellow leaf stained with red tips fell to the page. Seconds later, a tiny bird landed on my patio table, picked at a crumb I left, and flew away.

Charmed by the simplicity of that single moment, I smiled, and looked up, catching the eye of an older woman reading a book across from me. Maybe she was watching me or just happened to look up at that instant, but when we locked eyes, we shared the same thought in that park on a Sunday, when the sun was making its way mid-sky.

I’ve always called these experiences New York moments. Recently, however, I discovered a better fitting name from my friend, K. She calls them Louie Armstrong moments.

We were sitting at Fig & Olive on the Upper East Side, after just leaving the opening of Pipino 57 – Wella Professionals Flagship, where champagne and celebrities were ripe, and talking about our unique New York experiences. Though, maybe not that unique. If you hold a certain love for the city, if it is a place you’ve always wanted to live in, your experience doesn’t differ too much from the other dreamers who always wanted to gaze at the lights of the Empire.

And that’s kind of the beauty behind a Louie Armstrong moment. Where you realize what a wonderful world it really is by sharing it with other people, even the ones you don’t know and never will know.

When you’re in a place where most people are strangers and not friends, it’s easy to feel alone. You can walk miles without seeing a familiar face and when you battle the street trenches and crowds, you can feel like just another number, just another gal whose hair is frizzy from the humidity and whose feet are tired from unreasonable heels. But if you wait for it, if you don’t look for it, but stay positively alert – you’ll find yourself sharing an experience with someone you don’t know that you’ll cherish forever. For me, it’s with a woman who witnessed a bittersweet ending to my first New York adventure, for Kate it’s the natural smile of a man who watched butterflies take flight unexpectedly. Both of our Louie Armstrong moments coincidently happened in Madison Square Park, but we’ve had more.

And we’ll continue to. As long as we’re blessed enough to live in New York, that is. I’m sure it is capable to connect in a fleeting instant with people you’ll never see again anywhere, but for me, the only Louies that I remember are in the place where I see weathering trees in Central, and tulips too – for me and for whoever walks by. I see skies with scrapers; stars that don’t come out at night. I see the colors of the rainbow in Chelsea, so pretty walking by. I hear taxis cry, I watch them speed, and I realize they’ll see so much more New York than I’ll ever know.

And still, I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

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Baby, I Need Space

I’ve never actually lived with someone, though I’ve written on the topic several times. For whatever reason, the two times in my adult life I’ve had a gap in between leases, I’ve been lucky enough to be dating men who offer their apartments. Both times, I went into the situation attempting to view it as a mini-vacation with someone I care about…minus still having to work 9-6.

And yet, though each relationship is vastly different and the arrival of the “homeless” period arrived in varying points of the dating duration, at the end of both of my staycations with Mr. Idea and Mr. Possibility, I’ve found myself arriving at the same conclusion:

Baby, I need space.

Don’t get me wrong – Mr. Possibility is truly wonderful. I won’t go into the history (if you’d like, you’re welcome to research yourself, is not impossible to find) but in the last few months we’ve made significant progress. We’ve developed into a functioning couple that has yet to have a knock-out, drag-down fight, and we’re respectful of one another’s needs. There is intensity and fire, but I’d also consider him one of my closest friends – which to me, is more important than butterflies and channeling Prince Charminglike similarities.

But he does things to get on my nerves. In fact, he does several.

He’s not the tidiest person I’ve known, though most men are not (with the exception of his roommate who keeps a remarkably clean abode). He has his own set of mood swings and preferences of how he choses to carry his day-to-day life, and how he likes his apartment to be organized. His idea of grocery shopping is getting what’s on sale, even it is two-for-one ketchup, regardless if he needs ketchup or not. He doesn’t rinse the sink after he shaves and when he needs to work, he spreads his things as wide as the living room will allow him, and if I dare touch a paper, I swear I may lose a finger.

These are not bad things and they do not change the way I feel about him because I’m no different.

I have a tendency to shed, leaving him with strands of reminders of me on his shirts, his briefcase, and his coat. I will use the same cup all day long, refilling it with orange juice, then pouring the last little bit out, and repeating. I want to sleep in on the weekends until at least ten and he is programmed to wake at eight, no matter what day it is. I packed ten pairs of shoes for a three-week stay, and they’re strung about his room unorganized, even though I’ve made several attempts to keep them straight. In an effort to be helpful, I shrunk some of his shirts when I did the wash, and when I decided to bake cookies, I forgot to check the cleanliness of the oven and set off not one, but two smoke detectors.

It’s not just the quirks either though – it’s sleeping under the same roof, eating the same dinners, having actual discussions about domestic tasks and purchases, and not only watching TV on a Friday night together, but going out together the next Friday. It’s constantly being connected to the hip and feeling like you’ve lost some part of yourself, even if you’ve gained the coveted key to your guy’s place. And that kind of closeness, though intimate and ultimately what marriage may very well look like, can bring a girl to her knees – or to a bar in Union Square, frantically telling her friends how badly she needs space.

Usually requesting space brings anxiety and fear into the relationship, almost as a signal that it is nearing the end or facing rocky waters. Such is not the case with Mr. Possibility because emotional room isn’t what’s on the table. Rather, it’s just literal space.

Keys that belong to me. A closet to fill with my belongings, freeing them from a suitcase and one mini-drawer. A bed to collapse on that I paid for, that I can choose to make or leave messy because it’s mine and I don’t have to share unless I extend an invitation. An area to sit and write endlessly, without being interrupted, without the sound of a television blaring in the background, or debates about going out or staying in.

A space to be alone.

In the past, I never could wrap my head around my friends claiming “space” was a good thing – but now I see their point. A couple can spend too much time together. You can be around one another far too much. Shared interests, friends, and pursuits help bring you together, but if you overdo them, it can be what tears you apart. Without demanding and sticking to an individual regimen that gives you what you need outside of the relationship, even a duo that barely argues will feel smothered and bothered. And from there it only leads downhill – heated arguments over silly things, miscommunication under stress, less sex and play, and at the very worse, breaking up just to find an hour to exhale in privacy.

So maybe I’ll give space a break. Sometimes it is the remedy that doesn’t separate you, but ultimately bring you closer. But not too close for comfort.