Tag Archives: Hope

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Maybe I Like It

I watched him get dressed, slowly and confidently, lingering on the hardwood floor, one foot at a time. I found it odd and rather interesting that he put his socks on before his pants. He was careful about his movements, making sure to say sweet things to Lucy while peering around my room, this new place he hadn’t given much thought to in the twilight hours before. His blonde hair that was oily to the touch and thicker than I expected for a mid -30s man, moved loosely as he put himself together. Even as he got dressed, he watched my every slight movement: the way I draped the sheet gently across my hips, the way I curled my hair with my hand, tying up my long, tangled locks behind me in a messy bun. Our eyes met a few times and our lips couldn’t help but curl, thinking of the intensity we shared just a few moments before, and now we were awkwardly exchanging niceties with a stranger we just met, and yet, whose body we could still taste.

I hadn’t slept with him, even though I wanted to.

He was every bit sexy as I could imagine a man to be. He didn’t ask permission but he remembered to say those things that yes, are probably untrue, but still make me comfortable getting naked with a person I sincerely don’t know. He checked off all of the boxes I needed to check — tall, intelligent, well-paid, ambitious and inviting. From the time he boldly bought be a drink seconds after seeing me to the way he grabbed my waist in the cab, I was intrigued enough to let him do more than enough.

But as I laid there, wondering if I should have gone all the way and trying my best not to reach for his lips in my sunlight-drenched room at 10 am, I wondered where my heart was.

Lindsay just a few years ago would have never let someone come home with her. She would have doubted her wholesomeness, felt a void of goodness and secretly thought that welcoming sin into your life — and well, your bedroom– was prescription for continued relationship distress. She would have thought her wife material was ruined, her body tainted and that if she wasn’t madly in love with someone, he shouldn’t have the privilege of exploring her.

I’ll admit it, for a long time, I thought hook-ups, one-night-stands and drunken encounters of the sexual kind were tawdry. Wrong. Misleading. Dangerous.

But as I watched the tall Canadian with a nice chest and better arms, and a smile that seeps into your skin, I felt pride. Power. I had confidence that even if this person wasn’t someone I hear from or better yet, wanted to hear from, this night was what I wanted. It was what I craved and what I conquered. To be an independent woman, you need not hold yourself up on a pedestal if that pedestal keeps you from doing what you want. Maybe one less make out isn’t exactly deprivation, but if you always say no to your desires, how will you ever figure out what you want to say yes to? Most of the women I admire the most aren’t exactly Pollyannas – they are bold and vivacious, full of opinions and decisions that they don’t make excuses for. They come and they go, they waltz through life on their own timetable and schedule and they let themselves feel. And explore. Make mistakes and get dirty. Be who they are without wondering who cares or who will judge. Sex isn’t morally wrong, it’s biologically needed. They get that.

And more importantly, they own it.

There’s nothing wrong with having a sleepover with someone you’re attracted to and there shouldn’t be a pressure to sleep with – or not sleep with – them. There is no right or wrong answer, no choice that’ll outline the rest of your pending relationships or how your romantic love will be blessed by the heavens or damned by hell. I’ve seen relationships blossom from what was meant to be a one-time thing, and I’ve felt a certain, addicting rush from having a heavy makeout session with someone with a last name I don’t remember. I have friends who said “I love you” in the first week of knowing someone and others who took six weeks to have sex, and their relationships are equally as strong and well, equally as healthy, too.

But before they found those men, before they made a home with a guy they love to lay with – they liberated themselves first. They forgave themselves for having urges and they acted on them instead. They let go of the brainwashing and the shaming, the principles of what a “good girl” should be, and instead became the woman they wanted to become. A woman that yes, is a sexual creature. That’s full of everything a man’s full of (or mostly, anyway). That has passion and desires, that isn’t afraid of doing whatever it is that she feels comfortable with, whatever it is that makes her happy, satisfied and hungry.

I did hear from that mysterious man and he did propose a friends-with-benefits type of relationship. I had that with Mr. Possibility before it became more, and then with Mr. Smith for a period of time. I took home a guy last year who turned into a month-long sleepover, and I try to be a little freer when I’m on vacation and can let myself go in more ways than one. But with this particular guy, I wasn’t as interested in playing the booty-call card (because I kind of felt like I could like him for more), so I declined.

And that choice, that singular text message that wasn’t half as hot as the night we shared, made me feel powerful, yet again. It helped me get the spring in my step, the flirtatious attitude and hopeful spirit back in my heart and in my eyes. There’s something about not judging yourself – and indulging yourself – that makes you feel sexier than anything else.

Or maybe it’s the orgasm? Maybe it’s both. And maybe I like it.

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This is Your Life

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

This is your life.

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

This is your life.

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

This is your life.

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

This is your life.

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

This is your life.

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

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

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

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I Don’t Have My Shit Together

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I should have my shit together.

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

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

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

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

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

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I Know Better

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a little.

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

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

Just a little.

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

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

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The Red Umbrella

It arrived in an unmarked package with no return label. The stamp on the front declared it was from a country not that far away, but one that isn’t on my list to visit anytime soon. If not for the reason that it seems terribly romantic, but because it’s where the man I was once in love with, currently lives.

I knew it was a gift from him— some token from his travels, some keepsake that would hold a double-edged sword full of meaning for me. A symbolic gesture to signify a special joke between us, a once sweet nickname that now is tawdry and pestering to forget. As I stood at my mailbox at work, feeling how light, and yet so very heavy, this package was, I considered two decisions: throw away this gift from Mr. Possibility or feed my intrigue and open this cryptic message that is as confusing as the intentions of the man who sent it.

As always, curiosity gets the best of this Tigar.

I took it to my desk and while my editor went to lunch, I tore open the envelope, preparing myself for tears and hoping an intern didn’t come upstairs with a burning question. I was careful not to rip anything because something in my gut felt it was delicate and precious. That is how Mr. P always described me — powerful and vivacious with an unquenchable spirit, but at my core, sweet and sensitive. Impressionable.

Inside the package, I pulled out a red folder with his school’s emblem on the front. The same school that I had edited his entrance essays while lying in just his t-shirt on his bed with the expensive down comforter that usually gave me more peace than his touch ever did. Fixing his comma use and vocabulary, we talked about me joining him on this overseas excursion, freelancing and exploring the world together. I could write this blog and pitch to magazines, while putting my dreams at bay so he could chase the elusive future that I doubt he has yet to figure out. That shiny folder, ripped at the crease and tattered at the ends, felt like what was left of our love, broken and shattered, but for whatever reason, hanging together by the single romantic thread of hope.

I ran my fingers across the page until I felt paper. There is was, the note. It would say something and nothing all at the same time, leaving me lingering on what he really meant to say. What he really wished he could feel.

Hey pretty Tigar. I saw this while in Prague and it reminded me so much of you. I hope you know I’m always thinking of you and missing our talks very much. I hope you’re doing well… you’re with me everywhere. Love, Mr. P.

I waited for my heart to speed up, for my throat to tighten and for that need to run as far away from the folder as possible. Usually, when faced with something emotional, I want to release myself from the pressure quickly. That way I don’t have time to think or to process, to obsess or figure things out. If I can get away from the problem, the problem ceases to exist. But this time, it was different.

His words felt emptier than they ever did, his feelings for me disappearing, just as his hold on me was weakening. I opened up the folder, turned over a black matted frame and found a hand-painted portrait of a couple standing near a bridge in Prague, kissing. You can’t see their embrace because of the red umbrella covering them from the gentle stroke of rain cascading down the paper.

It’s like the red umbrella that sits at the top of this blog.

And it’s similar to the red umbrella portrait that hangs in my room, shielding a couple caught in a kiss, standing next to a taxi cab. It’s a second-hand store beauty my mom found and had framed for me last Christmas. Mr. Possibility never saw it – he hasn’t been in my room in some time – but the two portraits matched each other, just in different locations.

Just in the two places where my heart lives – with a man who will never be what I want and in the city that makes me hope that one day, some man will be.

I received that gift from Mr. Possibility nearly eight months ago. For a while, I stashed it in the drawer next to my desk, forgetting about it until I went searching for a long-lost fork at lunchtime. When I needed to spring clean in March, I pulled it out and brought it home, careful not to look at it, and purposefully stuffed it in between big books to protect it. Every once in a while, I’d see the red corners of the folder sticking out and move my attention to something else. But I always knew it was there, haunting me, reminding me of this final gift that while it didn’t upset me wildly, affected me in a way that I didn’t like to admit.

But then over take-out and red wine with my friend J on a rainy Thursday night after work, I made a decision to come out from the umbrella. Knowing she’d protect me – along with my other supportive, honest best friends – from any storm that could come, I gave her that Prague portrait. I realized I didn’t need a romantic reminder of Mr. Possibility and I didn’t want one either. If I wanted to think of happier times, I could – those memories don’t disappear, no matter how much you try. I don’t want him back and I don’t need his dollar-short and months (and months)-too late expression of love to cloud my judgment.

So for now, until (or if) I decide to frame a reminder of my first New York love on my wall – that particular red umbrella will remain in the hands of a friend. Because really, the more I find myself standing underneath umbrellas, wondering when the rain will stop and the sun will come out, the more I find myself wanting to play in the downpour. The more I find the past trying to creep back into my life, the more excited I get for the future.

The more I’m reminded of the love I had, the more convinced I am that a better one is surely on it’s way.