Tag Archives: Hope

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Five Down, Many To Go

Terrified that having a puppy (as lovely as she is) would ruin my social life as I know it — I’ve been quite the busy dater this past month. I can’t blame Lucy entirely for my new-found interest in getting back into the scene — it’s also the chilly weather that reminds me of cuddling under covers with no clothes except socks, the smell of pumpkin spice that remind me of home, and just how handsome men look with rosy cheeks and scruff that’s a little too out grown.

And also, the fact that I’ve been single for over a year now…

Given, I spent some time (okay, maybe a lot of time) hung up over Mr. Possibility. And even, yes, sleeping with him far longer than I should have. But now that my past is both figuratively and literally miles and months behind me, I have the urge to meet someone. Doesn’t have to be my forever-and-ever guy, but just a guy….would be nice. It’d be comforting and exciting — and hopefully, it’d spread some of my natural optimism into my romantic relationships, instead of the negativity that consumes them recently.

So, with a few clicks of my mouse on three online dating profiles (yes, three!), enticing friends to set me up with the eligible bachelors in their lives and throwing some flirting glances across practically each room I graced, I somehow managed to have five first dates in the past four weeks. For me — who walks a dog three times a day, works 40+ hours and runs three miles at least five days a week — dating can sometimes be difficult to budget into my time. But, with as much hope I could muster without making my eyes blush, I jumped head (not heart) first into the scary Manhattan pool of singleness.

The first date, the guy upped his height by six inches, which isn’t really fudging on your online dating profile, it’s just flat-out lying. And while I know how tall a dude is shouldn’t affect my taste too much — it really does. Maybe it’s my own personal hangup or my need to feel small and protected around someone I’m dating, but it’s not something I’ve been able to compromise. I prefer 5’10” and above, but if I met the man I’d been waiting for and he was 5’9″ — I betcha I could get over it. This particular guy arrived before me and was already sitting down, so I didn’t know his 6’0″ claim wasn’t true until after the drinks had been drank and the bites had been nibbled, and we stood up to leave that I realized his very white lie. I wasn’t wearing heels and at 5’4″, he wasn’t even a head above me. The conversation hadn’t been intriguing enough to entice me for another date and his shortness in character and in height made it easy to respond with, “Let’s be friends!” when he texted the next day. Of course, no response.

The second guy was interesting enough — but mainly because he reminded me of my gay husband, J. He was flamboyant, incredibly social and made some joke about how he psyched his parents out at Christmas one year by saying he may bring a guy home (Red, red flag!). He talked more than I did, insisted on walking me home and didn’t attempt to kiss me goodnight (which I didn’t expect, either) — and still texted the next day. I did the same routine as I did with the first guy and this one quickly stopped contact, too.

The third date was the best of them all — over sushi and some wine, I chatted it up with a friend of a friend. The rapport was fast and clever, the shared glances were subtle and enticing, and I understood why my friend thought we’d get along. However, as I’m prone to picking up on what could be deal-breakers way sooner than I have in past courtships, I noticed that the majority of the conversation wasn’t targeted at me, but about him. He was the classic one-upper (which would be his Mr. title if he actually made it into this blog for more than a paragraph), and by the time the check came and left, I was ready to not compete in the conversation anymore.

The fourth date was my first Match.com date, and I was excited to see how powerful their magical matching brew really is. I showed up earlier and caught up on reading, while waiting for him to arrive. I could tell from the first smile that he was shyer than most men I date. He was looking forward to going to Comic Con, came from a good family and lived on the Upper East Side. (Which frankly when you’re on the West Side, is nearly too much distance to handle.) I was attracted to him and his politeness was overwhelming, but I didn’t feel that thing. I know sparks don’t always fly in the very beginning and they sometimes take time to flicker, but I think you know if the flame can be ignited, even just a little bit, from the start. He walked me to the bus stop and kindly hugged me goodbye. We haven’t spoken since, and I haven’t noticed.

The fifth date was on Saturday, and is still a little too depressing for me to share in vivid detail. What I will say is that I now know that some preferences are set in stone. Like, I don’t care for someone who checks the score of the game — and talks about it — more than once at a dinner table. On the first date. Or someone who gambles or plays pokers… a lot. Or who doesn’t have respect for animals. Or is sexist about the toilet seat. But mostly, if they think voting for Mitt Romney is a vote for women. Nope, not interested. But proud of myself for walking out of a date for the very first time. I have a feeling it surely won’t be the last.

Needless to say, I haven’t really found someone I’m interested in, even after making a whole new commitment to putting myself out there. I always try to find the lesson in everything — the silver lining that will make it all make sense, that will make it all seem part of a grand scheme, or some predetermined fate that I can’t even begin to visualize yet. But really the only thing I’ve become convinced of the past month is…

…dating can suck. It can honestly, really, really suck.

It’s constant disappointment. It’s something being off even if you’re not quite sure what that something is. It’s trying to avoid the wolf underneath the sheep, and to find the sheep that’s hidden by your mesmerization with the wolf. It’s hoping for a someone you’re not entitled to meet just because you’re you. It’s a lot of scheduling and work, compromising and wondering when it’s all going to fall into place. Frankly, it’s so exhausting, I’m tired of writing about it — but…

…I still want to do it.

Even if five not-so-great dates turn into hundreds of bad dates. Even if I have to endure Republicans and receding hairlines, guys who are in denial about their height, ones who aren’t out of the closet yet. Even if I have to meet all of the very, very wrong guys that aren’t a great fit for me — I’d rather do it. I’d rather suffer through and keep going. Keep dating.

Because you can’t find the right one if you don’t know how to spot a bad one. And you can’t get what you want if you refuse to go after it. Or to let it go after you. You can’t have your heart feel those many wondrous things it longs to feel if you don’t open it wide enough to let someone touch it.  To capture it.

And even though it would be so lovely, you can’t skip the sucky first dates if you ever intend to find a guy who you can’t wait to go on a second date with. Or a third. Or five. Or many, many more…

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Your Story To Tell

The response to yesterday’s post completely overwhelmed me– in the most beautiful way.

I was extremely nervous to put something so private, so vulnerable, so personal out into the world. I had grown used to carrying the burden of that secret for six years and to release that weight? Wow, it didn’t seem possible.

But with your help, it somehow feels lighter.

I was showered with love and with remarks about my bravery. And my courage. I don’t know if I would pick those words to describe sharing my story, but I appreciate them dearly. I’m honored to be described in such a way. I decided to write about my own experience because I was so angered by the remarks of political figures who seem to believe they know more about rape than women who have actually been held down against their will. It’s incredible to me that we can come so far in certain areas of progress, and yet we always seem to argue about women’s rights. This isn’t “I am woman, hear me roar” — this is “I am human, I have the ability to make choices, the right to make them, and I deserve to be treated as such.”

These are fine words I can type now, but it took me a long time to get there. Because when it came to my writing, my career, my public image — as a writer, an editor or as Lindsay Tigar on Facebook who went to Appalachian State, works for NBC and writes this blog — I wasn’t sure I wanted the scarlet-colored word of “rape” associated with me. Even if I’ve been writing about women’s issues since college, and mostly, about love, dating and, well sex. But consensual sex or a lack of consistent sex. Talking about the heavy, scary topics was always something I wanted to do but I wasn’t sure how to go about it or if I could even do it as well as I express what it feels to fall in love with someone.

How could I eloquently describe what it feels to fall out of love with yourself? To blame yourself for something that wasn’t your choice? To pretend you weren’t bothered when you walked past the person who raped you? To wonder if it really was your fault? How could I illustrate the thoughts that creep back into my mind every time a guy buys me a drink or when the eve of my birthday rolls around?

But then the greatest question bubbled inside of me earlier this week: how could I not talk about it when so many women need to hear that it can happen to anyone?

Yesterday alone, 15 women came forward to share their story of sexual assault, molestation or rape with me. Their words, their experiences are their own, and it’s not my place to tell them. But reading how many women, of all ages, stages, countries and walks of life, have been taken advantage of — absolutely broke my heart.

But it also really inspired me.

While we have all endured both the trauma itself and the long aftermath of mentally and emotionally processing it– we have all, also, rose above it. We’ve all made something of ourselves– some have met loyal, loving partners. Others have gone on to lead women’s groups and write about important topics, like this one. Many are incredible friends who support those who have gone through it, those who are afraid of it and those who can’t speak for themselves. Some are the strongest women I’ve ever known.

Knowing that like me, they were survivors — didn’t make me think any less or differently about them. If anything, it made me see how powerful they really are. Because being attacked — in any form — will never define their story, it’ll just be part of it.

As soon as you claim it, as soon as you let those awful words leave your lips: “I was raped” — they don’t own you anymore. They lose their power and you gain it. You don’t have to hide behind them and they certainly don’t define who you are as a woman, as a professional, as a lover, as…a person. They become words that belong to you and a painful experience that you overcame to become something stronger, brighter and more beautiful than you already are.

Thank you so, so much for making me accept that while what happened the night of my 18th birthday will always be a part of me and it is not something to be ashamed of. It’s not something I have to hide or a burden I have to bare. It is something I can now share anytime, anywhere, when you need to realize that you are many things — but alone, is not one of them. And what happened to you– it’s your story to tell, no matter how long it takes to say it.

If you’re a survivor of any form of sexual assault and you’d like to tell your story anonymously, I will publish it — without your name or any details — with your permission. You can fill out this form (I won’t even know who sent it!) or you can email me, if you feel comfortable enough. Talking about your experience will help give you power back. 

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He’s Out There

While you’re sitting here reading this blog, sipping on your coffee and trying to get into the swing of a new week. While you’re going through your emails that always seem to pile up over the weekend and asking your co-workers how their Saturday brunch was. This morning, when you finished that loop around Riverside Park at 7:30 a.m. and you watched the Manhattan skies melt into shades of pink and tones of orange over the rising sun. Last night, when you finally fell asleep after watching too many things on Netflix and having one too many popsicles to soothe your newly root-canaled tooth.

In every moment of each part of your day, of your week – of your entire life – there has been a man living his life, too.

He’s been catching the train uptown and down, going to the gym on the other side of town. He’s been thumbing through his Blackberry at the crack of dawn, checking on the status of a project and replying when it’s urgent (and when it’s not). He’s been having some beers with his group of friends – from college and beyond – watching the Olympics and laughing at the same joke he’s heard for years. He’s been worried and excited for the future, he’s overslept and he’s not been able to fall away. He’s experienced countless things you’ve yet to hear about and has wrinkles around his eyes that you’ve yet to see.

But he’s been somewhere in this city, or somewhere in this world – thinking of you from time to time.

Like when that pretty girl he fell so despairingly in love with broke up with him suddenly. Or when someone he used to bar hop with, picking up ladies and enjoying the single life, proposed to his girlfriend. Maybe it was when he saw his dad lean over to his mom and plant a kiss on her cheek and she returned the gesture with a smile that tells the tale of the decades they’ve spent together. He thought of you when he became an uncle for the first time and held this new life, this tiny little human in his hands and realized it wasn’t just another baby in a stroller, but it was a new person related to him. And then again when the temperature dropped well below freezing and he laid alone in his bed, in his apartment, on that street he paid a broker to live on, and wistfully longed for someone to hold. For someone to really, truly, completely love him.

It’s the same place where he’s wondered, just as you have in scattered moments that are more frequent than you’d care to admit, if that special someone really exists for him.

Is there a beautiful woman who is successful and independent, but loving and thoughtful? Does she have those long, glorious legs that always get him going? Will her smile stand out among the rest? Will he really know that she’s the girl when he’s dated so many in the past and never had a clue? What will they share in common? Will she run? Will she cook? Will she be able to hold a conversation just as easily as she can sit peacefully on a Sunday afternoon, watching something mindless and sharing a beer? Will he be able to see that future he wants, that family he craves – with her? Will she be what he imagined or will she be something more? Or maybe just something different?

What if she’s already crossed his path and he didn’t realize it? Could he have missed his chance – or is it still there? Where is she?

Where is he?

Is he twenty blocks away or across the park? Has he even moved to New York at all – or will he ever? Was he a little off or did something to turn my tastes away and I overlooked this man? Does he turn left in the mornings and I turn right? Is he in the next train or the next building – in the local elevator and not the express I always take? Is he away on business or busy starting one of his own? Has he seen me and not be able to work up the courage talk to me? Have I noticed him and thought I’d never have a chance to be his? Has he made me laugh in passing or is he a face I know, but never considered more?

Is he reading this very post right now?

On any given day, every single day of the week – I couldn’t begin to count the people I pass. Or the strangers I talk to briefly or make eye contact with. How many handsome strangers I share a smile with or a fleeting second that instantly escapes from my memory. In a city that’s full of mostly people you don’t know, but hundreds you see constantly – how do you ever know if any of them will end up being something more? If you did happen to meet someone or see someone who would ultimately become your someone, would you even remember your brief encounters?

In many ways, the anonymity of the city can be overwhelming – and frankly, pretty lonely. But in some sort of magically odd way, it’s that same disguise that can inspire you. Because while you may not know their names or take note of the spark that flew as the train took off or the light turned green – you know that in just another minute, you can feel it again. The energy, the electricity of the streets makes you realize that opportunity exists everywhere. Possibilities are actually quite endless and enduring – if you’re open enough to let them happen.

And if you believe one simple thing – he’s out there. Somewhere. Right now. He may be breathing the same air, looking at the same spot in that big blue August sky, wondering where you are, too. He could be half-way around the world or literally next door. He could be a block away or someplace really far away. Regardless of where he is or where he’s going – the comforting truth is that yes, yes, yes — he is out there. And one day, out of nowhere…he’ll find his way next to you.

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A Tale of Two Psychics

Once upon a time after a boozy brunch with J, I had the bright idea to see a $10 psychic in Soho. J is oddly into metaphysical ideas, just as I am, so he happily obliged — even if it was the mimosas motivating him to go. Her name was Nicole and her eyes were so blue they were almost transparent, and as soon as I sat down she asked:

Who is Mr. Possibility who broke your heart last year? (Though, she said his name, not his blog alias).

Stunned – I answered her question as briefly as I could, since my mom advised never to give much information to a psychic if I wanted an accurate reading. She continued to shock me with her revelations: I was a writer, I moved to NYC from the South, I recently traveled to a tropical place, I generally was pretty happy and things would only get better for me. She also noted that I would meet the man for me within three months, marry in three years and have three children.

I left her tiny studio, unable to piece together words and scared that if I said such incredible things out loud, they would surely not come true. A week later, I enticed my group of friends to see her, promising we’d get frozen yogurt afterwards if they’d reveal all she outlined. When they came out with wild eyes, crazily sharing what this now infamous woman said about their lives, I started to think that maybe, just maybe she had some merit about her.

Ironically enough, the very next day, I was invited to see a more well-known medium and psychic, Thomas John, for my job at iVillage. (Read my post about it here!). Scarily, his words almost matched hers – even to the letter. They both predicted that the guy I’d end up with would begin with a certain letter in his name (not necessarily his first name, but maybe his middle, last or a nickname). (I’m a little too superstitious to share what it is – but you better believe I’m looking out for it these days and should I end up with a dude with that name, I’ll spill it.)

Following his reading – where he named specific family members and detailed events from my past, along with some pretty amazing predictions for my future – I could barely think about anything else at dinner with E. And because she’s lovely, she put up with my ramblings through an entire pitcher of sangria. Now that almost a month has passed since the week of the psychics, I’m still almost as excited as I was then. I can’t say that I believe each and every single thing they said or promised will actually come-to-be, but I will give them props for one, huge turnaround in my dating life: I’ve got my mojo back.

Maybe it never quite left exactly, but I’m noticing my head a bit higher, my eyes mighty wider, my thoughts more romantic and my spirits brighter. It may be the shimmer of the July sun, the way my heart seems to be expanding or just the way I’m growing beyond things that used to haunt me – but the past month, I’ve felt so different, so new…

…so me.

I hope the psychics are right about most of the things they predicted for my life – but I also realistically know that they won’t be entirely accurate. And for that, I’m thankful – and so looking forward to whatever happens tomorrow, next week and ten years from now. It’s the element of intrigue paired with the notion that so many things are out of your control and out of sight, that gives you hope. Because, if you would have asked me a year ago where I’d be today — I couldn’t have illustrated the beautiful state I’m in now. I wouldn’t have been able to predict everything – the good, the bad, the stressful, the incredible – that happened since last summer. I do believe psychics have gifts and that some things are predestined by something greater than us all, but most of our future and nearly all of our happiness is dependent on us. And if you exude goodness, if you have faith in the things that mean the most to you, those things happen in some oddly perfect way that will catch you by surprise (even if you are looking out for one single part of the alphabet daily).

I will say – to their astonishing credit – I did meet someone in July. But it’s only time’s sweet rhythm that will tell if he’s just another guy or if he is indeed, this Mr. July that the tale of the two psychics predicted.

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Why, Oh Why, Can’t I?

At the number 1 stop I board and arrive at, there’s a man who plays the guitar. He’s a little thing — probably no taller than me — and he wears a hat, even in this terribly unbearable heat. But he isn’t homeless or at least, he doesn’t appear to be struggling. From the tone of his voice and the sincerity that it rings through the tunnel, you wouldn’t call him anything but happy. He’s been there in the mornings when I’m catching the train to work, and in the early hours of the weekends when I drag myself out of bed to log a few miles at the gym.

Now that he recognizes me, he always nods while granting me a glimpse at some of the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen, along with a smile to match it. I’ve given him a few dollars here and there, and I’m tempted to buy the CDs he has on display (now after writing this, I have to!) – but mostly, I just stand and watch. And of course, I listen.

He doesn’t have great variety in his musical selection – in fact, in the year-plus I’ve lived in this apartment, I’ve only heard him sing two songs. I don’t mind because they just happen to be some of my favorite melodies: “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “What a Wonderful World.” Most of the time, I have to remind myself not to sing along because I know the lyrics to both, and even though I’ve heard his variations of these classic tunes countless times, I still stop whatever I’m reading, doing or listening to – and give him my undivided attention. (Along with some sweet grins, too.)

Last night, while attempting to survive the smoldering underground station on the way to the gym, I glanced across the platform and saw him warming up on the downtown track. He nodded at a few fans and sat down to begin “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Though he was three lanes away from me, I could hear him perfectly and within a few seconds, he noticed me standing and waved at me. I waved back, leaned against one of the columns and he watched me listen until the uptown train broke his view.

When the air conditioning of the cart soothed me, I thought about the words I’ve overlooked so many times, no matter how much joy they bring when they ring in my ears: somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue. Somewhere over the rainbow, the dreams that you dare to dream, really do come true.

I’m lucky enough to say at a young age that I’ve achieved so many goals, so many things I’ve always wanted…are mine. While I’ll always say hard work and determination get you far – it’s your heart and your humbleness that keeps you there. I feel so fortunate that I wanted to be a writer and editor in New York – and I am. I wanted to explore the place I’ve loved for as long as I can remember, and now it’s my daily stomping ground. I wanted to feel comfortable in my own skin and accept myself for whoever I am at whatever point in my life I happen to be at — and for the first time (in maybe ever) – I feel that way.

But then… there’s this little thing called love.

Sure, I’m not that gotta-have-a-boyfriend girl I was when I moved here. I’m not that person who wrote that very first blog on these pages. I’m not even the broken-hearted woman I was just a few months ago. I’ve found a peace – and dare I say it, a happiness – with being single. I’ve danced with strangers and kissed them because it felt right then – even if I wouldn’t see them again. I’ve walked to the gym baring just a sports bra and yoga pants, being proud of my size-6 curves instead of trying to hide or diet them. I’ve said “yes” at a late night invitation to an open mic with my roommates, not because I thought I’d find some magical encounter, but because I wanted to support people I care about. I’m not defining myself by the men who have hurt me or the ones I’ve liked, only to find they weren’t as into me as I’ve wished they were. I’m not really worrying too awful much about meeting someone shiny-and-new, either (though I have an inkling Mr. July will eventually show his handsome face this summer — but more on that later).

And yet, even though it’s not a priority, even if it doesn’t bother me, even if it’s much, much (much!) easier for me to fly solo — the simple truth is that dating is hard. Maybe it’s not as much dating – as it is daring to keep dreaming.

Or rather, daring to keep hoping. For something that there’s really, truly, sadly, no guarantee that it’ll come true.

Especially when there are instances or experiences that seem like they prove it: when a guy you completely forgot about pops into your life and asks you to drinks, but then turns out to be a dud who can’t even plan an hour ahead of time. Or when you spot a guy on the subway looking at his girlfriend (or wife) with such love in his eyes that you realize no one has ever looked at you quite like that, with quite that look. Or when your friends start pairing up and spill the beans that they’ve found the one they want to spend their life with, and you have a hard time committing to Saturday night plans. Or when you’re sitting next to one of your strongest, loveliest of friends and you can see the same disappointment on her face that you often find on your own, and you know that probably for the both of you, it won’t be the last time you stomach such an emotion.

It isn’t easy – but they (those annoyingly adorable coupled folks) tell us it’s worth it. That it all happens for a reason (yeah, yeah), and that one day it’ll just happen… if you have patience. You smile and roll your eyes (either figuratively or later in the presence of your single friends) – and you keep on going. You keep on dating. You keep getting to know people. You try new things. You move on. You keep learning.

You keep daring that same dream. You keep hoping for it…because maybe it really is out there.

Maybe its over city scapes or the Garden Gate. Over warm countrysides or waiting in the evening’s tide. Maybe it’s over in the next cart or just anticipating when it’ll start. Or maybe it’s just across the room or in places new, places you knew. Or it could just be inside of you. And that dream you dared to dream, awaits, for someone like you.

Because if bluebirds can fly, if strangers can find each other, if so many before me can fall in love with the right man, why, oh why, can’t I? Why, oh why, can’t you?