Tag Archives: Life

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The New Yorker Test

Teetering in five-inch heels I got from a discount Dillard’s store in North Carolina, I waited patiently for my friend N on the corner of 50th and 9th, nervous about spending the evening with strangers. But when you’re fresh to the city you love and dying to make friends, you grin and bear it, and if you’re smart, garnish yourself with tawdry jewelry and a push-up bra since you’re hanging out with an ensemble of fabulously gay men.

As he always does, N greeted me with his gracious Southern smile, admired my womanly-curves and hooked my arm as he led the way. A few hours — and a pitcher of mojitos — later, I found myself far from nervous and close to falling madly in love my new-found posse of gorgeous men who will never want to have sex with me. After they grew bored of the first joint, we stumbled North to find our next place and the inevitable question was asked: how long have you been in New York?

Even through the haze of alcohol and cheesy-goodness, I knew this was the determining factor that I brought upon myself — because I had done something that wasn’t characteristically city like. Perhaps it was the brightly colored dress I was wearing or the way my speech becomes lazier as the night continues, making my North Carolina vernacular no longer disguisable. Or maybe it was the cheerful attitude that made me starry-eyed over the Empire State building, or rather, my willingness to admit my splendor for Manhattan instead of an empathetic defiance.

Three months, I replied cautiously, sure of the criticism that would follow, or worse, tips for success that I’ve heard countless times. Or warnings of how I may fail if the city rejects me – just what I want to hear when my savings account is dry. To my surprise though, this tall, dark-haired man with eyes lined with liquid ash didn’t do anything but nod knowingly and say, Ah, I remember that time. If you’re lucky, you’ll never lose that love for the city. I haven’t and it’s been ten years. So, I’m a New Yorker now.

Curious to why a decade determined your status as a Yankee, I asked about his time frame. He didn’t offer much of an explanation, other than that’s just the way it is, that if you can hang out in this place for that long, you must be dedicated or ready to move cross-country. Since he was the former, he considered himself part of the crowd that avoided the rolling crowds, who knew how to order a proper bagel, who could catch the train right on time and has permission to shed judgment on, well, anything that’s not New York.

If I go by his standards, I still have eight years until I’m officially a New Yorker. But I disagreed with him then, and I still do today — on the anniversary of the day I moved here.

What it means to be a New Yorker changes depending on who you talk to. One of my editors, E, says it’s when you walk down any given street and say I remember when that coffee shop used to be there, but now it’s down on fifth. If you can comment on the ever-changing storefronts that scatter the terrain — only a handful making their mark and staying put — then you’ve been here long enough to recall some sort of New York history. If the fact that I still mourn the first place I discovered large iced lattes for only $1.50 (I know!) and curse the laundry mat that there’s now, then I’m a New Yorker.

My friend B says it’s when you pass by the constant barrage of interestingly-dressed individuals (to put it politely), street performers and arguments without pausing because it seems normal. After you observe the city and its people for even a short while, you see how every character has its place and how we all create the brilliant tapestry that makes it such a one-of-a-kind destination. Everyone has a place here, and if you come prepared to make it here, you’re probably an artist of some sort, so those who are just trying to express themselves in their own way, don’t seem odd to you – they are actually, inspiring. If B’s theory is accurate, then I’ve been a New Yorker since day one.

J – a London native with an adorable accent – says it’s when you stop needing to look up directions because you can navigate the train system. Or more importantly, you know exactly where to stand so you always get off closest to the exit you need. While I’ve mastered the art of knowing where the doors open and close, and which cart is designed for my stop – I still have to Google how to get from point A to point B when I’m off the grid system and into the scary streets of the Villages and boroughs, where numbers stop and actual street names return. So, this way, I’m not a New Yorker.

Originally from Seaford, NY, but now a born-again North Carolinian who never lost her Northern ties, A says you’re a New Yorker when seeing a rat doesn’t faze you. Ironically enough, when I interned in New York, I didn’t see one rodent the entire three months I was here. And then, when I bought my Metrocard the day I moved here and caught my first train, a family of little monsters scurried on the tracks. It didn’t bother me then because I had been waiting to actually see one, instead, I smiled in delight that they actually existed. In this sense, I suppose I’m a New Yorker – a tad crazy and all.

If I want to be approved by the How I Met Your Mother crew, I’d have to steal a cab from someone else, cry on the subway and kill a cockroach with my bare hands. I admittedly have been that girl sobbing on the train – both sober and not, but I haven’t stolen a taxi from anyone (I’ve given mine up before, though) and I refuse to ever get that close to a cockroach – gross! So maybe I’m not worthy to be a New Yorker on television (though I’d really love to meet Jason Segel.)

Then there are others, like my friend R says you’ve made the official transition when you realize how fast you walk, or as N says, when you notice your own voice sounding different because the nasal tones have rubbed off on you. Since I pride myself on my pace — even in heels — and the fact that you wouldn’t know I was from North Carolina unless you asked (or I was tipsy), I get a few more points toward being a New Yorker by these standards.

But just like they each had those I’m part of the city, now epiphanies- which I like to call Louie Armstrong moments — I had my own not too long ago.

Next to my gym, there’s a Dunkin Donuts coffee that I always go to after my morning run. Not for a doughnut, but for my favorite iced coffee, ever. I consider it a treat for dragging myself out of bed on Saturday and Sunday, hangover or no hangover. When I walked in this particular afternoon, there was a long line that I patiently waited through, not one to give up on something as precious as the best coffee in the world. As I approached the counter, I saw my iced coffee waiting on me – complete with a dash of skim milk and three Splendas, just as I like it. I giggled at how predictable I was as the lady I always chat with after my runs asks about my weekend and slides over my made-to-order java. After I paid, I grabbed a straw to head out and the man behind the counter said sweetly, “Have a nice day…in New York.” He smiled his toothless grin and I returned the gesture, knowing full well that now, my day will be pretty great.

And that was it – I realized I was a regular.

When you first move to the city, you’re so enthralled with this story you’re creating: The girl who moved to New York to make it big! The girl who could make it in NYC, so she could make it anywhere! But after a while, not only does the story become your reality, you stop writing the pages because you realize it’s not just about you anymore. And you’re not just part of your own story – you’re a piece of everyone’s life around you, regardless if you call them friend, neighbor, co-worker, ex-boyfriend, editor or stranger.

To those at that Dunkin Donuts, I’m the girl who comes on the weekends for iced coffee, no matter the weather. To the woman I ride the elevator with in the mornings, I’m the young lady who kneels down to pet her dog, Domino. To my friends, I’m not the gal who moved to be a writer, I am a writer, but also someone they can talk to, someone who makes at least a small part of their life in New York better because I’m here.

My friend K says anyone who pays New York City taxes is a New Yorker – you don’t have to be here a certain amount a time or experience anything, because the beauty of this city is that it’s different for everyone. My version of New York, the story that I create and the chronicles that I’m part of, will never be the same for anyone but me. And though I may be a tad biased, I think it’s a love story…for anyone. Even the New Yorkers who have lived here their whole lives, especially if they stay on the island or its boroughs.

The pages, the characters, the chapters, the settings and the plot change depending on who you’re talking to –like with any love story. Some romances are short lived and feverish, others are those complicated tales that end up changing your life and your perspective. For others, it’s all about the passion and for most; it’s mainly about the timing. But it’s a love story, all the same.

And when you finally see how your story and all the stories around you connect in such a subtly powerful way, that’s when you’re a New Yorker. That’s when you know you’ve made it here. That how you know you’re home.

Happy Anniversary New York, I love you more than I ever have before!

My top 10 favorite pictures from this year in the city…

Overlooking the skyline from Mr. P's old place in Brooklyn.

August 2011 - So happy to be at my dream job!

Met a new amazing friend this year, A.

Admiring the skyline with two of the greatest girls in the world, M & A.

Goofing around at Lucky Shops after a lovely New York brunch.

No evil allowed at Thanksgiving in the city. But plenty of wine, obviously.

M moved into the Starter Apartment -but also into my heart. The city wouldn't be the same without her!

Happy New Year 2012! Not about kissing a guy at midnight - but about being with the gals!

No New York, of any decade, has ever been complete without friends.

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My Heart is Like a Skyline

I have a surprise for you, he whispered as he playfully kneaded my knee before returning both hands to the steering wheel.

What kind of surprise? I teased, careful not to distract him from staying on the road but finding it difficult to look anywhere other than his face. The moonlight — or maybe the city lights — were casting blue shadows across his cheek, making his eyes clearer and more prominent than ever. This was only the third or fourth time I had been in his car and other than riding in taxis on nights of drunken stupor, he was the only person I trusted enough to drive me in the congested streets of New York.

Just a surprise, don’t worry, he reassured and smiled. I could still see the dimples, even at this hour and in this light. I wondered how I made it here, traveling back from Queens after meeting a near-stranger’s family. Perhaps stranger isn’t the correct term, I would definitely call him a friend, but my heart knew that soon wouldn’t be the case. It was almost December, three months into our whatever-we-were-doing and I could feel myself trying to hold onto the platonic title desperately. I knew it was a worthless, wasted effort, but that’s never stopped me before.

There it is, he said with trickery in his voice. I looked at him, confused by what type of surprise could possibly be in this oddly-shaped box-like car. He nodded toward the right and I followed, only to gasp. There it was — my city. Every building twinkled as if it was winking at me: Look Lindsay, look where you live! He slowed down – as much as someone can on the expressway – and I tried to take it all in: the Chrysler, the Empire State, the jumbles of buildings that no one knows that names of, but everyone loves. Giddily, I looked over at him, only to find him smiling, thoroughly impressed that he was the first person to show me this view, to see my favorite place in the world, so close, yet far enough to seem as magical as it did when it was only a dream, not the address I put on the back of envelopes.

Stand up, he said while opening his sunroof. Stand up? That’s way too dangerous, these cars are going way too fast, I argued and turned my attention back to the skyline. Hurry Tigar, stand up! I’ll hold your legs and go slow. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you, he reassured and nudged my knee again. Still terrified that I may split in two, fall into the road, be pulled over by the NYPD or something worse I won’t let myself think about, I agreed by pursing my lips and shaking my head as I unbuckled my seat belt.

The November air wasn’t cold, but had just enough nip to wake me completely up as it smashed against my face. I felt his right arm wrap around my knees and I suddenly remembered he was also driving and said a little prayer that we both made it back to Manhattan alive. Then I remembered, Manhattan, and looked over at my home. Instantly, I outstretched my hand toward it, as if standing up and feeling the night itself could make it more reachable than inside a vehicle. I squinted to see as far as I could and though I’m sure I didn’t catch any glimpse at all, I imagined where in that big ol’ place was my little ‘ol place. The street we were heading, where the man securing my legs would wrap himself around my body in a tiny twin bed, and there, in that embrace that’s becoming far too familiar, I’d fall asleep easier than I ever have before. Easier than I have since.

Though I would never let anyone or anything change what New York means to me – it’s hold on my heart and the way it makes it race are incomparable to any other feeling – for a while, the skyline at night was something that made my stomach turn. That night, way before Mr. Possibility had become an actual possibility or my boyfriend, he showed me a view I’d always wanted to see, but never had. And maybe more so than the sight itself, he made me feel secure in a place that in many ways, was still so uncertain. In all the happy memories I have of our relationship, that simple night before lust became love, will always be one of my favorites.

And though I live in this boisterous city, part of the moving dots that make the skyline alive, I actually don’t see it all spread out before me very often. It’s rare to be so far removed from it that you get that view you send to others on postcards you buy in Times Square. So when I went out for sushi in Long Island City and we took photos in front of it, I felt that old pang and tried to erase thoughts of him. Or when a new pal dragged me out to Williamsburg, which brings out even deeper wounds and I saw the view of downtown, I choked down the tears by rambling about everything I knew about Brooklyn. And coming home from a trip to the mountains, where I laughed and played in the snow with one of my dearest friends in New York, I only glanced at the skyline for a moment, sure she’d see the disappointment in my eyes if she met them.

But Saturday night, something changed.

Though I tend to stay on my own island, I took three trains to help M move-in with A. Following many failed attempts to get IKEA to deliver furniture at the time they were paid to do so, we all finally gave in, drank Coronas and laid on the futon/makeshift bed and chatted. When the clock struck 12, I headed to the station, feeling equally energized and relaxed by the company of my best friends. A few steps and one Metro-swipe later, I found myself on the platform, hoping I didn’t get mugged in Queens, and cursing myself for having such an awful stereotype of a borough many fine folks live, including my favorite girls.

After finding the warmest place to protect me from the chilly winds on the above-ground platform, I turned to my right and there it was. My skyline at night. Cautiously, I walked to the other end of the platform, fighting the cold because I wanted to get as close to the view as I could. I noticed the color of the Empire State and wondered who had picked it. I saw the train tracks leading into town. I felt that same splendor I’ve always had when I see something – or someone – I love and there, in Sunnyside, Queens, a piece of my heart healed.

And for the first time since we broke up, this spectacular architectural composition meant nothing more and nothing less than something I love. It belonged to me again – not tarnished with sour thoughts or jagged pieces left to be put together. It wasn’t haunted by the lover I once I had or by the memories I shared with him, but it became free of anything other than that shine it’s always had, even if I tried to escape it.

And though I was freezing and desperately wanted the warm shelter of the train, I stood out on the platform peering at the skyline until it arrived. Just to feel my heart…feel. Just to savor the night and the city that’s always been mine – and only mine – to begin with. Just to realize that my heart is like the skyline – something I let shine for others to see, but at the end of the night, when the sun starts to rise and the wounds begin to heal, it opens up, bright and brilliant again, ready for another night, ready for all that’s yet to come.

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It’s Funny That Way

I’m alone in New York. It’s raining and cloudy and though it’s half-way through March, it’s chilly outside and my luggage is getting wet. I’m wondering if I’ll like the girl whose couch I’m crashing on. I’m hoping she’ll like me. I’m praying that cab driver — who took forever on my very first ride in NYC — dropped me off at the right place in Brooklyn. God knows I don’t know where the hell I am. She’s waving and smiling, helping me carry everything I own in three red pull-along suitcases up two flights of stairs. I’m trying to fall asleep on a futon, trying not to think about the tough road ahead of me, trying to get comfortable in a stranger’s home, trying to make all of my parts to stop worrying myself into a hot little frenzy that won’t let me be productive tomorrow. It’s finally starting. It’s finally, finally starting — I’m here. I’m finally here. I never thought I’d get here.

Life’s funny that way, I thought.

I work at a magazine. Sure, it’s something no one has ever heard of. It’s not really prestigious. I don’t know anything about its subject matter: small business. But, it’s a job! I’m an Editorial Assistant, I’m writing, I’m web-producing, I’m going to networking events, I’m working. I. Am. Working! I get paychecks and pay stubs, tax-free subway cards and people who count on me to arrive on time at 9 a.m., coffee in hand. I’m learning why coffee is so freaking fabulous. I’m discovering why it’s absolutely necessary for my daily existence. I’m meeting new people but it’s such a slow process. I feel really alone sometimes. I miss North Carolina when it’s quiet in that itty-bitty apartment in Harlem, where it’s too scary to go outside but too hot to stay inside, and I can’t afford an air conditioner because I’m an editorial assistant at a trade publication that’s not on newsstands and doesn’t pay very much. But I’m employed. I’m employable. I did it. I didn’t think I’d actually get a job in publishing — everyone said it was impossible.

Life’s funny that way.

Why am I still single? I’ve lived in this damn city for eight months and I’ve barely gone on any good dates – none worthy of commentary or thought, anyway. I haven’t even had sex. Ugh. That’s so pathetic to think about, so I won’t. It was my birthday yesterday and not a single guy bought me a drink or asked me to dance or inappropriately commented on getting in my “birthday” suit as I sorta-desperately wanted them too. It’s been such a long, long time since I’ve felt any connection, any spark, any anything with anyone and I’m starting to wonder if it’s impossible. I’ve never quite liked being single, though I’ve held that status far more times than I’ve been committed. I’m tired of this crying and this longing, this self-defeating attitude, this basing-my-every-breathing-moment-and-every-ounce-of-confidence on having a guy or not having a guy. I’m so exhausted and I’m not the only one, that I know for sure. I think I’ll write about this. I think I’ll start a blog. Yeah, a blog. I’ll put it on Facebook and see if anyone relates. Writing a blog won’t be that hard or take up too much time, right?

Life’s funny that way.

I’m starting to not mind being single – maybe the blog is actually working as I had hoped. I’m feeling stronger and brighter, put-together and put-in-line — this was an incredible idea, Lindsay. Good job. You even made it to the homepage of WordPress — look at you! Maybe this could be something you really get into? But then there’s that guy. Oh, the boy. Why do I always meet someone intriguing when I’m trying to avoid anything distracting? I didn’t like him when I met him. I couldn’t decide if I found him attractive or not, if he was my style or out of my league. Then I really liked him. Then I slept with him. Then I couldn’t get him out of my head – or out of my bed – and then I fell in love. He kinda did, too, in his own little sick, odd, twisted way. Everything tingled and twinged from the back of my neck to behind my knees, where everything feels shaky, yet so certain. Love boiled into my skin and turned me around-and-around, up-and-down, inside-out, sideways and moving forward with a hundred bolts of butterflies shooting from my stomach and clouding my eyes into a crystallized rose hue that I wanted to look through more than any other view in this lovely city. I was mesmerized and hypnotized, tricked into a beautiful little fool with every naive bone in my body. I let him consume me, my blog, my thoughts and my heart – day-by-day, against any criticism and any concern raised. And then I realized that maybe, this blog wasn’t working, after all.

Life’s funny that way.

I’m so heartbroken and embarrassed, I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m tossing and turning at night. I’m putting my heart to sleep. I’m sad that year of writing the blog is over. I’m reminded by his voice and his touch, his smell and his bittersweet memories on all of these streets. These streets are still my streets, my New York, my city, my life that I carved out for myself – but it feels like he’s written all over it. But what’s left of us? A handful of URLs that’ll forever live online? Promises that are tainted with emotional infidelity and a wandering eye that made me feel unnoticeable? Late night, drunken text messages to a phone number I’ve annoyingly memorized and remember when I need to send something cruel or pitiful, or for when he sends me flowers, again, for no reason, even after I ask him no to? Our love – or at least some version of it – is butchered in dozens of emails I shouldn’t have sent and he shouldn’t have responded to. I’m catching trains and deliberately missing them, haunting my phone and cursing it in the same hour, doing all that I can to move on. I’m wishing him the best, I’m wishing him that happiness he’s been searching for…I’m wishing he finds love. I guess. I’m hoping we can one day be friends, but then again, maybe I’m not. I’m in between the hardest part of letting go and the moment when my give-a-damn runs out. And damnit, I’m missing him – though I’d never admit it to any of my friends.

Life’s funny that way.

I have the dream job! The DREAM job! Someone is paying me to write about things I would (and have) write about for free. I go to bed early to make sure I make it to work on time, I still light up when I see my own byline. I’m pinching myself that it all came together after this summer. After I was laid off from the job I despised, left to wait for someone to pick me up from Dunkin’ Donuts where I sat with a suitcase and my desk packed into a grocery bag. After the summer where I watched my savings slowly disappear after a year-and-a-half of building them up. After a summer of free happy hours because they were free, and wondering which percent I’d eventually fall into. But then it happened – an edit test and three interviews later – the job I loved, loved me back. And now I feel alive, now I feel like I can do anything. Now I feel supported and considered, overly satisfied and eternally grateful that something so wonderful happened to me. I never thought I’d get exactly what I wanted before I hit the big 2-5, but I did.

Life’s funny that way.

I have the greatest friends in the world. For the first time, maybe ever, I’m thriving on being single, instead of hating it. I’m not dating for dinners, but dating if the man is worthy of someone as precious as me. I’m reminding to talk to myself like my greatest fan would, I’m reminding myself to eat healthier, I’m reminding myself of what I want so I don’t go back to the things I think I want. I’m running and running, trying to find the next adventure, trying to get a head-start on the next life lesson that’ll throw me a curve ball that I know I’ll never be ready for. Because I never am. I’m making lists of things and places, trips and dreams I want to accomplish. I’m feeling like I’m running out of time and that time is moving so fast that I can’t grasp it. I can’t hold onto a week before it slips away, I can’t check anything off my bucket list when the bucket feels like it’s close by. I’m wanting to travel and go to Spain. Or Australia or Ireland or Costa Rica. I’m wanting to just go – but then I’m wanting to stay and enjoy New York more than I am. I’m wondering why my friends are getting married or getting divorced and I’m still wondering when to get started down that track. So, I’m pushing myself to do more. To see more. To be more. To have more. To give more. To grow more. But then also to do less and rest; to see less and appreciate the present; to have less and make do with what I own; to take more and not be afraid to demand what I want. To grow less and stay put, at this age, at this moment, at this hour, in this apartment in this city, getting ready to sleep to go to the job I love, single and satisfied being in the company of me, myself and I. I’m never quite enough, yet always more than enough to handle. I always have exactly what I need but I want more, though I know, I probably need less. I just want to keep on going – and going – and going.

The most beautiful thing about life is that it always changes, my mom says. It’s funny that way. 

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The Girl Who Changed It All

Once upon a time in a far-away land called Manhattan, there lived a man.

He was a favorite at his firm, the comedian of his group of friends and the best uncle he could be to his nephews. He was attractive in the most all-American of ways, chiseled and fit, and blue-eyed with hair that curled at the ends. He had no trouble courting and finding women to share his bed, and several tried to claim his attention too. But that — that was the one thing he couldn’t do. As wide as his mind would open as he traveled the world and as big as his checks grew over the years to the charities he admired, the one part of his life that wouldn’t grow was his heart. It had grown weary after a bitter breakup right after college, and as he approached the big 3-0, he was happy and satisfied with all he had made for himself, but love just wasn’t in the cards. Sure, he thought about it occasionally — when he had one too many whiskeys with his colleagues or when he suffered through an unimpressive date with another tall, thin-someone from somewhere, who didn’t do much more than turn him on with her looks. He remembered the days when he wanted a family, and sometimes finds himself jealous of his siblings who seemed to of mastered the home life without much consideration for their career.

He was smarter, he thought. He had focused on the right things and didn’t let something as silly, as transitional, as fleeting as an attractive broad shake his priorities. He made the right choice  — if it had been a decision at all, that is — and without a doubt, he’d be running the company before the next decade was over. And that soft-something to come home to? It’d be a nice blanket of cash to rest easy on, and to give those around him all the monetary needs to be happy. He’d be a great uncle. He’d be a game-changer in his industry. He’d have an amazing apartment in midtown. He would always have incredible sex. But love? He could do without it.

Or at least he thought.

She was always the odd one of her group of friends. A little distracted by her dreams instead of living in the here-and-now. She didn’t realize her beauty or depend on it to get her where she wanted to go, as many women do. Loveliness drenched through her body, all the way to the soul — she always captivated those who knew her by the depth of which she cared. She was successful in her own right, but in a way that wasn’t typically considered remarkable. She didn’t fret though – she had come a long way and if she made any difference in the world, she hoped it was by helping someone else. She loved to draw and missed the girly-girl gene, often sporting casual attire that suited her lifestyle, but wasn’t what most would call trendy. Independent to the bone, she went backpacking through Europe, spent a year in Australia just because she could, and skipped the Ivy League college to study art via the streets of Venice. But she was brilliant. She soaked up the energy of those around her and men often fought to win the upper hand. She never let them – while she believed in love and knew one day she’d wed, she was in no rush and felt like it should just work itself out. It would be easy. She knew what she was worth and that she would know when she met someone who knew it too.

For him, she was the girl who changed it all.

They met in an ordinarily, extra-ordinary way — by chance. The chemistry was unmistakable, those passing by would have sworn the couple had known each other for years. They felt it, too. Instantly. She was careful not to give too much away and he hungered after the chase because he finally felt alive. That spark that had blown out so many moons ago, started to ignite and he couldn’t deny it. If there was to be love, if he was to love, if there was such a thing called fate after all, it had to be with her. Because she arrived, he could arrive at a different decision. His entire life changed course – now things like family, romance and nights-spent-in cooking and making love throughout the early hours of the morning were far more enticing than working longer or going in on the weekends. Her art had never been better – she felt inspired and warm, almost in a constant state of awe that she had found him. He counted his blessings every night she fell asleep in his arms, naked and entranced that he really could be one of those guys who found the girl who made him a better man. A girl who changed everything.

This is a storyline you’ve heard before. It’s one you’ve watched, one you’ve read in books with pages you couldn’t stop turning. It’s the story you’ve believed with all your heart from the first time you heard it. It’s the same story you tell yourself when you’re unsatisfied with your relationship but really want it to work out. So you wait. Because you can be the girl who changes the man. You can be the sparkling, captivating, irresistible woman who changes a darkened man into a lighting bolt. Who can change the one who refuses love into the one who seeks it. The gal who can not only mend a broken heart that’s been down for years, but you can give it a new life. You can make it better than it was before. We all want to be the one who changes a toxic bachelor into a hopeful romantic, simply because we are so wonderful.

Because if we can do that – if we can be that girl we’ve watched and read about then we must really be something. We must be glittering with golden specs, eliminating the black-and-white and bursting with color. If we can be that intoxicating, if we can break the mold and break in the man, then we’re really that remarkable.

I’ve wanted to be that girl.

I’ve believed I could love someone so much that they would change their heart and love me just as much in return. I knew if I could do anything, it was being kind and understanding. It was being so alluring, so entrancing, that no matter what – a man would come out of his shell, out of his own standards and see that he had to believe in love, because he believed in me. If I could get a man – a man I loved – to see me like that, then maybe I really was something special. I was determined to be the one who could make everything  sensible for someone else until I realized I was already the girl who changed it all…for me.

I have been brave enough to try things that truly terrified me – from moving to New York to falling madly in love. I have been strong enough to change my mind, even when I didn’t know where my new direction would take me. I have changed my style, my opinion, my home and my attitude time-and-time again, without worrying if it was right or wrong. I have healed my own heart so that love can find it again. I have opened my eyes to see the truth, instead of getting lost in make-believe. I have become something special, without any validation or any approval from any man, or anyone.

I have been the best me that I could be, without ever needing a man to change me or to prove to me that I’m great. So while my life may one day become even more of a romantic comedy than my friends say it is — if I do happen to meet someone who decides to give love another go, just because of me – then I’m happy I could help. But I don’t need a man who needs me to change it all for him to make me happy with the path I’ve picked and the me I’ve become.

I’ve already become the girl who changed it all, by changing myself.

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The Crack in the Door

When Mr. Possibility left to go overseas the first time, he wanted to stay with me his last night in New York. At that point there had been no discussions of what we were, no title, no commitment, no anything – we were friends enjoying each other’s company and making no plans for anything more.

But I was falling for him.

It was the time when everything about him seemed refreshing, when our conversations were long and our nights were easily and sweetly passed sharing the tiny twin bed I used to have. It was when I had no expectations but still had hope of all of the things that could be. It was before I memorized every dimple, every line, each stare and every rhyme — it was before there was an “us”, before there was anything to be counted on. Or anything for him to be accountable for. It was before he explored other possibilities and before I realized his impossibilities vastly surpassed his opportunities.

The night before, we hopped from bar to bar, then ended up getting ice cream, even in near-freezing weather. I noticed the blush in his cheeks, the stubble on his chin and the easy laughter that made it so damn difficult to not admire him. He talked about his travels overseas and I listened intently, hanging onto his promises of flying me over to visit in a country that I barely knew anything about. Little did I know his invitation was already extended to another, but that would be a lesson I’d learn after hours on Skype and a bouquet of tulips sent to my home in North Carolina (with a few buds intended for my mother’s 50th birthday, mind you). Bastard.

Even though I wasn’t his girlfriend at the time, he asked to stay the night, promising to keep me warm and hold me as tightly as we fell asleep. I obliged, unable to dismiss his affections and terrified that this loving feeling growing inside of me would disappear just as he plane took flight. And so, I welcomed him into my miniature studio, on the right side of my tiny bed and into the smallest part of my heart, that eventually would spread to consume most of the organ that truly defines who I am.

When the clock struck 5 a.m. and the 6’2-200-pound handsome lug lifted himself off of me suddenly, I blinked my eyes to see my kitchen lamp on and that same lug pulling on socks and trousers. Too tired to greet him with much more than a sigh, I smiled in his general direction and closed my eyes again, hoping to meet sleep easily and ignore the sad good-bye that I knew was inevitable. In what seemed like hours, moments later he greeted my eyelids with dozens of soft kisses and cupped my face with hands big enough to swallow my cheeks as he whispered, “I’ll see you soon, Tigar. I’ll miss you so much. Come visit me.” I responded with a sweet nudge and let him walk away.

Less than a thought later, I opened my eyes only to notice a light shining into my room. In his hurry, Mr. Possibility had left my door cracked, allowing the hallway to look inside my apartment, along with all who passed my door. Groggily, I stumbled to secure the lock and curled back into bed, cursing the winter weather and an investment bank for taking a man I was falling for, far, far away.

When the New York sun found its way into the sky and made me greet a day I didn’t wish to meet, I peered out the bay window by my bed, wishing that warm body was still near me and dreaming up all the ways I could possibly see him overseas. What book is best about the Middle East? What would I wear? Would this mean we were something more? Would I become his girlfriend? Was I ready for that? I curled up into the quilt that came with the apartment, and after deciding I should wash it, I exhaled into it, missing his smell and missing the way his body moved in his sleep. Still buried in a blanket that wasn’t mine to begin with, I shifted my attention to my far-from-grand entrance and remembered the door he left open.

Perhaps it wasn’t intentionally symbolic, or intentional by any means — but in my memory of that moment, I took it as such. I believed it to mean there was a crack in the door, or at least a window ajar. There was an opportunity for something more that I couldn’t foresee. Maybe he was in a rush but maybe it meant so much more – it meant there was a chance for us. A chance for love.

I held onto to that crack in the door for as long as I could, and then a little longer than that. I held onto promises that were broken before they were made, beds that were ruined before they could be tucked in and dreams that died a slow, bitter death – as such unrealistic things often do. I believed in that crack in the door with more faith than I believed in Mr. Possibility – if I could always see how things could change, how the light could really be at the end of a twisted, dark tunnel, than I could make it work. Even after I had left the relationship in the past, I lingered on thoughts of what it could have been, what it should have been, what I wanted it to be — without seeing how the crack was swiftly disappearing into a void. Because I made up illusions that captivated me, I was determined to make them the beautiful reality I had imagined.

The last time I saw him – after giving into an invitation to visit his nieces, a chord he knew would strike me to my core — I watched him climb the stairs to catch his train, knowing it’d be a long time (if ever) I’d see him again. Startled by the idea that I wouldn’t see those dimples or hear his daily anecdotes, or be considered one of his friends or the one who got away,  I snapped out of my stubbornness and followed after him, damning the train that was arriving. As fast as my heels would take me, I reached the platform, only to see him disappear into the cart.

And just as I reached the doors, they closed. I knocked on the window, but he was already tuned into his Blackberry, not facing toward me, but far away, in a place I could never reach — even after a year of loving him with all that I had, despite who he was, and especially who he wasn’t. The train pulled away and the passenger inside watched me lust after him longingly, but Mr. Possibility never noticed.

I never told him, either. What’s there to say when the crack in the door…is sealed shut?

PS: I was amazed with how many Valentine’s were sent last year from all over the world. Your touching words, your kind sentiments and the way you expressed all the things you hope for, as well as all the things that make you so beautiful – were incredible. I hope you will take a moment to write a Valentine about all the things you love about yourself, all the things in the future you can’t wait to experience and what  self-love means to you. I’ll publish your words – along with a link to your blog, if you blog – on Valentine’s Day. Or if you’d rather be anonymous, that’s fine too.

Go here to submit your Valentine. You deserve it. Tell me how sweet it is to be loved by you.