Tag Archives: Life

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Avoidance is Adult Like

When I was six, I loved dressing up in my mom’s old maxi dresses, stuffing my chest to pretend I had breasts, and walk around in plastic high-heels, pretending to be a real woman. When I was sixteen, the freedom of wind in my hair driving old country roads alone was incomparable – I was finally independent, minus an 11 p.m. curfew. When I graduated from college, degree-ed and certified employable, I just knew I’d find a job eventually. I couldn’t wait to have my own little place in my oversized city, eating Ramen, and making ends meet.

I’ve always wanted to be an adult. Except now that I am one.

And some of those things – like having real ladies that fill out dresses and real high-heels that are significantly more delicate than the chunky, plastic ones, are great. I indulge in my curves, I celebrate being a woman, and though I’m not high-maintenance, I’m quite girly. The state of North Carolina, my family, my friends, and pedestrians are overjoyed I don’t drive anymore, but I get the same sense of autonomy when I navigate the city without looking at a map or Googling. And of course, the fact that I’m happier than I’ve ever been, living completely, 110 percent on my own, makes me proud of the path I picked for myself.

But then there are the things about being an adult that no one tells you about.

Like these really difficult, emotionally-draining choices you have to make. The really sticky ones that have awful consequences but in the grand scheme of things, are best for you – even if at the time, when your vision is blurred with mascara tears, you can’t see it. It’s those decisions that you have to remove yourself from, tug at your heart-strings so they loosen enough for you to be realistic, and stand firm in your resolution, even when those heels are shaking and your heart is about to burst into open air from your chest.

Maybe we’re not warned of these difficult decisions because they don’t come around often. They really aren’t all that common, but when they come, they arrive with vengeance. They burst into your everyday, ordinary existence and demand you pay attention to them – stealing you from any other task, every other priority, and get you to the edge of tears in the middle of the afternoon.

But that’s when you reach into your adult tool belt to find your gumption, your pride, and your big girl panties. You swallow that pride in one swift gulp, gather all the gumption you can build, and put on those panties with a mission – you won’t be upset, no, not right now, not today. You’ll make the adult-like decision to avoid the worse –even if it is imminent – until you absolutely, positively have to deal with it.

You’ll distract yourself with long to-do lists that include things you’ll never actually do like clean out the junk drawer and dust the corners of your apartment. And then you’ll overexert yourself into your social life, planning and making happy hour dates, going to dinner and events, spending money you don’t have out of purses you saved for years to buy. You’ll pick up a new project or come up with great entrepreneurial ideas, but never write business plans, and leave the pieces of the masterpiece scattered about your homes until they ultimately end up right back in that junk drawer you never cleaned out.

Avoidance is a vicious circle. And avoidance is very adult like.

If you ignore a problem or a rough-and-tough, life-altering, plan-changing, dream-killing decision with an outcome you just don’t want to face – it’ll eventually go away. The adult, mature thing to do is to believe as such. The adult thing to do is to focus more on pushing our boobs up with push-ups, renting fancy cars for weekend getaways with Zipcar, and dreaming of the day when we’ll be grown up enough to avoid things better than we pretend to do now.

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More Time With Me

It’s the second day of summer and I feel like a slacker. Those two words may seem to go hand-in-hand, but not for me – I had big plans for May through August. And now, I only have two months to make up for lost time.

Time I spent sitting in front of the computer writing this blog. Time I spent sleeping in because I crave the blissful sound of alarm-clock free wake-ups on the weekends. And time I spent sitting around with Mr. Possibility as he mulled over textbooks nearly as tall as me sans-heels, studying for a test he won’t know the results of until past my birthday, past the end of this blog.

It’s funny to me that even I’ve written a dozen articles about dating, vented each and every insignificantly significant detail about my personal life, and given advice to those in love-lemmas – and still, still, I can’t do what I tell other people to do. If asked, I’d always advise to make yourself a priority, to spend more nights a week in your own bed than in your boyfriend’s, and that nights with your girlfriends on the town are much more fun more times than not. I’d say to budget your time, put yourself first, and do your own damn laundry instead of lugging it across the river to his free washer and dryer to avoid the ever-disgusting communal Laundry Day scene.

And yet – with my piles growing consistently taller each day in the corner of my new bedroom, I’ve considered it. I’ve put off plans with my friends to make plans with Mr. P. I’ve gone against every dating rule I’ve read and ever adage I’ve endorsed. But that’s the thing about being a relationship blogger – especially one who called herself an “addict” – it’s hard to swallow your own words. It’s hard to listen when you’re in the situation, no matter how honest you may be with your readers.

With Mr. Possibility out-of-town last weekend, I finally was forced to look at my summer and my choices for what they are. Walking through the park with M (who has a great blog you should check out, I’m LT, if you’re curious), I thought out loud to her: “This is the first time I’ve laid out in Central Park all summer long.” She asked, surprised, “Really? I come all the time.” Maybe it was the green mini-rolling hills dotted with half-naked pale New Yorkers or the character of the park, but in that instance I realized it was time to make more time in my life…with me.

Overindulging myself in overanalyzing, I thought about why exactly I was deciding to spend so much of my moments outside of work with Mr. Possibility. I had invited him to happy hours with my friends, he went with me to North Carolina, his roommate is probably entirely sick of me at this point, and I haven’t spent as many nights as I thought I would in my new apartment -without him, anyway. Do I enjoy his company that much? Do we thrive off all those hours together? Is that what keeps us going?

No, it doesn’t. It causes petty arguments and makes things so comfortable that romance doesn’t have a chance to boil. I knew that going on, I still know that now – so what in the world was I thinking?

I think I was (and am) trying to integrate part of my life into our relationship: here are my friends, here is where I am from, here is what I think, here is what I need, here is how I sleep. And that’s not such a bad thing, in fact it’s rather normal – but it’s easy to get carried away. It’s easy to lose yourself…even on the way to loving yourself.

And so, with the request for a few nights off a week from being a girlfriend (well, you know, still exclusive but not tied to dinner plans or living together), I’m back on track to fulfill my summer to-do list. It includes, but is not limited to – a bubble-q (barbecue and champagne), a trip to Six Flags Jersey (yikes!), more Long Beach visits, sight seeing and bathing in Connecticut, a roaring-20s themed jazz fest, more Central Parking, more…life. More friend time. More time with me. More time to do what I set out to do – enjoy the time I have with me as much as the time I have with others. No matter how possibly wonderful that time can be.

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Be True To Yourself

My very first girlfriend in New York is a gal named E.

We went to the same college, though she’s seven years my senior, so at different times. When I moved, I emailed anyone and everyone I could, asking for job leads and to introduce me to people they knew in New York. As desperately as I wanted to be an editor, I also didn’t want to be alone in my favorite place either. A college newspaper alumnus put me in contact with E and ironically, on the day I was offered my first job, E and I had plans to meet for dinner and drinks.

As a designer who has pieces currently available at Anthropologie and an impeccable sense of style, E may be tiny in stature, but she’s big in heart and personality. When we first met, I was amazed at the easy flow of the conversation and by her tenacious spirit; not to mention she shared the same affinity for the city as I do – a quality that will never be old to me.

We now have drunken memories and inside jokes, trips we’ve taken and friends we’ve introduced one another to – but she’ll always be the first lady I called a girlfriend on this island. For that reason, she’ll always be part of my life.

And also because she’s totally, always, completely herself. She never makes excuses and she does what she says she’ll do, doesn’t do what she says she won’t. Call it stubborn, I call it brilliant and beautiful.

Case and point, this Sunday when E, M, R, and I headed to Long Beach for a day of bathing and bubbly goodness. The weather could not have been more perfect and though the day started with M’s mad dash to catch the departing train (she made it with a minute to spare), it was the perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon: burning our skin into a nice shade of pale/tan and chit-chatting in girl speak. After four hours of laying out, cheeseburgers the size of my face, and ice cream cones overly priced at $3.75 for a single scoop, we caught the train back to Penn.

To pass the hour trip – which we were never charged for luckily enough – we decided to play “Would you rather?” in true mature, 20-something fashion. Of course, this was my idea as I can’t stand idle quietness during any trip, unless its 12 hours long or something absurd like that. Does that make me an obnoxious traveling companion? Probably so. But does that make for good conversation? Totally.

Someone proposed the question of: “Huge diamond or designer dress?” We all traded a very large rock for the gown, but my friend E added in: “You know, I have no desire to have a wedding.” Disgusted, my friend R stammered, “Whaaa? How could you not want a wedding?? You don’t want to have a big party and get married in front of all your friends and family?”

Calmly, E replied, “I want a reception to celebrate, but I don’t want a wedding. I don’t have any need for it. I’m more concerned with the marriage.” R continued to quiz her, asking if she wanted a wedding dress (sure, but it doesn’t need to be white or long, just nice), and who would be her witness (you can have friends and family in the courthouse), and if something had happened to her to wreck her dreams of having a wedding (nope).

R and E are obviously very different and at times, I’m surprised they get along with one another – but as M and I sat and listened to their conversation, I felt a certain affinity for E. Not wanting to have a big, ol’ fat wedding – Greek or not – isn’t the norm today. Especially in an age where the grander the wedding, the better, and if you’re not registered at three places you’re damned, and if you don’t have a wedding website, all of your friends on Facebook are annoyed they can’t stalk you (even if you haven’t talked for years). People go into debt for weddings, they take out loans, and they become bride and groom-zillas. Couples break up because they plan a wedding. Women go into depression after it because there is nothing spectacular left to look forward to.

But that’s where the wedding industry has it wrong and where E has it right: it’s not about the wedding day. It’s about all the days that follow it. It’s not about being the bride, it’s about learning to be yourself while being a wife.

And in her true self, she spoke that simple wisdom so many tend to forget, and maybe something I’ll eventually have to remind myself of should that happily-ever-after ring my buzzer. As for E, I have no doubt she won’t have a wedding with a man who is much himself as she is herself, and I can’t wait to drink her signature Jack & Coke at her non-reception…reception.

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Invite the Sun

Last week was one of those weeks where anything that could go wrong, went wrong. Work was very stressful, Mr. Possibility and I got into a tiff, I had an event or something with a deadline every single evening, and my suitcase from vacation is still unpacked, spewing clothes across my bedroom floor.

By the time after-5 rolled around yesterday, I couldn’t have been more excited to relax with some of my favorites. As much as I advise against it and regardless of how much credit I get as a dating blogger or recovering addict, the balance between work, life and love is always an act. Sometimes some parts give to others and sometimes you have to give others parts of you in an effort to maintain and mature relationships.

But I tell ya, as much as I care about him – when Mr. Possibility took flight for a weekend away with some old friends, I felt a sigh of relief. A little space and room to miss your partner is highly underrated in an age over over-connectivity.

Even so, as I walked on the west side, passing the highline and browsing through Chelsea Market in search for the perfect something I didn’t actually need, I couldn’t shake the weight off my shoulders. My ever-lasting to-do circulated through my mind, my cell phone seemed unusually unresponsive, and all the change I’m anticipating was bubbling in my veins. I felt unprecedented pressure and for whatever reason, worry had attached itself so closely to my stomach, it felt like even hope couldn’t remedy the ache.

With more time to kill than I wanted, I arrived at Chelsea Brewery in my dependably-early fashion. The young underage waitress who blushed when I asked her for a pale ale recommendation sat me in a booth facing the Hudson. Thumbing through my phone, and casually looking at the menu, a ray of sun demanded my attention outside.

And there it was.

Why was I snapping my fingers and pushing myself into a fit of fury and fear over what’s next or what’s wrong or what could or couldn’t be when I have this in front of me? When I’m in the place I adore, with those who adore me on their way? When all that I said I’d do, I’ve done, when I have a roof over my head, an address in Manhattan, and a byline nearly every single day? When I’ve met someone who could be something and still managed to keep myself in tact at the same time? When the beauty of my life often outweighs the ugliness I dread – if I just open my eyes.

If I invite the sun into my life, whatever darkness that lurks about somehow disappears. If I see how blessed I am instead of what I’m missing, the happiness I find is paramount. And if I just take a breath and take a sip, those footsteps of friends won’t be far away, as well as all those answers to questions I keep asking myself.

And maybe, for that Friday night and for the rest of my 20s, could that answer be in the simplicity of being? Of reveling in blessings?

Even if that blessing is just in the form of a raspberry beer and a sweet summer sunset.

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Baby Steps Toward Stability

I’ve been dreaming vividly lately about very odd things. My mother says dreams are meant to help us work out things we’re thinking of or things that are causing us trouble, regardless if we’re conscious of our ailments or not.

If she’s right, apparently my mind has been preoccupied with babies and proposals. (Though, as far as I’m concerned, it hasn’t been)

I’ve had dreams about being pregnant, about giving birth, about rescuing children from incapable parents. I’ve envisioned spoon-feeding and watching a cesarean performed on me (yes, I know, gross). A certain dream about being stuck in some unidentified room with what appeared to be an eighth-month belly felt so real that I woke up in a dead panic, waking up Mr. Possibility in the process and frantically grabbing my stomach to make sure it wasn’t so. After the fifth consecutive dream about babies, that time of the month came (whew!) and I started having elaborate dreams about proposals.

Some of the dudes were guys I actually know and still talk to, like Mr. Idea. Others were complete strangers I was apparently in love with. The proposals were ridiculous – some involved flying fish and tomatoes, some were in NYC and some overseas (I think, it looked Greece-like). There was dinner and fireworks, friends and family, crying and Coca-Cola.

I don’t know what I’m eating these days or what crosses my mind without me knowing, but wow, when the crazy dreams stopped a few days ago, I was relieved and as any addict would be, obsessed with trying to figure out what they mean.

After all, doesn’t everything have meaning if you dig deep enough? Any proper journalist would tell you it does.

To uncover my unconscious hidden agendas, I sought the counsel of my friends. After all possibility of actually being pregnant was put to bed, they pretty much all reached the conclusion that I was getting ready to birth a new change. Or something would be proposed to me – not a ring, but something else. (No dearies, I’m gladly nowhere close to even wanting to walk down the aisle. Let me find peace with the term ‘boyfriend’ first).

That makes sense and is about as rational of an explanation that I can find – having a baby or agreeing to spend the rest of my life with someone would definitely be a dramatic shift. My priorities, my health, my finances, my body, my lifestyle – all of it. But then again – when you’re in your 20s, doesn’t everything change…all the time?

The people I’m the closest to today, I didn’t know a few years ago. My speed dial assignments have changed at least a handful of times since when I signed my Verizon contract. I’ll probably have my mail forwarded a dozen times before I leave this city – or if I ever do. My single gal friends have a new leading man every week or so, some are dismayed by this fact, others relish in it. I toss out clothes as often as I buy new ones at H&M, and when a heel breaks, another pair makes it into my closet. I try this beauty product and then this one, and while I’ve tried to pick out a signature scent, I can’t decide on just one. I read and read, day after day, and so my views, my language, my direction is constantly shifting. I make plans, I break them. I think I know who I am and then I question.

Call me crazy, but sure, life changes a lot when you have a baby – but doesn’t it also settle down a bit? I’d like to think that at the point in my life when I’m engaged and eventually starting a family, I’ll have my ducks-in-a-row. I’ll be secure in a job I love, I’ll be confident in the person I’m picking as everlasting partner, and hopefully instead of renting, I’ll be putting my dough toward a home or an apartment I own. Friends will still change but some won’t. I’ll be stronger in my convictions, but maybe my viewpoints will mold too. However, those foundation-building blocks will be set in stone, instead of airing in the New York summer sun. Or at least, I hope so.

So what is it that babies maybe signify instead? A thirst for stability? A hunger to be working toward something tangible instead of all of those things that seem so indefinite? I don’t have a baby, I’ve never been asked to marry someone (expect on Twitter), but I think those changes may rock my world, but they’ll also steady it, too. Right?

I can’t attest for sure, I’m not a psychic or a dream-reader, though I could probably walk a block in either direction and pay $150 for a reading. For now, though, regardless if these dreams mean a change or mean I’ll found solid footing, I hope they continue to subside.

My ovaries can’t handle any more fear.