Tag Archives: Life

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Last Single Girl Standing

Waiting for my doorbell to ring the day after New Year’s, I anxiously anticipated the arrival of one of my dearest best friends, M. We were ordering cheap Chinese, exchanging Christmas presents and catching up about the 10-plus days we spent apart – something we never, ever do except during the holidays.

She’s a girl who is as much fun as she’s dependable and honest – always giving you the support you want with a side of healthy reality that you need. We’ve been through the trenches together, had a knockdown, drag-out, three-hour-long fight in my bathroom — telling each other what we really think — helped each other move and build furniture, pick the other one up when they couldn’t walk home (whoops) and brought pizza when a breakup was enough to break us. New York has always felt like home to me, but it wasn’t until I found my partner in crime – and for sharing margs and guac weekly – that I really felt like I could settle into my city. There’s something about having a best friend that lets you let down your guard and know that even if the guys suck, the job is tough or the tummies pooch – you have someone who will love you unconditionally, make sure you get over yourself and remember how great you are, too.

Maybe it’s my hidden jealous side that I try to keep at bay or just the fear of losing something that’s precious to me – but I was nervous about M coming over that night. I knew we’d have a great time because we always do – yet I also knew I was about to receive a piece of news that I didn’t quite want to hear. And not because it was bad news (it was in fact exciting and amazing) but because I knew it would change things.

You see, M has always been my single friend.

The gal who encouraged me to dance a little more, stay out a little longer, give that short guy a chance or walk out of a date if it was bad (and meet her for martinis after). The one who would let me analyze everything to death and talk it into the ground, and then match my stories with ones as terrible as my own. If not more awful at times. The one who was there to swap our silly dating troubles, edit each other’s online dating profiles and talk about how weird it’d be when one of us got a boyfriend.

And weird it is.

I haven’t met her new beau — we’ll call him Mr. Bear — but I’ve never seen her so bubbly and giggly, and yes, because it’s M, a little uncomfortable with the whole thing. Since I knew it was coming (something in my gut just told me so), when she arrived — grinning from ear to ear — I went for it head on:

Do you have a boyfriend? I quizzed directly. Coyly, she tucked her hair behind her ear and nodded, Yes, I have a boyfriend. He asked if it was for real — and it is!

A real relationship is exactly what she needed and though she’ll hate me for saying it on this blog – something she’s been wanting for a while. She’s flown solo for a long time – five years! – and I knew her bright, shining “one day” would come along sooner than later. I also knew it’d take a special guy who could be tender with her while also challenging her in the way that keeps her intrigued. When we were tipsy off of wine one time – we made predictions about the guy we’d date next: she said my guy would be one of those goofy, slightly nerdy, but handsome and tall and unbearably kind kind of guys. I said she wouldn’t like her guy right away (she didn’t care for Mr. Bear at first), but that his charm, his sweetness and the way they connected would bring them together. And make her eventually give in.

I like being right – but I can’t lie that when my suspicions of her new relationship were confirmed, I felt a little disappointed. Maybe disappointed isn’t the right word per se – maybe more like: Oh god! I’m the last single girl standing! What if she disappears into the couple nook and I don’t see her for months because she spends so much time with him? What if she changes from the outgoing, fun girl that makes me a better, more relaxed person into a girl I don’t even recognize? What if she starts doing double dates with all of our friends with boyfriends and I’m forever the third wheel?

What if I lose my best friend?!

But when I looked at her – blushing and probably a little nervous to tell me about her new beau –considering I’ve been in the market for one of my own for a while, too – I swallowed my pride. And instead of seeing my fears and the envy I felt boiling – I felt something different: happiness. This man has brought her something that I can’t, that I wouldn’t want to bring – and for the first time in a long time, she looked at ease. She looked like she was bursting with stories to tell, incredible new experiences to tell me about, romantic encounters that of course, she has to share with her best friend. (Especially a friend who loves love to a disturbing, addicted degree.) I saw in her what I miss feeling myself: hope. Anticipation. Excitement. Wishful thinking. Love.

And so, I stopped thinking about what I don’t have (yet) to be a great listener to someone who has always listened to me. Because though she’s my best friend, her relationship isn’t about me and the choices she makes because of it aren’t up to me, either – it’s a new unchartered territory for her to explore with someone she could one day really, truly care about. And while I may wish for something similar of my own, I more so wish for continued glee – and a very long honeymoon stage – for M and Mr. Bear.

So when do I get to meet him?? I asked, matching her smile and giving her a much-delayed hug.

I may be the last single gal standing of my group of gals – but I’m proud to stand by them. And – I guess — their boyfriends, too.

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Learning To Say Yes

Last year I vowed to learn how to live — with a list of 50 things I wanted to accomplish and intended to write about. But as it often does, time ran away from me, with weeks and months that moved far too quickly.

But it wasn’t a complete failure — I did do a few things on that lofty compilation. After getting up the courage to take Accutane (yikes!), my skin is finally clear enough to grace the streets bare — and my give-a-damn meter is frankly a lot lower than ever, making me less concerned with strangers I pass. With my friend M, I threw my hair up in a SJP-bun and walked through the village, pretending to be the gritty hipster I’m definitely not. And my friend A and I saw OAR, while M and I went to a Christmas spectacular of sorts that would have been much more fun with a few more glasses of wine. I succeeded at many difficult recipes, much to the delight of my friends and co-workers who got to be my taste testers. This summer, I got over the fear of spending money quite easily and then resorted back to my old ways after purchasing a very expensive fur ball.

I did have a serendipitous encounter with a Puerto Rican cardiologist I’ll never meet again and never know the last name of. I made friends with girls at a bar instead of flirting with guys, and though not intentionally, I went on many dates with guys under 5’10”, though they claimed otherwise on their online dating profiles. I’ve gone a few weeks without drinking alcohol, thanks to the potential alarming side effects of Accutane, but pre-skin-clearing-miracle-drug, I danced on more than a few bar tables with the best group of gals Manhattan has ever known.

I’ve planked in a public place, though the trend quickly faded into Tebowing, which I admittedly have never done. I signed, sealed and delivered more than a handful of sweet notes to my friends and family over the year — just to let them know how much they mean to me. My mom and I had an amazing time in New York and I’m looking forward to her second trip here this May. I think I’ve been a better friend and hopefully was a great bridesmaid to the new Mrs. in my life. I continue to donate to charities I love and my room is in a constant redecoration state because I simply can’t make up my mind.

I’ve tried to keep a budget through Mint, through apps, through spreadsheets and though nothing has really stuck, I’ve somehow stuck with a budget of sorts that’s allowed me to save… sorta. I’ve bought several people coffee for no reason at all, and every month I always buy something for someone else, even if it’s just a drink for a friend having a rough time or celebrating a new victory. My roommates have forced me to recycle and I thank them for it, and my dad thanks me for calling him way more than I used to. I’ve regained my workout schedule — running five days a week — and with it, lost ten pounds that has made a world of a difference in how sexy I feel.

I had a fantastic trip to Puerto Rico all by myself that I’ll never forget and can’t wait to tell my children about one day, but I’m looking forward to going to Costa Rica with M this year. Thanks to a little pup named Lucy, my apartment is way cleaner and organized than it has ever been before. My gay hubby has forced me into karaoke and staying out until 4 a.m. several times, and I’m proud to be the new owner of at least half a dozen more heels. I’ve also found a certain peace in myself that continues to grow each day.

30 out of 50 isn’t so bad but it’s also not A+ student behavior that I usually hold as my standard. So instead of making a list of little things that I hope will make me a better rounded and more fun girl — I’m just tackling one of the leftover 20 resolutions I had from last year.

Saying “yes” more.

Like agreeing to a date with a guy that I’m not exactly into because of petty reasons. Booking a trip to Chicago for a weekend at the spur of a moment. Going out with my friends to Brooklyn even though it’s so (so, so, so!) far away from my cozy Upper West Side apartment. Tackling a new project at work that I wasn’t sure I could accomplish or not, but want to really give it my best shot. Painting the walls of my room without worrying if it’ll all be the wrong shade. Giving in to buying that dress that I think is too expensive but honestly looks so fabulous on me. Making out with a handsome stranger outside of a bar because it feels right, even if he isn’t right. Staying out a little too late and having a little too much to drink on a Saturday night because I’m young and still can for a little longer. Taking that hot yoga class instead of sticking to my normal routine. Trying a new food that sounds — and probably looks — quite disgusting, but I’ll be glad to add to my roster of things I’ve tasted. Signing up for that half-marathon in April that I’m worried I won’t be able to finish, but going to give it my best go anyway. Writing blogs even if they aren’t perfect because I’ve missed this space so much in the past year. Giving myself freedom to do the things I’ve always refrained from because I wanted to feel safe. Because I wanted to stay in a warm bubble until I figured everything out…

…but I’ll turn 25 this year.

And many things aren’t exactly how I thought they’d be while other things are much better than I ever imagined possible this early into my life. So instead of worrying if I do everything right — as I always have before — I want to make a commitment instead to just do… everything I can, by saying yes to it all.

Happy 2013!!

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You Learn To Say Yes

When there’s a moment at some bar in some part of town on some night when you’re feeling highly unlike yourself, yet more liberated than you’ve ever felt at any time or place — maybe ever — and you feel like the decision you always thought was wrong, somehow, in some way, feels more than just somewhat right… don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. Don’t let those nagging voices, those lingering interpretations of what’s good and what’s bad, what’s moral and what’s immoral hang over your head or damper your bed. When you’ve spent your entire life avoiding doing what you’ve really wanted, what you’ve really craved for fear of what it says about you or what it would mean or not mean — there sometimes comes a moment when instead of denying yourself…

You learn to say yes.

When you play by the rules and you get up with the clock without delaying your rise-and-shine time, and you leave the bar at the strike of midnight so dark circles don’t weigh your eyes. When you’re the first to arrive and the first to leave, when you’re the girl who skips the extra drink as your high-heeled friends tiptoe away in yellow cabs with open minds into the night, into the evening that could bring up more questions than answers. When you’d rather know the plan before agreeing to the route, or when you’d prefer to be the leader of the shenanigans instead of the one who lets the Autumn wind blow her whichever way it might. When you’re so used to being so in control of everything and everyone and every situation, without a surprise, without anything or anyone having the chance to stir up the path you’ve laid so carefully. So meticulously. So rationally. When you’ve been that woman and it’s taken you far, there comes a point when the bartender asks if you’ll have another round and instead of listening to the clock tick…

You learn to say yes.

When the love you thought you found has been gone for so long that smells aren’t familiar and places don’t ring the bells you’ve forgotten how to hear. When your heart can’t remember the last time it desired to leave the comfort of your chest or when your head fit like a missing puzzle piece on the chest of some man that you felt could be more than a stranger. When your mind rolls around in reckless matter, trying to detect the signs between the sentences, the maybes among the definitelys and the definitely not’s. When you feel like there’s nothing you have to give and there’s no one worth trying to find or any love worth the risk. When another date feels like another date on another day that will end in a cold, empty bed on a cold, bitter night. When you know that most likely, he won’t — whoever he is — be different than the rest, but you’d be better off to at least meet his eyes and share a glass of wine…

You learn to say yes.

When every last bone in your body aches to stop and your lungs fill up with such rage that you’re sure they will burst before you reach the lightpost a few paces ahead. When you know that pleasure is still two miles away and in that time you’ll have to suffer through the freeze and battle through the careless pedistrans, not watching you come, not caring to move out of your way, not interested in the runner who decides to break a sweat instead of sweating over a date you won’t like anyway. When you can see your goals and you can feel your body adapt to meet them, but the warmest place to land is your bed — not this unforgiving pavement that you pretend doesn’t make your ankles sore. When you really, really want to give up. When your limbs want you to stop. When you come to the conclusion that you simply can’t go any harder or faster, you decide to disagree and fight back.

You learn to say yes.

When you’ve always known what’s next or at least where you hoped you’d be. When you’ve felt certainly certain and positively positive about everything that mattered and all that you dreamed of. When you’ve spent endless hours obsessing about the tiniest of details and the smallest of cracks, the could-be’s and the would-be’s, the opposite ends of the spectrum and all that’s in between. When you’ve mapped it out and factored in a few curve balls that no one said you could prepare for, but you — you figured out a way to do just that. When you’ve crossed your t’s and lined your eyes, slimmed your thighs and been brought to your knees. When you’ve met all of your promises and held up all of those pretty little standards that you’ve straightened up in perfect little rows around the magical city you call home.

When there’s a moment where all you want to do is plunge into something or someone or some place, just to see what happens. Instead of telling yourself how badly it could turn out and how you might feel or how you might regret….

You learn to say yes. You just say yes.

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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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Liberated By Lucy

On my 24th birthday last week, I was feeling antsy.

In fact– all the weeks leading up to my birthday I had felt anxious and unsure, wondering what my last year of the early twenties would bring me and what I should do next. I found myself lusting after expensive things and fancy travels, men in pressed suits and visions of apartments that are rent controlled with views of the park. I was wishing and hoping for a huge change that would rock my world in the most exquisite of ways, that would shift my negatives to positives and my fears into flights.

But maybe those things were less realistic and more idealistic, I thought as I walked from the subway to Union Square to meet my friend M. I’ve been lucky to experience so much so quickly. I’m happy in a job that brings me happiness each day,  and while the floors are old and the walls dusty, my name is on the lease of an apartment that feels like home. My friends are as thoughtful as they are entertaining, bringing me the best support and experiences I could ask for. And yet, though the weather was the perfect blend of summer days and fall mornings, I felt like something was missing. Like something had to transform for me, just as the seasons were doing. Like I needed to take a plunge and try something I hadn’t before. Something I’d always been scared of doing.

Many friends said I needed a man  — and while I won’t disagree that I’d love a love affair of sorts, it wasn’t romance I ached for as much as I longed to… nest. To really let my roots run as deep as the subway passages and make my stay in NYC more permanent than the zip code I write on the back of cards.

I considered redecorating but that felt silly when I know I won’t be at this apartment forever — and paint and drapery is both as expensive as it is unnecessary. I dreamed about recreating my wardrobe and putting the old out to find another life to indulge in the new I simply don’t need. I thought about starting another blog until I felt guilty about not updating this one as much as I would like. (Sorry, y’all.)

It’s true, even walking from store to store and giggling with M about the things that only best friends can find funny, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to do something. To own something, to try something, to go or to stay or to run or to sit still. Or to what? I couldn’t put my finger on what it was that was making me so uneasy, when really, everything in my life (give or take) was rather, well, easy.

And then I saw Lucy.

Or, rather a seven pound, six-month-old Maltese and Pomeranian mix at a pet store in the West Village. Not just any pet store though — it’s the one I always go to when I’ve had a stressful day or something is causing my heart to ache apart. It’s the one that’s near my friend K’s apartment and the one I’ve stumbled into far too many times after a boozy brunch to ooh-and-aww at the puppies that I wished weren’t trapped in tiny cages. But this time was different. This time — Lucy was there. Though I’ve never had this feeling about a man, when I saw her… I just knew. I knew when she climbed into my lap effortlessly and snuggled herself asleep that I’d be taking her home.

And I did…

I always knew that having a dog would be part of my life in New York. I had considered it further down the road — when I was in a shining, healthy, functional relationship. Or when I was newly married in a newly-remodeled apartment with my new husband who I adored. Maybe the puppy would be the precursor to babies — you know, practice? But as this city has taught me time-and-time again, nothing quite goes as planned. And the best thing you can do is just to roll with what feels right. Admittedly, I’m not the best puppy mom that ever was — I’m neurotic and incredibly worrisome, plus a little freaked out by mostly everything she does or doesn’t do. I don’t have the most patience but I’m learning. I’m getting to know this lovely little dog who in a week, has already brought so much joy — so much love — to my life.

She’s getting to know me too, and my schedule and this “gigantic” apartment that’s near the biggest, most exciting park in the whole wide world — or at least, almost as thrilling as the trash outside. I’m running more than ever, now that my alarm is set earlier, forcing me to get up to relieve a bladder that’s not mine. My room has never been as tidy or organized as it is now, for fear that something as small as a piece of a paper could be dangerous to something furry and adorable. I keep to a routine and I watch my money, knowing that anything could spring up and I need to be prepared to care for something that depends on me fully. Plus, you know, she’s enrolled in puppy obedience school already, hence why she’s passed out in my lap as I write this blog on Sunday evening.

Maybe what I needed — what I felt was missing — was unconditional love. Was something to come home to. Sure, that could be in the form of a boyfriend, and I know (somewhere deep in this only slightly-bitter heart) that I’ll find someone special enough to share this life with one day. But for now, Lucy is the perfect companion. And like her middle name after the lady of New York herself, Lucy Liberty is teaching me to liberate myself from all of those silly two-year, five-year or ten-year plans I had for myself. To liberate myself from worrying about what’s next or if I’m doing everything right. Because really, there’s no way to ever know. And nothing ever turns out just as you thought it would.

Instead though, something sweeter does.