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In My Hands

Because temperatures in the city are extremely low, winds are terribly unforgiving, and my lips are dangerously getting close to being chapped – I have felt like a big round fluff of layers for the last couple of days. Sitting on the train yesterday, I started to unwrap myself, from my jacket to my scarf and my muffs, all the way to my gloves. As I pulled off my black leather best friends, I started gazing at my hands.

Now, I’ve always been told I have my mother’s hands and it is true. If you put our hands next to one another, pull her 50-year-old skin back a bit, they look identical. It makes buying her jewelry insanely easy and quite entertaining, since I get to try it all on. Nevertheless, at that moment, I started thinking about my hands and all of their many purposes.

I looked at the scars – one from a car accident that changed my life and my perspective on the human spirit (forever making me believe in angels and a philanthropic mind), another from a little too intense tickle fight with Mr. Idea, and a final one from getting too close to a withering candle. Unless I pointed them out, these scars are not noticeable, but to me, they represent the experiences that have taught me lessons and a very special man I’ve loved. These same hands have held a tennis racquet for years, danced across piano keys since I was seven years old, and held on tight to monkey bars. They’ve made their home on a keyboard or around a pen, stringing together words to release stress or inspire masses.

They’ve shaken hands with editors from all sorts of magazines, strangers I was introduced to only once and never laid eyes on again, and dozens of businessmen who I was instructed to network with. They’ve been kissed by my father my entire life and a handful of men who were into that romantic-type of thing. They’ve been rejected when extended for a dance, and they’ve denied certain pairs that reached out to them.

They’ve been decorated in every shade of nail polish, manicured to-the-nines, and also ridiculously filthy. They’ve kneaded dough, caught baby cousins as they were falling, and been lathered, rinsed, and lotioned countless times. They’ve joined with my best friend as we happily and drunkingly skipped down streets, safe in each other’s grip. And they’ve held her up as strong as they could in the most devastating moment of her life as she stood before everyone who came to pay their respect to her late mother.

They’ve intertwined with men starting on the first date, only to unlock at the final goodbye. They’ve been grabbed in the middle of night and placed on a hairy chest. They’ve traced the outline of a face that I never wanted to stop looking at. They’ve brushed the lips of a mouth that seemed too perfect and too honest to ever say anything evil or misleading. They’ve reached, they’ve pulled, they’ve grabbed. They’ve gripped the back of a lover in a moment of urgency and slipped away only moments later.

They’ve been held and tested, declared sacred, and they’ve challenged sincerity. They’ve felt that flutter of hope the first time a possible-someone wanted to hold them, and they’ve wiped away the sadness when trust became destroyed. They’ve cleaned messes and created them, been swollen in the mornings, and tired from typing at night.

I would say with my own two hands, I can do just about anything. And they’ve already been through quite some touching, quite some feeling, quite some healing. But at the end of all of that doing and going, leaving and staying, they’ve remained pretty much the same. They have new scars, veins that push up more than others, and of course, they will attract some wrinkles in the years to come -but they are still in tact.

They say that everything is in our hands – in our power – we have the ability to make anything happen in our own will. They say we are the masters of our fates, the captains of our own souls, and all that is, all that was, and all that will be is a result of our own doing. Our choices in partners, in dances, in cooking, in moving, in shaking – are all up to us.

And the beautiful thing about it is, though our hands won’t keep us from feeling that lovey-dovey optimism – they will break our demise if we start to crash. They will be dependable when we need them to fix something and soothing when there is no one there to run their fingers through our hair.

But most importantly, because they belong to us, because we make the choices, and we guide our lives in and out of handshakes, hand holding, and handymans – we get to decide when we wash them clean of whatever it is we please.

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A Different Kind of a Diamond

As I’ve said before, I’ve been a little freaked out by this whole idea of marriage.

I won’t claim that I’m unattracted to or uninterested in the concept (because that would be a blanant lie), but I will say that at this exact point in my life and with what I’m doing – I find it incredibly difficult to believe I’m anywhere close to exchanging vows.

That being said and admitted with brutal honesty and a level-headed mindset…I have, in many instances in the past, grown insanely jealous of my friends who are engaged or newly married. Even though I’m not dating someone or in love with a man or really pursuing a diamond on my left hand – there is this inevitable sigh that’s the result of seeing a new person on Facebook or in my group of friends who is on the edge of promising forever.

As I’ve said before, I will spend hours beyond hours stalking engagement and marriage photos, blogs, and websites. Perhaps even a tad more creepy, I read the “Wedding & Celebrations” section of The NYTimes as much as I read the media, travel, and food & dining columns. Because I’m attempting to be as straightforward as possible, I will hang my head and also admit that I’ve browsed wedding dresses, rings, venues, and a wedding gift for my still-to-be-determined groom.

Possibly due to this unhealthy and slightly ridiculous obsession with weddings and lifelong true love – something inside of me grows to a scary level of envy when I see women, my age (or younger or older, really), walking down the aisle or smooching their fiancée. Logically, I know I don’t want to be with my husband right now, but emotionally, a tiny (or rather large) piece of me fears he doesn’t exist.

And that anxiety always won over my happiness for other people… Until recently when one of my dearest friends, N (and a frequent editor of this blog), almost got engaged. Okay – so she will be getting a very beautiful ring that she won from a contest soon and will be proposed to shortly- we just don’t know when. We only know this lovely ring belongs to her.

When I found out about her grand prize, I was at work, elbows-deep into editing articles to go to press next week, and to distract myself I clicked on Facebook and saw the announcement. As soon as I read her and her almost-husband’s names, my heart swelled.

But not in a psycho-jealous way. Rather, in a “Oh my God! I’m so excited!!!! Wow!! She’s getting engaged! Oh!!!” I immediately got up from my desk and called her, and when she didn’t pick up, I sent her a slew of text messages and Gchat messages appropriately freaking out. In fact, as I shared in her excitement and peered through the many congratulatory comments she received, tears welled up in my eyes.

It occured to me, as I shouted in my office “Remember that girl you voted for? She won!” and everyone came rushing over to see – that I was geuniely happy for N.

I wasn’t envious of her wonderful prize or the fact that she truly has found someone who is made for her. I wasn’t upset that she’ s floating on a cloud she’s needed to rest on. I wasn’t sad that the lovey-dovey attention wasn’t on me and I wasn’t secretly cursing her for being so damn lucky.

No, I was actually planning what I would say at a speech at her wedding or what I could get her and her beau that would be sentimental and pay tribute to the love they share. While the fact that this happened to be the first time I felt this way towards a newly-almost-engaged friend may make me seem selfish, it was so refreshing to finally release that begrudging.

And for once, just relish in someone else’s magical alignment with the stars in terms of love. In someone else’s absolute joy in showing the whole world the wonders of a person they’ve decided to walk this life with. To celebrate the sweet divinity of two people deciding to take one of the biggest leaps of faith they could ever embark on.

I’m not under the illusion that marriage solves everything or that my so-called Mr. Perfect will erase every insecurity and issue I’ve ever dealt with – but I do want to meet him one day. And if I have already shaken hands or shared a kiss with him, I’d sure like to revisit those instances.

But for now – I’m A-okay helping N plan this beautiful wedding she will have and focus only on her and the day that she will shine more than she normally does. Because even if I’m curing my own love addiction and learning to love myself, there is no harm in loving a cherished friend and commending the love…and the luck, that found her.

After all, being jealous of N is not only unfair to her and untrue to our friendship, but also – what’s the point in being intimidated about a diamond that’s not meant for me? Isn’t my friend with all her perfect imperfections, brilliance, and amazing ability to crack even the hardest of cynics with her charm – a rare gem in herself? Maybe she (and all of my lovely ladies) are the different kind of diamonds that I’m meant to take with me today, and even after a rock lands on my finger.

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A Single Snowflake and a Single Girl

Yesterday morning, as I frantically hurried out of my apartment to catch the train that probably had already left, I stopped dead in my tracks as soon as my face hit the outside air.

It smelled cold.

Now, for some this distinctive scent doesn’t mean much, but for this Southern girl it brings back a whirlwind of loving, romantic memories and hopes. I’ve fallen in love in all different seasons, but there seems to be something unique about the days that transcend November through March.

While everything that nature bore is withering, something more inviting is always growing inside the buildings that protect us from all the conditions beyond the front door. People are gathered together around something – a fireplace, a Christmas tree, o’dourves and champagne, or a table. And regardless if it is literal warmth – there is something about winter that illuminates electricity. Somehow, when it’s cold outside, there is no better place to be than as close as possible to those you love.

In year’s past, I remember being in my one-bedroom, peering out to the falling snow, wondering when I would have the chance to be hand-in-hand with a man who adored me. I could imagine him, whoever he may be, with this passionate look in his eyes, smiling back at me as I picked up a handful of snow, ready to play with him, and instead, he knocks it out of my hand, wraps his arms around me and steals a kiss. And this Mr., in my dreams, will view me as the single most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, and he will not be able to control his fervor to touch me, to be part of an essence that only belongs to me. And he would be thankful that we’re sharing the simplicity of snow, rosy-cheeks, and hot chocolate together.  Cheesy and completely idealistic? Absolutely. Desirable? Utterly.

Will it happen this season for me? Probably not. But for a reason unknown to me and possibly credited to this blog and journey – I’m okay with it. And not just okay, really, but happy and satisfied.

Like the seasons change, so much of life is an ever-cyclic transition. I’m going through so many firsts the longer I live here: from the first time I about died from the summer heat, to seeing Fall arrive in every brilliantly-colored leaf and wrap-sweater, to seeing trees light up and candy canes line the street corners.

Soon, I’ll feel the first flake fall from the New York City skyline–and for the longest time, I always dreamt of experiencing that moment, that silence that only comes with snow…with a man. But somehow, my feelings have changed. I’ve decided that if I’m not alone when the atmosphere breathes what I used to call “cotton from the clouds” – then the moment will be ruined.

Because as I’ve discovered being a single woman and learning to embrace the solitude that comes with that title – there are some instances where being alone can bring just as much magic (if not more) than being with someone else. And especially if that other person isn’t the person that you really do want to share such a cherished memory with. Sometimes, you’d rather just be a single girl with your single snowflake.

I have so much to do, so much to see, so many places to go, mistakes to make, books to read, articles to write, jobs to accept, plans to break, rules to dispose, and I can’t have every single little thing I’ve wanted in Manhattan within the first year I get here. If that was so, the city that never sleeps would lose its luster. If I can make it here so easily, where would the challenge and mystery be?

I look forward to a winter season that I don’t make lonely or depressing due to my singledom and I’m crossing fingers and toes that when I do see snow for the first time, I will get to be just in the company of myself. Does this mean that I’ll forget those wishes and dreams of romance on the ice or under the gray ambiance? Of course not.

When I see couples kissing in front of NYC landmarks that I’ve always idolized as inexcusably romantic in the winter like Rockefeller Center, Bryant Park, Fifth Avenue, Central Park, and so on – a small part of me still aches.

But instead of entertaining the longing, I’ve recently learned to dwell in the possibility.

In the opportunities that I’ve been able to take, the blessings that I’ve been lucky enough to experience, and the love that I’ve shared with some pretty incredible men. And without a doubt, the relationship I’m developing with me, myself, and I, and with this dream city that is finally my reality.

And one day, there will be a man who stands by my side in the sweltering days of summer, in the crispness of fall, and the blistering yet beautiful days of winter. Just because he isn’t here, I know my life isn’t to be put on hold. It isn’t to be spent lingering. I’m not to be a lady in waiting.

But a lady in the embracing, a lady who opens her eyes as wide as she opens her heart – to not only the snow and cold that’ll flush her face, but to the self-love that’s flourishing…and to the love who is surely on his way.

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Louie Doesn’t Lead the Way

While the last few weeks have been absolutely amazing and overall, very positive – they have also been quite stressful. We’re approaching the close at the mag, my next-door neighbor (and great friend) is moving back to the countryside, and a few opportunities have me biting my nails in anticipation.

And on top of all of it – it’s that inevitable time when bloating and breaking out are the norm.

So, on Tuesday, as I entered the subway, my hair frizzed up due to the rainstorm, my arms tired from carrying my gym bag, purse, and work to bring home with me – you could say I was a little annoyed. Even though I didn’t technically have to go to the gym (we never are forced, ya know?) – I knew running would help me release stress and I’d feel so much better about the spinach pasta I was anticipating making later.

When the 1 train arrived, I waited for all of the people to exit and then quickly boarded to catch a seat because standing up for 12 stops isn’t fun in four-inch stiletto heeled-boots. I sat down and started to read over an interview I was writing the story for in the December/January issue, and as I usually do, my attention inevitably turns towards the characters on the train. This is especially when I’m not in the greatest of moods. People watching, even as silly and stalkerish as it may seem, gives me inspiration and food-for-thought. This time was no different.

As I studied those around me – a homeless man, a child and her mother, an older man, a business man, a fashionista, and a sleeping woman – my eyes caught a girl, probably just a tad bit older than me in a red jacket.

She was tall and slender, with curly blonde hair, black tights, and peep-toe flats. I knew they were designer, but couldn’t pin-point which one (not a gift of mine). Her skin was beautifully flawless with just the hint of natural coloring and her silk sweater dress hugged her in all the right places. I’m as straight as a gal gets, but she was sincerely beautiful.

While I was watching her, I started comparing myself to her. I immediately thought: She has better hair. Prettier skin. Nicer clothes. She’s more cool and collected. She looks more like she belongs here than I do. She probably has a fabulous job or doesn’t work at all. And look, she’s married. She’s probably madly in love too, and never had to go through a self-made 12-step program to be happyily single and love herself. She’s probably already in love with herself – I mean, who wouldn’t be? Every man in this train is probably one flip-of-her-hair away from drooling.

Now, part of the path to self-love is shaping the language I use to talk to myself. Instead of self-defeating, non-progressive words, I’ve been attempting to use encouraging phrases and boost myself up as my mother or my best friends would. But for this day, no matter how secure or happy I am about certain parts of my life, seeing the lovely lady in the red jacket made me feel down-right awful.

When the train reached my stop, I gathered my bags and started to get up, conscious of the older man with the cane to my right. I hesitated to let him get a lead and make sure he was okay, and out-of-nowhere the pretty red jacket girl shoved her way out of the subway – using her Louie Vuitton to push away those in her path.

She nearly knocked down the poor old man and when someone huffed at her, she shot back at them an incredibly rude pout, and continued walking. I followed behind her, after letting the trembling man get off, and headed towards the stairs. Not only did she use her Louie to get down the stairs ahead of everyone, but she almost sent someone fumbling down the stairs. And again, when someone said something, she acted as if everyone was else was merely a cockroach on the subway getting in her way.

I get that people in the city are notoriously rude or in way too much of a rush, but most people I’ve encountered have been nothing but kind and gracious. While they may not be friendly, they haven’t ever been as ridiculous as Ms. Red Coat. And just because I moved to the North, doesn’t mean I forgot my Southern manners – and I try to shine as an example to those around me by being courteous, forgiving, and thoughtful.

After witnessing the complete disrespect for other people by this woman, it hit me how silly it is to compare myself to someone I don’t know. No matter how sophisticated or gorgeous or put-together someone may appear – there is no way to get underneath their skin. Just by looking at me, no one would ever guess all of the things I do, the things I stand for, or the things I feel. Looks are really just that, an image sent out that isn’t necessarily true or false.

But one truth that I’m sure of – is that Louie doesn’t lead the way. Love does.

And not romantic love – but compassionate love. That love that we give to another person simply because they are a fellow human being. Because they are breathing and they are alive, they deserve the same respect and courtesy as we give to someone we love or adore. That’s a part of love addiction that doesn’t need fixing.

Even though I may dream of the day that I can afford a real-live Louie (not a Chinatown one) – a bigger part of me longs for the day when I can be rich enough to write a check to help that innocent old man on the train have a safer life, far away from impolite women in red coats.