Tag Archives: Love

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You Can’t Screw Up What’s Meant to Be

Hard-to-get jobs and even harder-to-get men, high heels unintended for anyone but Ms. Lady Gaga herself, a city that allows few to make it before they break it, chances that have no reasonable shot in hell…. I tend to be pretty resilient and brave, a fighter who graces dresses and pearls while living up to the name I was born with.

But when it comes to gaining enough gumption to end a relationship…I suck.

Perhaps that’s not the most elegant of words to choose but it’s a pretty fair representation of how I view myself when a love affair turns sour. We all know when those boots should be made for walkin’, we know when the tension has turned from sexual to painful, and when nights are ruined by the presence of your partner, instead of brightened. The truth of any matters of the heart is that they are never easy. And if you’re anything like me, they are extended and lengthy, lingering around for far too long before they come to some immature, emotional and irrational head – leaving both parties destroyed and vulnerable, resenting each other for the past three hours of torture they endured. Not to mention, inflicted on one another. The end of a relationship is a great time-waster and mood killer. That’s when you know it is truly, completely over – when there is no hope for makeup sex because you just want…you need…to get away from one another.

God, it sucks.

My friends and family get to hear about this process the whole way through. They’re so lucky, aren’t they? As I wrangle with my exit strategy, make pro and con lists, go through periods of indescribable bliss that tease me into thinking things can change…only to be brought back down to reality the next day when the picture-perfect something I cooked up, boils over. It’s a nasty little ride I take myself on, a rollercoaster I not only pay for but add thrill to. Funny thing is though, it’s not thrilling but I entertain it anyway, waiting until the very last second before I finally push on the brakes. I barely miss a head-on collision each and every single time. My friend K says it’ll get easier as I date more New York men. I’ll grow accustomed to the process and it won’t be so difficult to turn on my heel and trot off. I’ll believe her when it happens, just as she had to experience it to believe it for herself.

For now though, I’m stubborn and falsely misled by fancy illusions of what a man could be, rather than really seeing, accepting and loving him for who he is. Possibility might as well be the middle name of any man I attempt to date -Lord knows I’ll be trying and trying again, until there is no more opportunity left to be found or piece of my heart to be shattered.

But when I get to that point, it is actually rather simple for me to cut my losses and tighten my ends. The decision becomes clear and my head stops spinning. I still experience the wallowing stages of misery that follow the death of love – after all, nothing dies more painfully or slowly than a dream, especially one that floated on Cloud 9 at one point. But when I decide it is time to leave, when there is no more fun to be had, no more fixing-up I’m capable of, no more squinting to try and visualize a future that never existed – I go. I swiftly get as far away as I can, severing contact and carefully tucking pictures with tattered, loved edges away for safe-keeping. For when it’s safe to look at them again without risking inexplicable sadness. And of course, without going up against the obsessive “What if” thoughts that attack the heartbroken spirit.

What if I would have tried harder? What if I wouldn’t have given up on him? On us? What if I would have been more understanding, more patient, kinder? What if I would have stayed around longer to see what could happen? What if I would have swallowed all of those things I wanted, just to be with him for a few more hours? Few days? What if we were at a turning point and I sealed our fate? What if all this is my fault? What if this is as good as it gets and I’m crazy for hoping for more? What if I walk away from him and he is my soulmate, and then I never find anyone else? What if I’m always alone?

What if I f***ed it all up?

When those thoughts disguised as fearful regrets won’t leave me alone, I remember my mother’s carefully selected words that she planted in my mind a decade ago when I felt so guilty for breaking up with Mr. Faithful after he had been so, well, faithful to me: Honey, you can’t screw up what’s meant to be. 

So tonight, with my two-piece fried chicken dinner from KFC because Southern food will always be my comfort food, a bottle of bubbly left over from ol’ Irene, a list of distracting movies from Netflix and some buttery, awfully bad for me popcorn for later on hand, I repeat her mantra in my head: Linds, you can’t screw up what’s meant to be. But I also add my own ending: you also can’t screw up what was never meant to be either.

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You’ll Be Sorry

Last summer was a great debate – should I or shouldn’t I go back to Mr. Idea?

We both flirted with the option, I even made an impromptu trip to visit him in his new a zip code, where he had new friends, a new apartment and a new job. We spent hours on the phone that usually resulted in some sort of bickering – I wasn’t doing enough of this, he wasn’t jumping to that conclusion. We would talk about the good times like they were decades ago, when in reality we had barely known each other a year. In the duration of our relationship, the honeymoon period was brief and lack-luster, but I think we both held onto the idea of what could be. Hence his name in this blog.

I knew then – or at least I’d like to believe I did – that it would never work out. Maybe we hadn’t known each other that long but in that time, a lot happened in my life: my dad recovered from a six-year health struggle, I graduated from college, I moved back home, I moved to the city, I found my first job, I paid rent for my first New York apartment, I became an adult. And with all of those big, life-altering, character-creating, patience-demanding changes – I started to learn more about what I wanted.

I discovered that I needed to be with someone who was supportive of my career – Mr. Idea didn’t really care for my writing (to each his own), nor would he ever approve of this blog (I can’t tell you how many times he’s called me to tell me not to write about him. I always listen, can’t you tell?). I figured out that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with someone who enjoyed having sex and initiated it (to be blunt, I’ve never met a man –sans Mr. Idea – who didn’t want to jump my bones). I realized I wanted someone who wanted the same things I wanted, who lived in the same place, who shared my same set of values (He was always a little too self-centered, far too stubborn and completely indulgent in fantasies of himself that simply weren’t true). I came to believe that while a man who made me laugh gave him an amazing advantage, a man who I could trust enough to never worry or doubt their devotion was far more important (I’ll give it to the guy, he’s funny – but I care more about that kindness that comes from your soul).

On and off paper and no matter which way I tilted the picture, Mr. Idea was far from my ideal mate. I didn’t have that deep, intense longing to be with him or to rekindle something that died within the first three months it was lit. Even so – I wanted him to want me. I wanted to have that comfort, that safety net just in case my feelings changed. Just in case I could mold him into the Mr. Right I sincerely knew, in my heart-of-hearts, he wasn’t.

But there’s that thin line between love and hate. That line that produces thoughts we’d rather not entertain (or admit we have) – I want him to think I’m the one who got away. If I’m sad and it is hard for me to walk away, I want him to be sad and have trouble letting me go. If I hurt, he should hurt. And if he doesn’t hurt, I’ll wait until it will hurt him to jet set off into my new, bright, fancy life. 

Ouch – writing out those words makes them sound far crueler than they ring in my head. But truth is painful sometimes, and most of the time, it’s a lot to stomach. I’m not proud of feeling that way or being so venomous, yet I know I’m not the only wounded lover or hopeful woman who had her hope lost when the rose-colored glasses she wore, shattered.

After exhausting conversations with him, where I would ultimately have to get off the phone so I wouldn’t say something I regret (like those crummy sentences italicized above) – I’d close my eyes, tuck my knees into my chest and I’d dream up the perfect scenario:

Mr. Idea would be visiting New York – or maybe he would have just accepted a job that finally brought him here, after months of arguments on why he wouldn’t look in the tri-state for opportunities. He’d be strolling in Central Park and see me sitting alone, wearing something ultra-flattering and alluring, and he’d have to rub his eyes, just in case I was a mirage. I wouldn’t be of course – but I’d be more beautiful than he remembered. After all, it would have been years since he’d seen or spoken to me. Casually with an air of hesitation, he’d approach me and we’d exchange niceties, both saying a lot without saying anything at all. The Autumn air would then circulate the city and my hair would fall in my face. He’d reach to push it away, giving me those puppy-dog eyes of remorse I craved – but then I’d move my head quickly and smile at a man walking up behind me with two ice cream cones. It would be early September, right before my birthday, and this man would be treating me to sweets as I celebrated another year. He’d kiss my cheek, I’d reach for the cone with my left hand, giving Mr. Idea a glistening view of my lovely engagement ring, and say, “Sweetie, you remember Mr. Idea I told you about? It looks like he’s found his way to New York!” And then Mr. Idea would be filled with regret, so disappointed that he let me get away, that he was so awful to me that I couldn’t stand to be his lady anymore. He’d be…sorry. He would be oh, so sorry.

A year later, a year maturer, and no part of me wants to rub anything in Mr. Idea’s face (pun intended). I actually want him to be happy, to be successful, to find the love that’s right for him. To find peace in those things that bothered him, to release whatever troubles haunt him. I don’t care if I’m the one who got away or just someone he briefly cared about for a short period of time, and though we participated in heated fights that were very hurtful, I wish nothing but the best for him.

Visions of revenge and witnessing your ex envious of your happiness may be enjoyable past times when you’re getting yourself through a breakup, but when you wake up on the other side – where acceptance and compassion live -you won’t be wishing that he’d wish for you, you’ll be sorry for having wished him any awfulness, at all.

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In Love in New York

Make sure to keep your belongings with you at all times, but keep your heart closer. Stand clear of the closing doors, but don’t keep that heart too open. If you see something, say something, but don’t say too little or too much, too soon or too late. Step away from the platform edge, but don’t be afraid to take a chance on that handsome stranger. A train is now approaching the station, but you’re not going to catch it. Not this one or the next one.

New York is a dangerous place to fall in love.

I used to think the image of his loafers next to my stilettos was quintessentially cute. It seemed so New York, I thought while avoiding eye contact with Mr. P this morning. “Now it just seems commonplace. I’ve watched our feet walk or stand in sync for almost a year now.”

“Can you believe it has almost been a year since we met? Since I started the blog?” I asked him over cheap sushi last night, celebrating the beginning of my 401k. His eyes were glistening in the faux-candlelight, his new haircut reminding me of freshly-cut grass – I yearned to reach across the table and brush away the sad little strands, but that was his length now. I hate his hair short but it irritates him when it’s long. His face burns when his facial hair gets too thick- so he trims and shaves, leaving me with scratches on my cheeks from his addiction to nuzzling. I know so much about him, now.

“Look how much you’ve changed in a year. Look how different you are from when I met you…” he started to say. I cut my glance down to my Passion Roll – one of my favorites with avocado and spicy tuna. It was true, I have changed – a new apartment, a new group of friends, a great new job, a new sense of self, a new everything. I have grown leaps-and-bounds in the nearly 12 months we’ve known each other. But while he was once Mr. Unavailable and he painfully, slowly transformed into Mr. Possibility – he hadn’t changed that much. I pushed a piece around in the low-fat soy sauce thinking, should I lie and say he’s changed too? 

“…you’ve come so far and I haven’t changed hardly at all,” he finished, taking a swift sip of Saki and slamming down the porcelain container. My mother’s China cabinet all the way in North Carolina shuddered at the thud when it hit the table. I gave him my happy grin, the one that says: “My darling, I understand. I’m here for you. You’re going to be fine. Don’t worry.” It’s the one I pull out when I don’t know what to say, when the situation can’t be fixed with kisses or quickies, when the hard work isn’t up to me, but up to him. I reached across the table and rolled my thumb along the top of his knuckles, remembering the first time I noticed our hands looked alike. They still do but are we alike anymore? I took a sip of boxed white wine and I moved the conversation in a different direction: politics. That’ll keep him occupied for a while.

Why do I always go back to that place? Sure, it’s cheap – $20 worth of sushi and you get unlimited wine, but it always gives me a headache. Always, I thought, still staring at Mr. P’s shoes, finding my mind wonder back to that moment in that downtown joint. I had come far, I was different but he wasn’t. He was still beautiful and wonderful in all the ways I first fell in love with him, but he is also now human. He is a man who has hurt me, who has disappointed me. He’s a man who still surprises me, who recalls things I do not. He’s delicate in a way he’d never admit and more vulnerable than most of this world will ever see. He is loving by nature, defensive because he thinks that’s how dudes should be, and stubborn to a point of exhaustion. He is my mate, my partner, my boyfriend.

He is a man who loves me. But he’s a man with a past to overcome, isn’t he? 

A grumpy business man who has been taking the 1 train to Wall Street for 20 years from his Upper West Side apartment, which is probably rent controlled near a cafe where he orders the same dish and the Bodega he buys his wife petite pink roses (her favorite) – crashes into me, pushing me into the arms of Mr. Possibility. I sure do make a habit of falling on him, don’t I? 

He rubs my back and takes a deep breath in, his chest rising to another melancholy occasion. He’s lost in his thoughts again. Lost in what was, what he’s missing, what he thinks he can’t get, what upsets him. He’s lost in worries and he’s wallowing in self-pity – a trait that absolutely frustrates me, no matter who it is. 

My friends warned me of this. So did my mom, though I’d prefer not to admit her astrological advances were accurate. Hell, even Mr. P said once I found my footing, I’d question my stance next to him. They all said: The girl with a future avoids the man with a past. Thank you Evan Escar, whoever you are. Here I am though, listening to the MTA give warnings of safety while I hear different precautions in my head. The girl with the future avoids the man with a past. The girl -me – avoids the man – Mr. P – with a past. 

She avoids him? Why can’t she let him work through the past so they can have a future? Or does he need to be alone to do that? Is he right? I hate when he’s right. Now that I feel set and comfortable, do I suddenly want to leave? I’m different, I’ve changed, he’s simply stayed the same – can that still work?

Now that I’m starting to feel suffocated both on this grimy, hot train and in this moment, I look around the cart, desperately waiting for someone to rescue me. Someone tell me what to do! Anyone? You over there, you’re falling asleep reading The Times. I can assure you that I would interest you enough to stay awake. Tell me – does the girl with a future really avoid the man with a past? Can we move forward if only one of us…is moving? 

This is what New York is like though – right? Love dims when the sun rises over the East river, when corner stores open for business, when everyone orders the everything bagel, when everyone realizes that everything that felt so right last night, doesn’t this morning. Those who come to the city looking for love quickly find it is a glorified Hollywood myth. Love only come to those who withstand the decade of dating disasters in their 20s, only to find a nice, shorter, balding man in their 30s who can provide. They marry him in a rush, have a baby within a year, and then they become part of the stroller brigades of Park Slope and the UWS, causing a whole new generation of 20-somethings to see their happy little family and big bling and think, Sigh, I want that, too.

But can the girl with a future have that with the man who has a past? New York is such a dangerous place to fall in love – one day you believe in it, the next day you condemn it and on Friday, you’ve decided you’ll try for it again.

I follow Mr. P’s example and exhale, a little too loudly. He notices, and in between 50th and Times Square, he tightens his grip around my waist, pulls me into him, grazes my forehead with his lips nearly a dozen times. Quietly, sweetly. It feels like we’re alone: I can feel his breath in my hair, his thumb pressing into my hip bone. He takes his hand to lift my chin up to him and meets my eyes before giving me our normal morning goodbye kiss. I love you Tigar. I’m so proud of you. I’m so happy to have you. Have a great day at work, he whispers as we reach the station, the doors fling open and he gets out, smiling at me through the subway windows as the cart hobbles away. The girl sitting in front of me rolls her eyes in envy and I read her mind instantly. She’s the girl I was a year ago, wishing for what she just witnessed.

The next station is Penn Station transfer is available to the 2, 3, A,C,E trains and the Long Island Railroad…

…and you can also, in just a stop, transfer your heart from thinking that New York’s a dangerous place to fall in love to believing it is a beautiful one. And that maybe, the girl with a future can love the man with a past. That is, as long as there are no delays that block her way.

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I Wish for Wrinkles

It is often the first thing I notice in the mornings, when I wake to splash water on my cheeks and prepare for the day ahead. I see it when I powder my nose in the shadowy mirrors of downstairs basements of downtown clubs I don’t pay to get into because I have breasts. I see it when I click through tagged pictures on Facebook and reflected back to me in the sunglasses of my friends on hot summer afternoons, sipping on mimosas and pretending Eggs Benedict isn’t bad for me.

It’s become part of the structure of my face, a defining feature that adds to my visual character, something that most would refer to as a flaw, but I see as beautiful: a wrinkle, quite deep for someone my age, smack dab in the middle of my forehead.

If I hold my face perfectly still and refuse to react during conversation or to concentrate while writing, it is hardly noticeable. But if you’re around me for five seconds, you’ll quickly see that I almost always have something to say, and I say it extremely animatedly. So even if I wanted to disguise my wrinkle, I’d have to try extremely hard with careful thought, and then I wouldn’t be acting like myself.

I haven’t always been fond of this crease – I used to try to clog it up with makeup, somehow convinced foundation would work like cement, filling in this hole I despised. I considered it ugly and distracting, an imprint I couldn’t erase that caught attention instead of my baby blues. I envied my friends with their flawlessly-tanned skin, without any acne scars, without even the slightest indication of aging or sagging to be found on their faces. Some of my friends are blessed by the kiss of a complexion so clear, you’d think they still had the layer of skin they were born with.

It’s easy to feel insignificant and even invisible in the presence of those who have something you want. It’s easy to compare yourself and to measure all the ways you fall short on the levels of attractiveness when put up against someone who you find alluring. I’m still guilty of entertaining self-defeating thoughts when it comes to my looks, but instead of analyzing the bar scene to see if my friend is getting more attention than I am, I’ve started reminding myself that she’s probably doing the same.

We all have insecurities and parts of our bodies and faces that we wish we could change. Even though we’re all familiar with the prevalence of PhotoShop and the fact that models in person don’t look how they appear on the ads – we all secretly wonder if we could look that way. We see the chiseled, defined bodies of celebrities who we know have the luxury of a personal trainer and dietitian to tell them what to eat and what to work out – and yet, we think we can exercise the same self-control they do, sans scary-drill-sergeant, sans certified-brownie-thief. And we all see features on our friends that we wish we had – crispy, white smiles, legs to die for, hair that always shines. But rest-assured, they see something in us that they want, too.

I’m sure my friends or strangers don’t long for my little wrinkle, but I’m also sure they don’t really notice it. Come to think of it, the only person who has ever mentioned it was Mr. P, but it was in the context of compliment during an intimate moment. Contrary to my personal belief, it isn’t the first thing others notice about me, nor something that would be a deal-breaker for a could-be mate. That wrinkle, which is only the first of many to come, is a tiny reminder of the things about me that are beautiful.

It came to be only because I chose to laugh so hard that I couldn’t control the corners of my grin. It came to be because I’ve spent endless hours thinking and writing, trying to put into words the story that’s always lived inside of me. It came to be because I decided to cry when I was sad, to express enthusiasm when I  was happy or inspired, and to verbalize anger when it couldn’t be softened.

I don’t really wish for more wrinkles and I’m not against plastic surgery within reason, but if having no fine lines means never living one hell of a fine life, then I’d rather have those memories outlined on my face for the world to see. For the world to witness all the beauty I’ve been able to find – in its people, in its challenges and joys, and especially within myself.

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When You’re Forced Indoors

So Irene was a dud.

My apartment was full of people, food, supplies, and booze, and the worse that happened was some pretty fierce winds and a lot of rain. I’m thankful that we all overestimated and Bloomberg attempted to make up for the snow-acopolyse by being fully prepped for a hurricane, but my roommates and friends all agreed: we were a little disappointed.

The puns on Irene were plenty (Me, Myself & Irene on FX, “Come on Irene” status updates, playlists dedicated to the storm, etc.,), and it gave us all one giant excuse to stay inside, watch awful television and procrastinate doing the things we actually needed to do like laundry and grocery shopping.  We all were braced for the worst and wanted to have a safe sleepover indoors without electricity, without television, without internet, without those things we all live by. I even wrote blogs a few days earlier because of all the hype – determined to sincerely write every single day for a year. But nothing happened, except my apartment became a center for giggling festivities and six pack drinking.

I know it’s a blessed thing that Irene passed quietly by – but why waste a weekend crammed up in a tiny apartment when we could have been enjoying our city? Why did we have to give up our Saturday?

To teach me a lesson, of course. Why else?

Irene made Step 11 real for me. It’s all about learning how to relax. And there is nothing like being told by your mayor that if you go outside you could risk your life, to make you sit tight and take a forced-breather. So that’s what I did – without anything or anyone to answer to, I sat back, opened the windows to witness the doom-and-gloom outside and did what every 20-something does to mellow out: gossip, eat, drink and sleep for 10 hours (give or take a few loud gusts of wind that woke me up).

I still have to learn how to meditate to complete the 11th step (have plans to join my friend A on Sunday), but for now, I can attest to the fact that Irene actually brought something rather positive. As Mr. P would say (and often does), she taught me how to “chill the f*** out.”

If only for a day or so, anyway.