Tag Archives: Love

by - 5 Comments

Happy & Healthy Love

In an effort to save money, I enjoyed a night in with M, splitting beers and dishes from Brother Jimmy’s. Though I have a TV, it’s in the living room where an air conditioner is not, so Hulu won over any real-time attraction. We watched an assortment of stuff -Grey’s, a special on the Columbine shootings, music videos from the 90’s (remember S Club 7 and Britney, pre-crazy?), and at last, one of M’s favorites, The Newlyweds.

I used to watch Jess & Nick pretty regularly, captivated by their fairytale-like wedding and just the idea of how a couple fairs after joining their lives together. At the time, I wanted to look just like Mrs. Simpson-Lachey and well, Nick was tall and fit, a handsome dude who apparently, was marriage-material too. I was too young, I think to realize how incredibly toxic and dysfunctional their relationship really was.

From episode one, it was evident that not only did they not know how to communicate, but that they led their day-to-day lives differently. He was super-duper-OCD clean, she had lived a life of luxury since 14, never having to fend for herself. He believed his wife should do his laundry and keep the house tidy without a maid, even if they could defiantly afford one, and she didn’t even know how to toss out after 10-day old flowers. She had jealously issues that were rather normal, but she didn’t know how to handle them and often smothered him when space would have cleared up the tension. She whined for attention, he refused to give it to her. He didn’t listen, continuously put her down, and instead of stating how he felt, he walked away and shut down.

Watching this now, after having relationships that were quite similar, my wedded-bliss image of one of my favorite teeny-bopper couples was shattered. I was flabbergasted – how did I not see how poorly their relationship functioned? Why had I been so sad when news broke that they parted ways? Why did it come as such a surprise for me?

They were unlike any other couple that just couldn’t make it work. Simpson was 22 when she married, Lachey was 29, and while I’m not one to base the success or failure of any relationship on an age difference (Mr. P and I are eight years apart), Jess didn’t know herself well enough to agree to marriage. And Nick? He treated her like a child and put her down without taking any of her history into consideration. Sure she was 22, but she signed a record deal at 14 – placing her in the lap of luxury and stardom for all of her adult life.

I’m passing judgment of course – I don’t know them personally and no one except for them can testify to what went wrong after three years of marriage, but watching it now further proved to me how easy it is to fall in love with the idea of love. Of course, there are many splendid things about loving someone and having them return the intoxicating favor. Having the constant support, the sweet reminders of affection and having someone send you good-night text message is wonderful. It makes you feel good, it makes you want to make them happy, and it gives you hope for a couple-oriented future.

But relationships are more than that. They require a lot of work, more patience than anyone has, and the ability to forgive and forget quickly, and even when you’re angry or upset, kiss someone good-night with sincerity. They require understanding and consistent, constant communication, and also having enough faith in your partner to give them space when they need it. They demand compromise and two people who are healthy on their own, happy by themselves, but healthier and happier together. They aren’t always fun and you don’t always adore that person, they don’t always give you what you need and they forget what you want. People are selfish and insecure, immature and annoying – but that’s what makes us human, that’s what makes us children who are learning the best way to lead our lives. And when you decide to go about it with someone else, you have to remember that they’re human too.

So falling in love with love – with this idea that love cures all things, can stand any test of time, any argument, any difference or disagreement – well folks, it’s bullshit. Sometimes it simply doesn’t work. Sometimes there can be no way to resolve what sets you apart and even when it’s tough to swallow, deciding to separate can be the thing that makes you healthier and your partner happier.

Some love – most love – isn’t meant to stand the test of time. You’re supposed to learn how to love, learn how to be in a relationship, learn how to be someone’s companion. And it’s not until you stop falling in love with love, admiring couples from afar without knowing the story behind their cohesion, do you learn that the best of love, the truest of all partnerships, has nothing to do with being madly, passionately in love or with the best story or incredible sex.

Instead, it’s about the love where more importantly than anything else, you love the person for who they are, not how they make you feel. Not because they are handsome and tall, not because they are charming or good arm candy. But because they are themselves and if you weren’t in love with them, you’d still pick them as your friend. After all, in time, you realize the day-to-day is far more important than romance, more important than those butterflies, more important than that fancy wedding. Those things fade, along with looks and chiseled bodies and chins, but having someone you can sit on the couch with and talk about nothing and still be happy – that’s a healthy love.

Daily Gratitude: Today, I’m thankful that I’m inside instead of out in this blistering heat. 

 

by - 3 Comments

Practice Makes Patience

For 12 years once a week, I took piano lessons. I actually wanted to take voice lessons, convinced I could be as talented as the Go Go’s (the first cassette my mom gave me from her stash), but once my teacher, Mrs. A, heard me sing – she persuaded my mother into piano. After some practice and an understanding of notes and measures, I could switch back to training my voice for be the next Whitney Houston.

Eh, never did return to voice and now that I can hear myself without blinded childlike certainty, I think piano was a much better fit.

I caught on pretty quickly and after a year, had my very first recital. I never did fall in love with piano, but I loved being able to perform and I grew quite attached to Mrs. A – she served as one of the most precious mentors in my life as a kid. She was tough with a stroke of kind and I admired her endlessly. She encouraged me to try harder, to go for a piece that was out of my comfort level, and complimented my courage.

But one thing that Mrs. A never liked was my practice skills. My mom wasn’t a fan either, considering she was paying for piano lessons. When I would refuse to practice for the alloted 30 minutes a day, claiming I had something to do, a bike to ride, a swing to sway on, a friend to visit across the street, she’d drag my 7-year-old self back into the house and sit me down at the piano she and my father graciously bought. If I didn’t practice, she’s stop paying for lessons and I just couldn’t have that – I wanted to be that singer. Or at the very least, I wanted to have another recital and hang out with Mrs. A some more.

Practice never came easy to me. I’d rather just go for an hour a week and play through the chords while Mrs. A instructed me. Sure, I knew that the more I practiced, the better I’d get, but I figured I’d get better eventually anyway. For a while I was convinced Mrs. A didn’t notice when I hadn’t spent any time in front of the piano. If I just played with confidence, even when the key was flat or I missed an entire measure or my beat was off, if I pounded the keys hard enough, if I held my head up high enough and made my back perfectly straight, she’d think I was brilliant. She’d think I had slaved over the black-and-white noise makers for hours upon hours.

I soon discovered playing loudly doesn’t mean playing well, it just means you’re pushing way too hard to make up for a lack of confidence. And Mrs. A could see right through it.

While I stopped taking piano lessons when I landed my first internship, choosing writing over music (though I can still read music and I’m thankful for that), I haven’t ceased to overdo my insecurities with an unfaltering ego. Or rather, when I’m upset or unsure about something, I try to push it so far out of my mind or dwell on it so deeply that it either goes away or it haunts me. I can knot up my stomach with a single thought, I can be my own cruel critic, and if given the opportunity, I can devise the worse possible outcome if I let my mind get the best of me.

And when I feel like something, someone, or the essence of who I am is slipping away, I grab onto it for dear life. I pull the pieces together next to my heart, just like I did with those scattered notes on the piano. I hadn’t seen those measures before because I failed to practice and though I’ve felt lost before, I’ve never practiced learning to find my way, so everything feels new when it falls apart. And just as I did in front of Mrs. A, I still feel vulnerable and fear disapproval, no matter what kind of happy face I may put on.

Unlike piano, there isn’t a set course of rules for life or for love. Things are sometimes out of key and things fall flat when you’d like them to be sharp. Sometimes you push yourself before the measure and while I’d like there to be a metronome to steady my rather-chaotic pace, the only beat I can really listen to is the one that’s in my heart.

That beat, my heartbeat, isn’t something I can fake. It’s not something I can ignore or push aside or beat with a silly ego. And keeping it in check, listening to it, and believing in its rhythm is something that must be practiced each and every single day. Practice doesn’t make perfect because perfection is quite honestly a beautiful allusion – but with practice, comes patience. And with patience, some understanding, and mastering the art of feeling it out instead of forcing it, sometimes, life makes one hell of a lovely melody.

Daily Gratitude: I’m thankful for my roommate’s keyboard that she let me play today. How I’ve missed it! 

 

by - 2 Comments

Where the Good Goes

When breakups would happen in the past – I asked what every girl does (and now sings, thanks to Tegan and Sara): where does the good go?

When you’re curled up in the fetal position, grasping to return yourself to reality and for a creme that will actually get rid of that awful puffiness around your eyes – it’s hard to see anything but bad from the relationship that just ended. You wonder why you wasted your time giving away pieces of your heart, why you spent so many days of your life with someone who you will most likely not spend another day with. You fight the urge to call, you block all of the connections you have with him, and you hide away those pictures as if not seeing him will make those memories just go away. You think of all the laughter, the silly plans you made without RSVPing, and the way you felt when things were right. When things were perfect. When you thought that no matter how old you were or how long you had been with the guy, that there was a chance you would spend the rest of your life together.

As much as we all fight the happy ending, somewhere inside each of us lives the desire to share this journey with someone else. To have a partner that actually stays instead of leaves consistently, with or without a notice, depending on how much of a jerk he is. And each time we put ourselves out there, each time we take that risk that we’re all told we’ve gotta’ take to find an illusive Mr. Right, each time we feel like we’ve found it and we discover it’s wrong, it becomes more difficult to be vulnerable. It gets harder to enjoy those fantastic moments where we’re basking in the sun of a new love because we’re trying so hard to prepare ourselves for his disappearance. We’ve nearly came up with the monologue we’ll preach to our friends over hard tequila shots about this a**hole who left us high and dry, just like the rest of ’em, before we even let ourselves really like the guy.

But that’s the problem with good. Good makes us happy and free, optimistic and hopeful, but we’re programmed to believe that good goes away, so why hold onto it? Why give it any credit when it could turn to bad before the third date? Why pay attention to butterflies and great sex if those butterflies fly away faster than the dude who leaves in the middle of the night? After a while, does the good just completely go away?

No, that good goes to the next guy.

Maybe because I’ve analyzed my past relationships until my fingertips were blue in the blog or maybe because I’m growing up, but I’ve decided that all the good of yesterday is helping me today. The good with Mr. Possibility is different than the good with any other guy – we have our range of inside jokes memories that just the two of us share, pictures together, toothbrushes at each other’s places, and the perks of a full-fledged relationship. Should we break up, there would be things I’d miss, there would be good that would be gone, there would be tears to cry and martinis to drink. But all that good from Mr. Idea, Mr. Fire, Mr. Disappear, Mr. Fling, all of them – has helped me make more good with Mr. P.

Because if you remember, if you look closely enough, if you’re brave enough to look back on love instead of running from it because it hurts to think about it, you’ll see that lessons can be learned from the good, just like they can be learned from the bad. Over time, you figure out what makes you happy and what guys, in general, like about you. You determine what settles in your heart and what’s unsettling to your body. You begin to understand yourself and you master the art of asking for what you need when you need it.

You begin to cherish the good because while you know it could not be there tomorrow, it’s there today. And what’s a better way to spend a day than to make it a good one?

Daily Gratitude: I’m thankful for air conditioning. NYC feels like 107 degrees today, no exaggeration.

by - 2 Comments

Beer, Broccoli and Brownies

You know it’s time to do your laundry when you’re left with only Christmas-themed boy briefs you’ve had stashed for oh, I don’t know, ten years, that you never can seem to throw away. Or when your pile of laundry is competing with the height of your dresser. And you’ve worn the same dress more than a few times, though it’s 90-degree weather and every single possible inch of your body sweats in ways you didn’t know it could.

You know it’s time to actually get some sort of tan for the summer when you’re my friend M, who while on a day date with a cute, preppy, tattooed bachelor of an unknown age, you hold your arms out like a bird to attempt to get some color. Oh, and he calls you out on it and you blush sheepishly. Or when it’s mid-July and your legs glow in the sunshine, instead of glistening.

You know it’s time to actually stick to your exercise schedule when you try on pajama pants that were once super-baggy on you, but now are a little snug. Or when you see yourself in a mirror with four panes and think, “Oh, I just look larger because I’m in between the sections” and then discover, that no, that’s no exaggeration, that’s reality. Or when you weigh yourself at multiple places and even if you subtract five pounds off for water weight, clothes and bloating – you’re still a little heavier than what you’d like to be.

You know it’s time to go to the grocery store when you’re sitting around on a lazy Wednesday afternoon, hungry and busily working on a tight deadline, and you gotta’ find something easy to make. And so, you settle on some Brooklyn lager, brownies from two weeks ago, and fresh broccoli steamed with butter. Along with a bag of Sensible Proportions that quickly loses its senses. Or you start drinking out of the orange juice container in your undies because it’s too hot to dress and too much effort to wash a dish in the air conditioner-less kitchen.

Or is at these times that you learn the most important lesson of all? Self-acceptance.

That laundry can wait when there are career-advancing things to do or free happy hours that don’t break your bank and allow you to make memories you won’t forget. That while a healthy glow looks lovely on our 20-something bodies, at 50, we’ll be thankful for pale skin that wrinkles less and looks younger. That an extra five pounds never turned away a man before and if it did, then he wasn’t a man we wanted to be around to begin with. That crazy food concoctions sometimes turn into interesting conversations and giggles that make the strangeness less strange.

Because I may not be the most dedicated laundry lady, the cleanest, the smallest, the most beautiful, or the best chef – but I’m me. And if I want to eat broccoli and brownies with a side of beer, then, you know what? I will.

Daily Gratitude: I’m thankful that in the shadow of everything that’s wrong, there is always something that’s right.

by - 6 Comments

Put That Sorry Attitude to Bed

Yesterday, I was in a bad mood.

I could blame a recent turn-of-events, an impending monthly visitor, the extremely humid weather, or an overall feeling of being quite lost. As it usually does, New York’s been throwing me for a loop lately and it’s testing my patience and my dedication to the city I grew up adoring. For the most part, I’ve held true and strong, riding the waves as they come and living on a prayer that everything does happen for a reason and that this period of feeling downright shitty will pass. I’ve learned to see bad times for what they are and not let my mind cycle into the long list of things that are or could be wrong in my life.

But sometimes, I slip.

I let myself get so down into the dumps that nothing and no one can do anything to change it. No joke or funny moment can alleviate my sourpuss attitude, no amount of motivating blogs or long talks with my mother can turn my sullen frown upside down. I know myself well enough to know that when this happens, it is best that I spent some time alone. It’s best that I do the stupid, ordinary things that make me happy – like laying around in nothing at all, eating something that’s as terribly delicious as it’s terribly bad for me, watch a movie that’ll make me cry and snuggle with a blanket I’ve had for decades. It may be an immature way of coping with stress and adjusting my attitude, but if it works, why try and change it?

So why I decided it was a good idea for me to hang out with Mr. Possibility the entire day yesterday, knowing full well that even his dimples and loving nudges couldn’t shake me into my normally bubbly, talkative and happy self – I have no idea.

But I did.

We spent the day shopping in Williamsburg for gifts for other people and he continuously attempted to play around with me, offering his jovial nature and quick wit to raise my spirits. In return, I bickered with him over a beer he was buying me, nearly walking out because I felt suffocated and frustrated, wanting everyone in the world – including this sweet man – to just leave me alone. Then off we went to the city, to grab burgers at his favorite place, where I sat in silence feeling guilty and a tad angry at myself for being so irritable, when his request throughout the week was to spend Saturday with me because he enjoys having me around for lazy days of wandering. At some point over ice cream later, he casually mentioned that maybe we should go out with our friends separately for the evening, to give me some space and give him a break from my many evil glares and gestures that he didn’t deserve – or appreciate, I’m sure.

Not typically an insecure girl who attaches a ball-and-chain to her man, I found myself turning into the girlfriend I’ve never been. He had hurt my feelings by asking for some breathing room and I had denied him air. I demanded to know why we couldn’t hang out as we originally planned and he proceeded to calmly explain that a few hours away from one another would do us both some good and give me room to unload my spotty mood on something else other than him. He offered up his apartment, told me he’d be back later, and topped off his offer with a kiss on my forehead. I didn’t accept.

Hours later, after a nap and some cute videos on YouTube, he changed his tune and I switched my mood. He decided he wanted me to tag along and that we should enjoy a good night to make up for my bad day. Though in my state of ridiculousness, I was relieved to receive his invite, my realistic-self who had achy feet, a grilling headache, and tired eyes knew it would be better if I stayed in alone.

But the bitch in me took over.

She thought it was a brilliant idea and that I’d be able to make up for being snappy earlier by being the cute and charming woman I really am. I threw on some heels and a backless dress and joined him on the L into meatpacking for his friend’s birthday. I won’t get into details because they are so awful I don’t have the stomach to write them, but in a nutshell, Kettle One and I had a date at this party and it didn’t go so well. Still working out some trust issues from his straying before we were a couple, the jealousy I usually keep pretty calm came out to play.

And it didn’t play nice, to say the very least.

The night ended with a cab back home, Mr. Possibility furious with me, and mascara tears streaming my face. There are no words or excuses, rhymes or reasons for my actions, but when I woke up this morning with a hangover, un-brushed teeth, and puffy eyes, everything came together and for the first time in several, several months I felt like a hot mess. Getting out of bed for some much-needed water and bathroom break, I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to reason.

Why did I take out my frustration on Mr. Possibility when the reasons I was upset had nothing to do with him or with us? Why did I embarrass him in front of his friends, people that when and if they meet me again, probably won’t have the highest opinion of me? Why did I not listen to my intuition? Why didn’t I walk away instead of trying to finish a fight in a public place, for strangers to witness and to make me look like someone I’m not? I write dating advice for a living, columns and freelancing articles pay my bills, so why did I go against each and every single word of wisdom I had ever written or read?

What the hell was wrong with me?

In relationships, the easiest person to unload your every emotion and struggle on is your partner. They are there for you, hopefully, through each trial, and they often turn into what Pink would call “perfect little punching bags.” No this isn’t healthy, and yes, it’s hurtful to you, them, and your relationship.

But as Mr. Possibility so graciously and kindly reassured me this morning, it happens.

And when it does, any and every insecurity you have hidden away underneath makeup and confidence comes out. They pour out right past the very floodgates you set up to keep them away. You say things you regret instantly, do things you’d never do again, and feel things so deeply that you’ll swear this feeling will never, ever go away. And if you don’t happen to be with someone who sincerely loves you, who has your very best interest at heart, you may lose your partner in the process.

Because your baggage is your own, those bad days are your responsibility, those arguments will come to an end if you have the courage to walk away from them instead of pushing them so far that you may not be able to go back. Relationships aren’t meant to be wrapped in fancy paper and topped with a box at the end of every night – sometimes, the best thing you could ever give each other is what Mr. Possibility suggested to begin with – breathing room.

And the best thing you can give yourself is space to calm down, let things work themselves out, and put that sorry attitude to bed.

Daily Gratitude: I’m thankful for Mr. Possibility who is sitting across from me right now as I write this blog, standing by my side, and contemplating how he can throw me down a well in NYC.