Tag Archives: Love

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I’m Female, I’m Single, I’m Human

The whole origination of this blog, the reason so many websites, organizations, and therapists make money, and why Carrie Bradshaw is a household name is due to one fact:

Being a single gal isn’t easy.

And the journey to learning to love yourself, no matter what, is one that is full of trials, complications, thoughts, changes, and mishaps. Sometimes, you get hit with responses you never considered and you have to learn to readjust and turn your direction. Often times, to find your way, you have to be willing to travel through the bumps, and the misguiding, misleading avenues that steer us to destinations we never intended to visit.

When I started writing this blog – it was never for anyone but me. I promoted through Facebook for my friends and I wanted to use it as a space for me to be completely honest, to start making better decisions about relationships, and to make a commitment to falling madly in love with myself. I had reached a point where men had literally consumed each and every single one of my thoughts, my choices, my actions, my life – and I was so exhausted of giving them energy, time, and spirit-I had to make a change. I’ve never been officially diagnosed as a “love addict” and I’m not trying to make light of those who have been – I merely coined the name and proscribed myself a healthy dose of reality.

As some readers have pointed out and perhaps even my friends – I go back and forth. Some days I’m fine and others I’m a mess. Some days I want to be hell in heels and walk away from every man that’s done me wrong or has the opportunity to hurt me. And others, I long to be wrapped up in someone’s embrace more than anything else in this big ole’ city. The comments in yesterday’s blogcaught me off guard and if I’m honest, maybe hurt my feelings a little bit. My first reaction was to defend myself and defend the purpose of the blog and of the journey – but then I took a step back.

And ya know what, I realized they’re right.

I am one quite incredibly ridiculous walking contradiction. My mood changes with the wind, along with my preferences, my tastes, and my desires. Sometimes I feel like I need a man to complete me and other times I don’t want one at all. There are days whenchildren light up my day and then they completely freak me out. Certain mornings, I wake up longing for a relationship, and some nights I go to bed totally alone and unbothered by it. I can go from crying and obsessing, to calm, cool, and collected in the same 12-hour span.

I’m not making excuses for myself, but I am human. And truth be told, I’m not a recovered “love addict” by the terms of a professional or of my own. I mean, I’m only on Step 5, actually.

I’m not an expert. I’m not the woman who has everything together and the leader of the troops for those battling the dating trenches. I don’t have a background in psychology and if anyone asks me for advice, I always say my thoughts come from experience, not from expertise. I’ve never believed that overnight or in six months’ worth of blog posts, I would ultimately be cured of each and every quality that caused me issues. I’m not a lot of things – but one thing I am…is honest.

As happy and as thankful I am that people can resonate with what I write, that it helps people – and apparently provides entertainment and mocking rituals for others – I write because it helps me. When I put it on paper, when I publish it, when I dig through my own feelings by giving them life on a page, I work through my own problems. The way I approach things and the decisions I make may not be the best ones and I could quite possibly be a Southern gal who lands facedown on Northeastern pavement – but I’m not afraid of that. I take responsibility for my choices and more importantly, I stand by the freedom to make them. If the blog and this journey has taught me a single important lesson, it’s that I have the strength, the ability, the confidence, and the will to stand alone.

And this blog isn’t about the men who cascade in my life, about Mr. Possibility, about Mr. Unavailable, or Mr. Fire– they have a space on this blog because I’m working through my past and I’m attempting to create a future that’s healthy and promising. It isn’t about those who read it, those who dislike it, or those who are recovered from obsessing about guys or those who claim they never have – it’s about me. I can’t be the voice of reason, but I can be the voice of me, Lindsay, a human, a single woman, trying to figure out what’s best for her, and allowing others a window into the life she lives.

And that life isn’t one that’s made of fairytales and I’m not (regardless if you believe it or not) searching for a Prince Charming to ride away into the sunset of Madison Avenue with. I’m not trying to be like Sex & the City (frankly, even with my high-heel obsession and desire to live in the Village, I know how unrealistic the show is. However – the dating dilemmas it portrayed are more than real – just like this blog). I’m not attempting to tell anyone how to lead their life or that they should listen to me. I’m a woman writing a personal blog and it is what it is – personal. Perhaps I get a little too gritty and maybe too intense, but I make no excuses. I’d rather be honest with myself, with all of the readers about how I feel, even if they decide not to agree. Thank you, for reality checks from time-to-time, but also know I’m not oblivious to red flags or glaring neon signs – even if I do decide to turn a cheek and test it anyways.

I’m sincerely, profoundly, aiming to love myself. I may take chances on men who quite possibly don’t deserve them and I may stumble and I may fall – but I’ll still be writing. I’ll still be learning. I hope you, whoever you are, will still continue to read. And by all means, comment.

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The Question of Possibility

Men say the damndest things.

You know, those things that crawl under our skin and we wallow over for hours (or possibly weeks), those things that we attempt to read in between the lines, searching for a hidden clue or unspoken something we so desperately want to give meaning to. And so, as we listen to what men say, without actually hearing them – we start to ask questions.

Now, as a journalist – this not-so-redeeming quality has played havoc on my relationships or even my dating life. While I’ll always suggest utter honesty over anything else when seeking romantic-anything with someone new, there’s also a thin line between hoping a man means something and realizing that most of the time, guys say exactly what they feel, when they feel it. Actually, it probably comes out less eloquently but with more impact than the way women would structure the same sentiment.

Nevertheless, sometimes questions seem to be quite ineluctable.

Recently, Mr. Possibility and I walked throughout the Upper East and West Sides, running errands, eating more sugar than both of our recommended nutritional intakes call for, and visiting an exhibit at one of my favorite museums. As we walked, bundling up in the unexpected, yet expected snow, and catching up on the months we missed while he was traveling, I kept noticing question marks. When we waited for the downtown train, I started noticing red question marks cleverly disguised in the amphibian artwork scrolled across the wall. Then at Barney’s as I pretended I could afford shoes that cost more than three months’ rent, the advertising scheme featured a question mark in cascading colors. Lastly and maybe the most obvious- outside of his apartment complex, there was a black sign with a silver question mark graffitied without explanation.

Climbing the steps to his third-floor condo, I couldn’t help but wonder, “What’s up with all these questions?” Noticing my confused stance, he gave me an inquisitive glance, and in return I smiled, imagining the same question marks I noticed throughout the city flashing above his annoyingly adorable head. With this image circulating, I realized the state of whatever it is we are or are not doing is best defined as questionable. Full of opportunity, deep in contradictions and complications, and most importantly, ripe with possibility that’s yet to be determined.

In my path to self-love as it intersects with Mr. Possibility, I’ve received some heat. Not just from my friends and my family, but from my readers, too. Some of the comments shared on this space haven’t been positive and there have been more than enough reasons for me to tuck my Tigar tail and sprint into a new safari of available men. I’ve questioned his feelings toward me, the seriousness of what could be growing, and if by staying put, I was avoiding standing up for myself. There have been moments in our ever-short history that I’ve felt the sting of heartbreak, where I doubted my decision to give him another chance, wondering and nearly convinced I was setting myself up to play the part of a fool. In his words, which have always been rather blunt and honest, even when that’s not always what I wanted to hear, I’ve hoped certain statements meant more than what they did. I’ve admittedly been jealous of other women and perhaps women I’ve never met but somehow characteristically resemble, and I’ve found myself sinking in a pool of unsettling feelings.

The only difference now, with my newfound confidence and level-head on the whole game of love, is that instead of diving head-first into his endless sea of could-be’s, I’ve made a conscious decision and effort to wade knee deep. And though my heart is still uncertain since his return, there are some baggage that needs to be discarded, and wounds that need some healing – I haven’t decided the troubling waters are so rough that I need to sail back into the safe harbor.

And by being more relaxed, but still saying what I need (for his swimmers not to swim into other lady’s lakes), I’ve learned that while questions are unavoiable, sometimes, they are merely just part of the gray areas of mystery that surprisingly leave us happier than dwelling in the black and white. The lovely color of gray also allows other shades to mingle into the mix and it encourages me to listen to what Mr. Possibility says as he says it, while not aiming to discover a hidden intention.

It also gives him the chance to ask some questions instead of me interviewing our relationship, looking for a new angle in his speech (which, by being from Queens, is quite difficult to decipher from time-to-time). A few nights ago, as a way to apologize and thank me, he treated me to an evening of quintessential New York spots. Unaware of where we were going, what we would be doing, or how long I would be gone, I was obviously full of long-winded questions. Not one who is very good at surprises, but loves them anyways, he simply told me to be ready on Sunday evening at 8 p.m. and wait for his instructions.

Though the thought of a man telling me what to do enticed me to spit out a sassy comeback, I decided in the name of romance and making-up-for-measly-mistakes, I’d click my heels together and beg not to turn into a questioning pumpkin at midnight. When the clock struck one-past-eight, my phone lit up to Mr. Possibility’s name, and without greeting me, he asked, “Do you trust me?”

In a car he sent for me, heading toward an unknown destination, as the driver drove so fast the light posts created lines that matched the linear avenues, I answered his question in my head: No, I don’t quite trust Mr. Possibility. I have more questions that need answering than matters of fact. I can’t and don’t desire to be with him every second of every day, and the decisions he makes away from me are still ones I’m not completely convinced have my best interest at heart. But do I trust him enough to listen to him? To hear what he says? To take things slow? To put my own feelings in check and demanding it not be all about him? Do I trust him to an extent where I’ll get into a black sedan promising to deliver me to Mr. Possibility’s embrace? Yes.

Once the car stopped, he opened the door and extended an arm out to lead me toward the center of a quiet and magically lit-Lincoln Center. There, in my vintage Michael Kohr’s, he looked into my eyes and said, “You once said you couldn’t wait to be kissed here, at night. I don’t know if it was a blog or in our conversation, but it’s time for it not be a wish anymore.” I’m sure you can guess what happened next.

There are always questions in relationships or courtships that could eventually turn into something profound. And perhaps not having all of the answers actually does us more good than it does us bad, if we’re brave enough to accept the opportunity for destruction matches the chance of delight. But maybe, there is one simple question we should ask ourselves when deciding to move forward or to walk away – which happens to be the next question Mr. Possibility proposed as we headed to meet our dinner reservation:

“Are you happy?”

And if the happiness outweighs the negativity, the uncertainty is less unsettling than absence, if there is more joy than there is pain – then perhaps, whatever it is or isn’t, whatever questions you can’t answer or commitments you can’t make, are worth the experience.

Worth the possibility.

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A Window of Misconception

Whenever possible, I always try to sit in the window.

At cafes, where I write the pages of this blog while sipping coffee and attempting to avoid the cupcake whispering my name; in my apartment, which is small in stature, but wide in window seats; and when having dinner with a friend or treating myself to a table-for-one, and I want to enjoy the city’s energy, while staying warm.

There’s something about watching the world outside, while being part of a different world, your own little universe, that’s wildly inspiring. From where I sit in the indoors and where the traffic and footsteps move in a syncing pace, only a piece of glass separates us – and yet most of the time, I can’t hear exactly what’s going on, what’s being said, or what Manhattan’s streets are creating.

And so, I make up my own version.

The couple with nearly matching outfits, walking step-for-step, smile-by-smile seem like they just reached the point in their relationship (or non-relationship) where they are comfortable being themselves with one another. The older lady in the red coat with a lapel and her companion, who is sporting a cane and heels (an oxymoron maybe?), have been friends for nearly thirty years and still enjoy a buttered roll and hot tea from the same diner they visit every Sunday morning, without fail. And the early-twenties girl who dressed too warmly for the end-of-winter front that won’t subside to the back, looks sad because in a place with thousands of eligible bachelors, the one she wanted didn’t desire her in return.

My speculations of what they’re lives are like or where they’ve come from or where they’re going or who they’ve loving or attempting to forget are merely fictional – but in the spirit of people watching, without imagination, why would the sport be entertaining in the first place?

The only trouble with observing people and making them into characters is when you start to believe your make-believe is a reality. Or when, for whatever reason, we become jealous of those we don’t know because we project an idea of what they’re life must be like, even though we don’t have the slightest inclination.

Yesterday, as New York was in between teasing me with Spring (yet again) and reminding me the winds of winter are still here, I decided to face the city head-on and walk through midtown. Along my path, I passed dozens upon dozens of couples – something that is quite common here. They could be tourists or natives, a mixture of both, and throughout a wide range of ages. I used to witness the duos and find myself creating these romantic worlds that I knew they must live in – far away countries I never visited or if I did, my Visa was revoked as quickly as it was passed through customs. I was always a traveler in the land of love, never a citizen. So these lovebirds, whoever they were, had something I wanted – something I longed for, and something I knew I needed.

From the outside, protected from any harsh reality of what is hidden behind closed doors and closed hearts, every relationship, every couple prancing hand-in-hand, every stolen kiss on the elevator at Macy’s or uninhibited laughter on Seventh Avenue – seems like the making of love. Or rather, just a reminder of the love I’m not in, the comfort I don’t have the pleasure of depending on, or the man I have yet to meet.

However – with the wind twirling my unwashed hair in all sorts of directions and walking next to a man who quite possibly makes me incredibly happy and ridiculously confused at the same time, it occurred to me that I no longer find myself envious of couples, but rather empathetic.

If you’re not part of a relationship, if you’re not one of the two who makes the couple a pair – you don’t know what it feels like. You may have a window, but you’ll never be invited inside. You could read a love (or hate) story about how he met her or she fell out of love with him – but you’ll never know the root of anything or if their bliss, which seems so enticing, is a show they debut for the world or truly how they feel.

I mean, how many men have I been in public with, without declaring our relationship (or could-be union) to the public?

Unless you’re thirteen, holding hand doesn’t signify fidelity. Shopping for household appliances or furniture is a way to pass an afternoon, but doesn’t dictate the seriousness of a relationship. Romancing in the streets doesn’t determine if there is a true romance, a true passionate connection in places that aren’t quite as public. Maybe being a recovering “love addict” makes you realize that relationships are never what they seem. And happiness doesn’t necessarily equate to love.

Because sometimes, the very person you are wishing you could be, staring outside into the window of misconception of the life they display to the masses, is the same person peering back at you dreaming they had the life you seem to have, sipping your coffee, and typing away, alone and seemingly, happily, single.

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The Things I Don’t Know

The months before I graduated from college, however long ago, I couldn’t wait to get out. I had reached a point where anything and everything I was involved with or did was incredibly old. My classes stopped challenging me and I knew New York was in such a short reach, but it felt like I couldn’t extend to grasp it. I was in a relationship I knew was dead-end but my insecurities kept me from cutting the chord.

And yet, as I approached my graduation day (a semester earlier than anticipated, mind you) – I can’t count how many people warned, “Linds, college is the best time of your life. You’re going to miss it once you’re in the real world.”

I disagreed then, and I still beg to differ now.

Going away to school – even if it it’s just two hours away, like it was for me – teaches a kid a lot about growing up. You learn how to make Easy-Mac, how to avoid (or lose eventually) the freshmen 15, and how to force yourself to do things you do not want to do (biology at 8 a.m.). If you’re lucky, you also learn how to share a twin bed with someone, how to get over a college guy (or guys) with unfavorable intentions, and figure out not only your place on campus, but where you’ll be placed after you’re deemed certified by an accredited institution. When I was in college, I remember this feeling of not knowing where my life would go or if I’d ever get to the destination and the job I heavily preached and promised I’d arrive at. Because I never quite felt like I belonged on top of a mountain (imagine that) – I’m not sure I fully embraced being a college girl to the degree that I could have.

However, though I worried more than I partied, I also felt a sense of security by being in school.

When you’re a sophomore you know in a year, if all goes accordingly, you’ll be a junior. You have an idea of the track your courses will take or where you’ll rise in leadership at whatever organization you’re passionate about. You know when you’ll start applying for internships and you know when you’ll move out of the dorms and into an apartment. While there may be uncertainties about what happens after college, when you’re wrapped up in the books and the looks from upperclassmen you pass in the commons – you don’t have to wonder too much about what’s ahead of you. You basically know where you’ll be 12 months from that moment, no matter what. Perhaps it’s that feeling of not having to grow up too much, not having to plan everything out, or not having to stress over bills or if your career is heading down the right track or if you should be engaged or not, is what makes higher learning appear to be the best time of our lives.

Because once you’re out and you take on a city hundreds of miles away, all of the things you knew in college become all of the things you don’t know. If you ask me where I’ll be a year from now, I’d never be able to answer you. And for a while after I graduated, I hated all of the things I didn’t know.

There were no longer guarantees for my immediate future. There were no promises of housing and the comfort of the classroom never translated into an office. There wasn’t a sea of like-minded and similar-in-age people constantly surrounding me and the pool of dating options took a dive into deep diversity. There was no telling if the job I accepted would be the best move for me or if packing up all that I could into a few suitcases and taking a bite out of the Big Apple (or having it bite me) would be the start or the end of me. And while the majority of my classmates were heading (or planning to) down the aisle, I was ending a relationship and standing alone, without a friend, without a clue of where my life would go.

But, the older I get and the more comfortable I find myself in my own skin – I realize it’s the things I don’t know, the plans I can’t make, the questions I can’t answer – that ironically, make me the happiest. Dwelling in possibility opens up far more windows of opportunity than remaining in comfort. College may start the process of becoming an adult, but until you leave campus – you haven’t a clue about what living is actually about. More importantly, you don’t know who you really are yet or had the chance to define who you want to be – today or tomorrow.

And for now, the things I don’t know outweigh the things I do. One phone call, one offer from an unnamed source, one chance encounter in the middle of a city street or one email, one impossibility that evolves into a possibility, one opening in an international office, one impossible to pass up apartment, or one view on one page from one influential person – could change everything I know.

And it is the realization that everything, love and whatnot, is completely transitional, utterly temporary, and constantly in progression from one thing to another, that I realize the best days of my life were not years ago in college or even today – but rather, they on their way. They are in places, in people, in articles, in books, in magazines, in cities, in travels, in experiences, in trains, planes, and automobiles, in runs, in coffees, in embraces, in romantic escapes, in the laughter of children, in the growth of gray hairs, in all of the things – I’ve yet to experience.

When will I know I’ve reached the pivotal period where everything is just so, feels just right, and goes just as I hoped it would?  I don’t know. And really, I doubt I ever will.

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How Sweet It Is

After my company put on an event giving entrepreneurs opportunities to grow global, J and I headed to a wine store two blocks over to find some international Merlot-inspired strategies of our own.

As we listened to the sommelier, in his terribly cliché French accent, black-rimmed glasses, and v-neck cardigan explain to us the history of vineyards in lands we’ve never heard of, J and I shared a knowing smile that though we may never be well-versed in the language of vino, we can at the very least, pretend. Once we decided on a 2006 edition of something “surprisingly infused with cherry and lime in an exquisite fashion“, we stood waiting at gift wrap. Easily distracted by decorations, a smile curved its way across J’s chiseled chin and he said, “Give your sweetie a treatie!” and nodded toward a leftover Valentine’s Day sign.

Still dressed in my pencil skirt and white-billowing blouse, I tousled my hair seductively and sarcastically and asked, “What treat will you be buying me then, J?” Unable to hide the half-British, half-New York accent he pulls off so well, he quickly responded, “You’re not my sweetie, darling.”

Without missing a beat, I rose to my tiptoes (even in my four-inch Carlos), and beamed: “I’m not anyone’s sweetie!” Confused, J raised an eyebrow at me, shook his head probably thinking “silly American” and looked back to his iPhone. As he fervently put the touch-screen to the test, I glanced back at the sign and stole away a smile, just for me. And I remembered.

In college, when I felt stranded by the mountains that encircled the campus and the snow would fall taller than the top of my highest boots -I would lay on my couch, afghan carelessly laying across me and just stare out the window. I would imagine the two arms I wanted – I needed – so badly to keep me warm. To make me feel like I wasn’t alone. To wrap their body so tightly around me that I would never doubt that love, no matter how difficult or seemingly unattainable, was possible for someone like me. Someone who had yet to feel successful in any relationship or love she’d found thus far.

That longing, that thirst – carried its way to New York when I first moved – especially since my mother’s prophecy that I’d meet the man I’d marry the second I took my first step at JFK. While my career aspirations had gone as planned, the romantic component of my city fairytale didn’t resemble Cinderella in any way. Well, except maybe for the shoes.

For the longest time, regardless of where I was, who I was or was not with, or what was changing or remaining stagnant in my life – I hungered for a man. For a magical person who would take away that sting, that fear, that something that brought me so much trouble, so much physically emotional emptiness. For someone to be more than something – but everything to me. If they could take away any insecurity about my future – romantically inclined and all else – then I need not worry about it. If I had them, didn’t I have everything I would ever need?

But now, instead of looking for a sweetie to give me treatie – I’d rather have a sweetie who is my treatie. Not the my full source of healthiness or my daily dose that keeps me going or the main ingredient of my internal caloric intake – but just a special something I treat myself to. The icing on the cake, but not the concoction it took to make the dough rise. One of the sweeter parts of my afternoon, but not the thing that’ll make or break my day, my diet, or my spirit.

Isn’t that how a relationship should be, anyways? Isn’t that why we all see love as this incredibly desirable and often indescribable feeling (or choice, depending on what you believe) that brings this added glow, sweetness to our lives? Wouldn’t that passion, that certain comfort, that something incredibly beautiful, be best as something we look forward to? Instead of something that we’ve gotta have to survive?

Doesn’t a treat taste the best when we save it for something special? Or should I say someone special? And while that added spice or sugary-goodness that may or may not be good for us will be an added pleasure in our life – we have to also know the sweetest love of all is the one we’ve already found by mixing the right ingredients together to make us the irresistible women we are.

All of this time, all of those countless cold nights I spent wrapped up in an idea of what a leading man would be. All of those tears wasted on those who never deserved my attention in the first place. All of the worries about a love I was terrified I’d never find. All of those strolls through the city that never lets me down and all of the pages of any and every diary I’ve ever owned, going on-and-on about this singular thing, singular stranger, who would take away that appetite for what I thought was the miracle nourishment to make my every ache and pain a distant memory. All of this time wishing I was someone’s honey, someone’s escape as much as they were mine. All of this time I have been forgetting the simplest thing of all that never fails to hit the right spot at the right time. Even in the middle of an overpriced wine store in Chelsea:

How sweet it is to be loved…by me.

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