Tag Archives: Marriage

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A Woman of Today

For those dull moments during work – or at lunchtime, break time, and office-is-empty time – I chat with my friends on Gchat. I’ve mentioned my love affair with Gmail before, but seriously, without it, my day wouldn’t seem complete. Or at least, as entertaining.

To keep me laughing and of course, thinking – my friend C sends me quotes she believes will foster inspiration. Often times, she’s successful and I’ve coined her my “Fairy Blog Mother” – encouraging me to keep going, even when the city, in its endless wonder and characters, can’t get my fingers to dance across the keys.

A few days ago, she started our daily conversation with, “My daily quote calendar today says: ‘The girl with a future avoids the man with a past.” Within a few seconds, I virtually smiled at C and asked the Twitterverse and Book of Faces for its opinion.

Overwhelmingly, the central response was: “Well, doesn’t everyone have a past? Why should we rule out someone who has baggage when we have enough of our own? And can’t we help that person overcome whatever it is from yesterday that’s keeping them from tomorrow?”

While I agree with all of those questions and find them valid, I have to ask: But how can we have a future -or more important, a today-  if we aren’t willing to accept the past for what it is, and leave it there?

When I first read this quote, the first person I thought of was Mr. Unavailable. Though he hasn’t been a huge part of my blog recently, since he was the first man I befriended without the premise of romance, we’ve remained in close contact. His problems are still many and while the contradictions of his past are still finding themselves more and more complicated, he’s making an effort to move forward.

The thing is, regret and the loss of women he had and those he could never win back, is keeping him from embracing all of the opportunities he has today. His career is one I’m envious of, his financial stability is something to shake a Cartier-heavy wrist at, and maybe most impressively – he’s nearing a new decade and you’d never know it. Not a bald spot, receding hair line, or gray streak in sight.

But nevertheless – because he can’t find love in himself, because he keeps seeking it from outside sources, dates, and dangerous expeditions, he isn’t able to create a future with anyone. But sadly, he also can’t create one with himself.

I can’t count how many times in a conversation, I find him starting off positive and ending up dwelling in a hole he just keeps digging. After a few full-hearted attempts to ease his troubled mind and raise his spirits without kisses or a simple sway of the hips (as a true platonic friend does), I eventually have to turn into full-throttle journalist mode and put him in his place.

Sometimes I start to feel guilty after giving him tough love, but as much as I’m a believer that our lessons from relationships that were help us prepare for the love we’ll one day find, I also think to be healthy, you have to adapt an attitude of acceptance.

And while some relationships end without notice, some come to a close because of shared problems and differences that can’t be compromised to make it work – and it’s there that we must realize that it isn’t always them – sometimes, it’s us. And most of the time – to start walking confidently away from happily-ever-over, you have to realize that maybe yesterday isn’t as important as right now in this single, shining or even unimportant moment.

This journey hasn’t cured me of my plight of obsessing about men, but it has lessened the time I spend debating their actions or decisions. It hasn’t made me the ultimate single girl who is satisfied in her solo shoes without longing for companionship, but it has given me a sense of self I’ve never had. I haven’t discovered the key to happiness or a secret that no one’s been able to find, but I have stumbled upon ways of coping and dealing with insecurities that work for me. I haven’t stopped blaming myself for everything that’s gone badly, but I’ve learned to take responsibility where it’s mine and when to stand up to the things that were not my fault. I haven’t given up all of my romantic notions (nor do I think I have to), but I’ve concluded that being a realist can save a gal a lot of heartache and haphazard-loving blunders. And though I’ll never forget the love I’ve experienced, I do forgive myself for the mistakes I made, the hearts I carelessly strung along, and the lovers I probably shouldn’t have taken.

I hope that Mr. Unavailable will reach a point in his life – maybe with some help from me or just by learning to depend on his own two rather large feet – where he can accept that just because he’s lost in the game of love several times along the way, there’s always another hand to play. Or should I say hold?

I may be a girl with a future as well as a lady with a past – but I am not identified by all that will come of my life and the person I once was. I am not searching for the solutions to unanswered questions about five years ago or five years from now that sometimes ravish my mind. Instead, I’m learning to define myself, instead of finding myself. I’m not looking to rewrite history or meet Mr. Future, but rather, I’m simply enjoying being a woman of today.

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Margaritas, Mayhem, and Meagerly-Dressed Men

What happens when you mix three pitchers of highly-intoxicating margaritas, five flirty friends (including a wonderful gay work hubby), free blowouts and styling, unlimited drinks, and half-naked men dancing within three inches of you?

One hell of a hangover and one fabulous lesson about being a single gal in New York City.

With the kickoff for New York’s Fashion Week (where I enjoyed a lovely presentation from Timo Weiland), an online women’s magazine and deal/coupon site, The Luxury Spot hosted a Bachelorette Party that instead of celebrating the fact someone was ending their days of singleness, they invited people to commemorate that flying solo could just be beginning.

Intrigued by this spin on a typical girl’s night out that involves tiaras, phallic shot glasses, and bridesmaids drinking themselves into a depressed oblivion, I gathered a group of my favorites and headed to Chelsea to play tribute to my unaffiliated with a man relationship status.

Like most great evenings, the gang hit up a spot the work hubby, J and I discovered a few months ago where prices are cheap and the tequila is abnormally strong. Well, stronger than usual, anyways. In my leopard print pencil skirt that’s probably a tad too tight (but I rock it like its not), we devoured chips and salsa while discussing current events that really matter – like the Biebs and our anticipation for the Grammys, sexual positions that hit the right spot, and LLilo’s latest disaster. Filled with warmness – both from the great company and the green magical liquid – we hopped a cab to Juliet Supper Club, where we were greeted with many women (and men) dazzled to dance away and toast to The New York Singleland.

Once one of The Luxury Spot’s leading ladies led us out of the crowd and into the festively decorated space, the group found its way to the open bar – where all of the Southerners squealed over a drink named Scarlett O’Hara. The intention of the drink was rather clever and by about number two, when you swear a male dancer is locking eyes with you, you frankly, don’t give a damn.

Or at least I didn’t and that’s when from across a bedazzled room, as a Remington stylist curled my hair while I sipped my red concoction, I started doing The Look at a man I’ll call Mr. Thong.

Oh dear.

Of course, its part of his job to flirt with the lovely, eligible or taken ladies who feel a little less guarded than normal, but Mr. Thong formed some sort of strange attraction to me. Maybe not strange, but by my somewhat reserved upbringing in the rolling hill of North Carolina, seeing a man roll his peak in such an enticing (and hilarious) manner, was quite the experience. And being a newfound lover of my single title, was curious to nail the story. I mean, I heard this particular has his own bobble head and all – though I’m pretty sure my friends and I were more distracted by his other gyrating one.

After posing for a few pictures with us, where Mr. Thong attempted to liplock with me, I returned to my seat, where my friends and I, captivated by our first experience with nearly nude dancers, continued to snap pictures and well, giggle, continuously. As I was looking at the shots with my friend E, Mr. Thong came over to our booth and cuddled up next to me.

“So, my name is Mr. Thong. What’s yours?” He smiled, as the light reflected off of well-oiled, chiseled, and tan body. Even in my haze, I made a plea to someone (not sure who, at the time) that he didn’t get his goo (from any place) on my silk top. Ew.

Never mind my distraction of his stickiness, I was stunned by the fact this dancer-dude was speaking to me, I somehow managed to tell him my name, what I did, and hand him my business card. You know, the one with my phone number, email address, and link to this blog?

Smart move, Linds. Smart move.

My friends, equally tipsy from Scarlett O’Haras and the residue of margaritas a few hours earlier, found themselves hysterical over my willingness to entertain the entertainer and we cheered again to the absurdity of the evening.

After gathering our goodie bags and coats, and splitting a cab uptown, I thought about how long it took me to get to this place. To a place where I could freely let myself and my inhibitions go. Where I could enjoy an evening without expecting a phone number, without wondering if someone would hit on me, without hoping Mr. Right would be at the next door, the next bar, or the next street corner. That an interaction with Mr. Thong didn’t mean I’d met my match, but that I just had an interaction for the books. Or the blog, I suppose.

That instead of focusing on the fact I was alone, I relished that I had the opportunity to be selfishly fabulous with my friends and enjoy their smiles as much as I would ever enjoy the grin of a stranger. That without a man, without the desire for one, without valuing the validity of anyone’s approval or interest, I was still happy. If anything, I was happier to not be obsessing and not be upset about things that fate has a hold on anyways.

Walking a block to my apartment, shivering in the cold, my hair curled up something fierce, and designer stilettos carefully avoiding New York’s influx of black ice, I realized I was actually living a phrase I’d always sang and quoted, but never really embraced:

Sometimes, girls just wanna have fun. And J, too, of course.

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The Prize of Simplicity

After an awful day, when my whipped crème melted too quickly off the fully-fat, fully-half-and-half, hot chocolate I treated myself to. After Nemo and his mom were separated in the deep blue sea. After I had sex for the first time. After I received the phone call offering me my very first job. After I was romanced in some simple, non-monumental way by the city. After I couldn’t, for the life of me, find the single piece of paper I needed with an insignificant note and couldn’t live without.

I cried.

I’ve always been a crier and I’ve never had an issue making my heart visible for the entire world (and web) to see. I cry when I’m thankful, when I’m happy, when I’m nervous, when I’m upset, when I’m depressed, when I’m furious, when I’m peaceful, and probably sometimes when I’m just bored.

And when I’ve cried for the first time with a man I’m seeing or interested in, it is always one of those incredibly sweet and meaningful moments where I allow myself to be vulnerable. I’m not sure why this indicates a new level of seriousness in relationships, considering just by the nature of who I am, he’d eventually see me cry at some point. Maybe just by walking through the park when the breeze hits me the right way, to be completely honest.

Nevertheless, I’ve often measured the validity of a relationship based on how emotional I am toward or around the dude in question. If I couldn’t stand the thought of losing him, if imagining him never calling me again gave me anxiety, if I cried while we made love or if things he wrote to me brought tears to my eyes – then I knew he was special. I knew he was different. I knew we, whatever we were or never came to be, was destined in some way.

However -if I didn’t cry, if we didn’t have dramatics and break-ups and make-ups, if the sex wasn’t so passionate I wanted to get lost in it – then I didn’t see the value in the relationship. I mean, if it wasn’t difficult, didn’t that mean it was lacking?

A relationship isn’t supposed to be easy, right? It’s supposed to be one of those things you work hard at, you earn, you fight for, and then when you win this person, you realize the ups and the downs were worth it.

The older I get, things like lust and connection are not becoming less important – I have concluded I will always need to have a man who has fire – but they are not my utmost priority in a partner. It isn’t that I don’t want to be a beautiful mess around someone, but after so many messy relationships and endings, I’d rather be with someone who isn’t all that complicated. Sure, I’ll always have my own intricacies and obviously, be a crier, but when I long for love, I realize I’m yearning for simplicity.

Perhaps hot and cold, yes’s and no’s, in a relationship and out of it, running away to be chased after, and pushing each other to the limits makes for an interesting course of events – but just because something is dramatic, it doesn’t mean it’s passionate.

It’s not a lie that a relationship, no matter how easily you get along, will require work and dedication to make it last the long haul, but if it is more confusing than it is comfortable, then what’s the point? I’d rather be single than spend hours trying to decipher the meaning between text message lines and always wonder if the man I love will leave, as he has dozens of times before.

When I eventually decide to hand in my single gal title for a girlfriend one, I will be at a point where I’m confident in myself and not looking to validate myself through a relationship or by the amount of tears I’ve poured over someone.  It will be when I stop equating happiness by how much pain I can endure.

It will be when I stop seeing a relationship and love as a project, but rather as a prize.

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For Better or For Worst

On this day, 25 years ago, my wonderful parents with names that rhyme promised for better or for worse, until death should they part, to support and honor one another, all the days of their lives. My mother made sure the word “obey” was omitted from their vows, as she’d never agree to do such a crazy thing, and really, my dad would never ask her to.

Nevertheless, when it has been the best of times and the worse of times, when there have been little reason to honor the other person, and when support simply was not enough – my parents have still held true to the promise they made at a tiny chapel, on top of a snowy hill a few days before St. Valentine’s arrival. As far back as I can remember, my dad has stopped in the middle of sentences to ask whoever he was talking to “Isn’t she the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?” while gazing toward her. And my mom, even with her relentless independence and boldness, blushes when she is surprised with her favorite flower or a hidden note underneath her morning coffee. Together, with a little help from the heavens, they created me and they’ve always said that while we didn’t always have the best of everything, they raised me with the very thing that makes us the richest of all:

Love.

Once I reached the age where I realized my parents weren’t just authorities and a support system who were there to tell me what to do, what not to do, and encourage each aspiration – I started noticing their displays of affection. And as embarrassing as it is, I became jealous of what they had. Maybe even more difficult to admit – during college when men arrived and exited with ease from my heart and my bed, I started getting so frustrated around my parents, that I’d have to leave the room to keep myself from crying.

I never rained on their happily-ever-after parade and I never said anything about my envy, but I know they could see it. Before returning to school after a break, my mom would sometimes say: “Don’t worry, sweetie. When the time and person is right, you’ll find a relationship like your dad and I have. I just know it! I promise!”

But what if I don’t?

As much as I would like to stay in never-never land where everything works out just as it should, where love is always returned as strongly as it is given, and marriages actually last until one of their dying days – I do live in the real world. More specifically – I live in Manhattan. While my friends, the Southern belles are in a knock-off stiletto race to the altar, my Northern sophisticates are running just as quickly in the opposite direction. And then there’s me, the daughter of a Northern firefighter and a Southern astrologer, a transplant from North Carolina living in the Big Apple…somewhere between desiring commitment and fearing it.

There are nights when New York is unforgivingly cold, when work has exhausted me to the point of no return, and when I see two lovebirds flying through the subway on my ride home that I long for someone. And that thirst for a warm body to hold me close and clear my head from a bad day can overtake any positive, any success, any anything in my life. I’ll spend 24-hours completely depressed, feeling unattractive, and even consider texting an old flame simply for the attention.

But lately, especially with this journey and with a new sense of self in my single shoes, that feeling hasn’t been as difficult to overcome. If I listen to my heart when it isn’t drenched in temporary loneliness, I know it isn’t at a point where meeting or dating Mr. Right is a priority. And not because of bruises or scrapes, rips or tears from men who have captured it before – but to a lack of desire in finding it. Those moments I have where I really want to be in a relationship, where I want someone to kiss and hold, someone to tell me I’m beyond beautiful, if I take a step back, I realize that commitment isn’t something I truly want.  Or at least a commitment to another person that takes me off the market and moved off of Solo Lane.

However – this may make me selfish and a double-dipper into fate and having the power to choose – but, I want to know that my mom is right. I want to be assured and promised that I will one day get married. That my husband and I will beat the divorce statistics, no matter how high they may rise, and that the love I find will be more than I could ever imagine or hope for. I don’t want to know his name, where he is right now, or how I will meet him – but I want to know the love my parents share and have cultivated isn’t an anomaly. That it is possible, it is reachable, it is…destined…for me.

But if I’m not ready – and maybe even when I am – is there reason to worry?

I could search endlessly through any type of dating medium there is, I could place pressure on myself, I could look at couples from a far and long for what they have. I could spend my days of freedom, of living the selfishly single life, wondering if I will meet the right person. Praying that I am, in fact, meant for that kind of love. I could think of reasons why I’m not good enough, why I don’t deserve an enduring romance, why love always seems to disappoint or pass me by.

Or I could just live. I could be happy for all of those people – including my parents who are currently sailing the Caribbean – who are blessed to not only find love, but brave to fight for the flame they ignited so many (or so little) years ago. I could be hopeful that though I’m not committed to being committed, I have already made a lifelong commitment that’ll I’ll never break:

A vow that in good times and in bad, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, I will love and cherish, myself.

P.S. Confessions of a Love Addict is making Valentine’s Day more about the single ladies and less about flowers that’ll die in a day. Submit your Valentine here.

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Something To Talk About

New York may attract the dreamers and the artists who express in every medium imaginable – but it also harbors and encourages the nosy.

Those of us who consider people-watching a pastime. Who have mastered the art of appearing engaged reading the Monday edition of The Times, when we’re actually eavesdropping on a riveting conversation three seats down. Those of us who can be entertained by the very best and the absolute worse displays of human emotion, affection, and self-destruction. Those of us who find ourselves inspired by strangers as much (if not more so) as we do from those we actually know the names of.

For a journalist and a woman who is easily combustible when given fodder for intriguing content – I picked the best city to live in. I may argue it picked me, but nevertheless,  though I love strutting to the rhythm of my powerhouse iTunes playlist while navigating the streets, I find myself removing the buds to tune-in to conversations I wasn’t invited to be part of.

Maybe it’s because of this blog or the universe’s way of encouraging my quest to self-love, but lately, the name of the eavesdropping game has been men. Or rather, women obsessing to a ridiculous degree about the guys who are, are not, could be, should be, or will be in (or out of) their lives.

Case in point, a few night ago I was changing in the locker room of my gym, when I overheard two girls discussing a dude one of them had met at a bar the weekend before. The girl was so distracted by going through each and every single detail about what he texted, how much time was between those messages, and what she thought he meant by them, that by the time she finished explaining everything, her friend had already changed into workout attire. She then realized she was behind her buddy and frantically started pulling off her work clothes to catch up. Obviously contemplating what her friend should wear as she waited for her to get ready, the other gal instructed, “Well, since you met him at kind of a trendy, clubby, flashy place, and you were dressed up – that’s how you should be when you get dinner tomorrow.” The girl with the dude and the date, stopped pulling up her sweatpants and with intense emotion said, “I know! I’m so stressed out that he’ll see me and think ‘Oh my God, that’s not who I met the other night.’ I really need to stop by H&M after this and pick out something. Or maybe you have something – are we still the same bra size? He’s taking me to some place downtown that I Googled, looked on New York magazine’s site, and on Menupages – so I think I have the scene figured out.”

Her friend placed her hand on her hip, tilted her head and matter-of-factly said, “You just never know, though. Ya know?” To which the girl nodded and replied, “I know. It’s going to be a disaster and I’m going to screw it up, I just know it. I always do.” By this point, I had been stretching my legs for far too long to hear their conversation and needed to literally run -but as I turned to look behind me, the scene of the girl stuck with me: athletic pants, an edgy sweater, two socks, and one running shoe on – gazing up at her friend in complete distress over a guy she’d met once.

Once.

Now, I started this blog for this very reason. I was that girl. If I’m honest I was far worse than that girl, if you get right down to it. My obsessions were intense and borderline-psycho. When I met a new man and he did actually call, email, text, Facebook, Tweet, or some other technological option of getting in touch with someone – I became instantly smitten. I lingered on his every last word, romanticized the way we met, came up with reasons why it must be fate, and tried to imagine what it’d be like to be his lady. Even if I didn’t quite remember what he looked like, what he did for a living, or if there was a spark – the fact that he was interested in me, meant I needed to make sure he stayed that way. And what better way to keep someone intrigued then to figure out the perfect thing to say, do, act, and seem like, so that the reason he decided to contact me in the beginning, would only continue.

And for the few first dates that turned into something more, regardless if they became boyfriends or flings – the obsession with talking about boys didn’t come to a stop…but only intensified. No matter what I had going on, what great adventures I was attempting, what strides I made in my career – I always defaulted to discussions about the man in my life. Or the one I wanted to be in my life.

In the spirit of honesty, I’m still not cured from being that girl. Like this weekend when a group of gals all-but had an intervention with me concerning what I felt about Mr. Possibility (hence yesterday’s post). Of course I appreciated and listened to their concerns, asked for their opinions, and described certain parts of my something-relationship with him in complete detail, my feelings were different. Unlike guys in the past, Mr. Possibility’s presence doesn’t rule all of my conversations. I tend to believe that if there weren’t any complications, he’d probably be mentioned a lot less. Regardless – that night, as I went on and on, played Devil’s advocate, tuned into their viewpoints, and tried to believe the most rational reasoning, I found myself exhausted of the conversation. I could hear the ridiculousness in my voice and the way I was putting myself down, going around in circles, and frankly – not having any sort of compelling conversation because I was lost in my own obsessive delusions. At that point in time, in those hours spent drinking and catching-up with my friends – why was I wasting my time talking about a man who was across several oceans?

Wouldn’t I rather know about their lives? About the half-marathon one gal is running and how she wants to be running buddies? About how one found the absoulte perfect job that would fulfill her dreams? Or how one managed to help bring a book she edited to the best-seller’s list? Or just about the cool recipe they came up with? And wouldn’t they rather know something more about me…then a damn boy?

Surely, we want to know these things about our friends and they want to celebrate in our success and be there for us in our trials, but somehow – the topic of men always seems to be far more intriguing. In that night alone, we compared our crazy sex and ex stories (which sometimes tend to be one-in-the-same) talked about what we wanted the very most at that moment – and two responded with “A man! It’s cold!”

Guys can be quite confusing, engaging, and incredibly entertaining – but don’t we have something more to talk about than them? Something that’s more meaningful, more interesting, more beneficial to our lives and our personal growth? Something that showcases who were are as individuals, the women we’re growing into, and the battles we’ve fought to get to where we are?

Of course – but do we always want to talk about those things?

Really, discussing relationships, no matter if we agree or disagree with them, want one or not, or have ever been in or fallen out of love- make us realize that we’re not alone. If we say these worries out loud, if we give them life by putting them in words, if we catch a raised-eyebrow or an understanding glance from our best friend -then we know that it’s okay to feel these things, it’s okay to be obsessive sometimes, it’s okay to not be the best player at this game of love.

It’s okay that at times, the only thing we want to talk about, even when we know we shouldn’t or when we know it makes us sound insecure or addicted – is the relationship we hope to find. Maybe we’re projecting what we want on strangers, getting way ahead of ourselves, and reading into details we don’t need to analyze.

Or maybe, giving them, or us, something to talk about, means saying the things you always hold back for fear of how they’ll make you appear. When in reality, they don’t make you that girl, an immature woman, or a non-recovering love addict – they just make you human.

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