Tag Archives: Marriage

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A Lifetime of Magic

And so it has finally arrived.

That moment I’ve been waiting for my entire life. That instant where the world stops, the earth becomes still, and you feel like you’ve finally felt that one thing you’ve always wanted to feel…in the place you wanted to feel it. Pieces of your soul float together and your heart mends in a single moment, with one little look, and one glimmer of shining, brilliant hope.

Yes, my dears, Christmas has arrived in New York.

The streets are paved with thoughts of sugarplum fairies, the windows are frosted, and people of all shapes and sizes look all-sorts-of-adorable in their mittens and their coats. But most profoundly, there is this vivid feeling surrounding the city streets and corner-lights: magic.

As soon as Macy’s finished their decorations, I wasted no time in scoping out the extravagant displays and walking through each floor to see what holiday-madness I could find. Since it is my very first Christmas in the city, I will forgive myself for acting like quite the tourist for a few weeks. And while I’m relishing in this freedom -I plan to do it in style.

To top the hat off of Macy’s cheerfulness, a friend of mine, M, asked me to be her date to Radio City Music Hall’s A Christmas Spectacular.

It was her last night in the city before moving back to North Carolina to support her family and continue down a path she was born to walk on (or strut, rather) – and we wanted to take this little island by storm before she left. Her seats were first mezzanine and center – basically the very best seats you could have gotten in the house. We decked ourselves out in Christmas-ey dresses and stockings (with heels of course) and got there early to get the full-Rockette experience.

When we walked into Radio City, my mouth about hit the floor: it was about as classically Christmas as anyone could imagine. I was surprised to not hear a jazz band playing “The Christmas Song” in the corner with a woman in a red dress leaning up against a baby-grand singing in a sultry voice. And once we sat down and the show began – I was taken back to another time in my life.

To those Christmas visions at the holiday season when you’re a child. When there is nothing more important than being good so Santa will bless you with his many toys. Where shaking boxes wrapped under the tree could take up an entire hour of your time easily. Where the first snowfall that brought the chance for a snow day was almost as great as your birthday or Christmas Day itself.

Where there was no reason to doubt magic because you just believed.

There was no questioning or wondering if you’ll get that one gift you so desperately desire -you knew it would be under the tree when you wake up at the crack of dawn. When you thought about growing up – you knew exactly what you wanted to do, no matter how absurd or unrealistically achievable it may be. You never wondered if you would get to kiss your Prince Charming underneath the mistletoe one day, and frankly, it was not really a priority – because you just knew it would happen. Everyone got happily ever after and everyone became a princess. Everyone got that mini-truck or the Barbie Dream House because why wouldn’t they?

Magic is simply guaranteed and we never really think we’ll grow up into big boys and girls, until we find ourselves as a 20-something, in the middle of Radio City Music Hall, realizing we’re completely on our own. And not only that, but for the longest time we’ve been skeptical about the splendor that we once thought would always be ours.

When do we lose that beautiful, pure, and unrelenting hope we all had as children? When do we lose that sparkle and that bubbly faith that comes with being inexperienced and out-of-tune with the functions of the so-called harsh reality of life?

As I watched the dancers, the singers, the actors, the ice skaters, and the musicians who put on literally one of the best performances I’ve ever seen – I thought about how at one time, all of them were children. Just like I was. They had big dreams and perhaps, at some point, they said unquestionably to their parents: “I’m going to be a Rockette one day!” And now, there they are– tapping out a beat on the stage they knew they’d always grace. But even so, after they bow and take off their dancing shoes backstage – they probably criticize and belittle their achievements or their talents and always think “I could have been better. I could be more entertaining. I’ll never get to my full potential.” Or maybe the man they were seeing promised to show up and even though they are a smokin’ Rockette or an incredibly talented figure skater – he decided to cancel at the last minute.

Do we stop believing in the promise of magic because somewhere along the way, we allow our spark to be put out? Because we start analyzing and comparing ourselves to others or dwell on the idea of absolute perfection? Or when we get a glitch in our hearts, we decide feeling that immense all-consuming feeling of falling in love is impossible in the future?

As I watched the show, listened to the words, and thought back on my wild and wonderful hopefulness as a little girl, I thought: what’s the harm in believing?

Everyone tells me not to have expectations because then if something even half-way good happens, I will be pleasantly surprised. But what if instead of being satisfied with the ordinary, I actually gave myself permission to believe that the extraordinary was a true and real possibility?

I left Radio City with a swollen heart completely in awe of the city I live in and the stage of my life I’m blessed to be exploring and experiencing. M and I walked to Rockefeller Center and it was almost as the heavens rained down magic for this special night. As we walked around, I witnessed every stage in my life: there was a little girl with her best friend and their moms, smiling for the camera with curls and bows in their hair and saying “Ice skating!!” And then we walked a little further and saw a group of high school girls and boys infamously flirting with one another on and off the ice. There were groups of twos and threes, solos and families – all skating on the same rink, in the same direction – but at completely different points in their lives.

Leaving the center, we looked at each other, with this sense of knowing we were talking towards our futures in some majestic way, to whatever stage may come next. And sure enough, there was a limo, signifying sure success, and a couple stealing a kiss on the corner of the block, showing us that believing in magic maybe isn’t such an outlandish idea, after all.

Does believing hinder my growth? Or my self-proclaimed recovery? Does relishing in the soft cloud of hope make me vulnerable for falling to a slow, painful, heart-breaking demise? Nah, I think it just gives me a power above the rest. It keeps that youthful, inexorable glow that we all have as children but let go of a little more with each Christmas we experience.

I will never be able to see through the same pair of eyes I looked through as a child, or as a teenager, or even the me I was before I moved to Manhattan. But if I keep this reminder of hope inside of me, at this very special time of the year (and always) – maybe those visions I dreamt of, those kisses under the mistletoe I’ve longed for, those holiday parties I’ve wanted to attend at the magazine of my dreams – will become more than a image in my mind. But rather, they will grow out of the magic already burning inside into something even more outstanding: my reality.

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And The Beat Goes On

I’ve always felt a sincere connection to my heart. Maybe it comes with love addiction or I pay way too much attention to subtle changes – but when I feel something, I feel it to my core. Surely, if there is anything at the center of me, it’s my heart.

And in that heart, the ever-beating, ever-growing heart… lives a lot of love.

I’m a fan of Eat, Pray, Love (more so the book than the movie), and in it, Elizabeth Gilbert says everyone gets a word. This word can change at certain points in our lives or in different places, but this word, at whatever point you’re at in your life, defines what’s important and represents who you are.

Two separate friends, A and R, who know me extremely well told me that my word is “love.” R went as far as to say: “You love your parents. You love your friends. You love your city. You want to feel love, give love, understand love. You love yourself – that’s why you do everything you set out to do, accomplish all of the things you want to accomplish – because you love your dreams. And that love means everything to you. It’s not just romantic. It’s meaningful and it’s yours.”

I’ll admit I’m in love with the idea of love, but I will also attest to the fact that I see love all around me. Romantically or not, when I care about something, someone, some place, some activity, some ritual – I don’t just like it, I fall in love with it. I embrace it face-on, relentlessly, and with the velocity of a wildfire.

And sometimes, that heart opens up to someone who may seem promising. It allows itself to be vulnerable and real, beautifully messy, and extraordinarily human. And at times, that heart gets some cracks in it. Some breaks, rips, and tears from love that was, love that never came to be, and love that changed me – for better or for worse. Those imprints aren’t something that I can prevent or transform, nor would I really want to.

This heart, which will forever find love in all of the places around it, wears those scars with courage. And it also realizes that while Neosporin can’t be applied to the actual heart, when it hurts – some much-needed time and self-support can erase those bruises that once broke it down.

Too many women (and men for the matter) call their hearts “damaged” and declare they will never be able to love again –because it just hurts too much. That whoever it was who took their once-full heart and then pounded it into the pavement, somehow shattered any chance or desire they had for love again.

I beg to differ.

The heart is meant to feel love and it’s also meant to feel pain. When you start feeling those butterflies or the lovely beat of anticipation in a new relationship – you literally can feel your heart inside your chest. And when you’re broken down, let down, and keeping yourself down –that inevitable sting will find its way to you, too.

But the majestic truth about the heart – is that it knows all of this. And more importantly, regardless if it’s felt that way before or been in the same predicament at a time previous, it realizes that this impairment is only temporary.

In time, especially when you allow the heart to open again. When you give it permission to go out on another limb and push your way through the fear and the wounds. When you rip off the band-aid to reveal the once ugly and painful cut that you covered up (for dread that it may get worse), has now disappeared…and maybe only a slight reminder remains.

And learning to love yourself, even with those little and large scars that remind us of the love we shared and the ones we’ve cared for will always be part of us, but…we’re still surviving. Our hearts are pounding and filling us with the breath it takes to keep moving. Our blood is still pumping, warming us and ensuring that we can once again feel it boil with passion again. It goes where you go, it stays alive and vibrant – regardless of the trials fate insists we go through.

When I’m nervous or when I’m afraid, or when that this-could-be-love knot is growing in the depths of my heart – I put my hand over my chest and I feel the beat. I tell myself to go ahead and jump, relax and believe I can do anything. That no matter if I’m single or if I’m married, employed or broke, hundreds of miles away from my best friends or sitting right next to them – my heart, my core, my center – stays in me. It sustains me, gives me hope, and triggers my next move, next chapter, next stage. All I have to do is listen and feel and trust. And even if my heart is grieving or having a hard time believing, I know it’s still beating.

And that no matter who or what comes and goes, that love will remain inside of me. And regardless if it is faint or fierce, the beat will always go on.

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Louie Doesn’t Lead the Way

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Today, I Pick Me

I’m afraid that every man I ever date will always pick another woman over me.

There, I said it.

As someone who is pretty self-confident and considers herself successful, independent, and attractive – it is so hard to admit feeling inadequate. And this fear that swells up in my heart and my eyes frequently is a big one to overcome.

Part of this journey is noticing trends, both in my past and in my current thinking, and one thing I’ve always battled is not feeling “good enough” or “pretty enough” or “cool enough”. I know I have alluring qualities and I’m easy to be around, but when it comes to hooking a  guy and keeping his interest, I tend to feel like there is always another girl out there who does it better.

With all of the men I’ve dated (Mr. Faithful, Mr. Rebound, Mr. Fire, Mr. Curls, Mr. Buddy, and most recently Mr. Idea), they all found and fell in love with another girl shortly after things ended with me. For some it was a month or two, or a few weeks, and with one, only a day. Knowing that these men who I’ve given parts of myself to, both literally and emotionally, can just move on to the next gal without batting an eyelash has made me feel so invisible. And even more so, like my love, my presence, my feelings were just disposable.

I’ve made a vow to not bash anyone – male or female – on this blog, but rather talk about what I’ve learned, instead of what I resent. However, the women who have followed after me have been completely opposite of me. Given, I don’t know them very well (or if at all), but they look and act differently. They have totally dissimilar interests or goals or ways of speaking or looking at life.

While I don’t think there is anything wrong with these women, and if I actually spent time with any of them, I may hit it off and we’d be the best of friends (though I doubt it) – what does it say about me that men I’ve loved or dated, have made complete 360’s in the post-me gal they choose to date?

And what about the fact that all of them have not only started dating another woman, but fell madly in love with them, too? Or for the ones who wouldn’t agree to commit to me, they suddenly can be exclusive with someone else?

While I’ve made progress in this journey and feel more in-tuned with who I am and what I want, and especially what I deserve – I still compare myself to most girls and I still wonder, “When a guy could have any of the beautiful women who grace and strut the streets of Manhattan – why, oh, why, would he pick me? And if he does, won’t he just pick someone else later?”

I think the new question I need to be asking myself is: “Why do I think it’s about him chosing me?”

I’m not a pro on relationships (honestly, I don’t think anyone ever truly is), but to be “successful” in a relationship, you have to pick one another. I think that magical, mystical, and unbelievable passion is there at the beginning, but after a while, and especially when you’re married – you choose to stay in love. You choose to preserve the reasons and the feelings and the memories of why you agreed to be together in the first place. And while those men I dated chose me at some point, over the course of the relationship, we stopped chosing one another, and they inevitably picked another one out of the single-lady-fied line. And eventually, I picked someone else, too.

It’s not about deciding to go to another girl over me or not being good enough – it’s a matter of the difficult choices we make in life and in love every minute, moment, hour, and day. It’s not me. It’s not her. It’s not him. It’s just the natural progression of being in, falling into, and getting out of a relationship. And though I realize this, I think I’ll have to still aim to be genuinely happy for each of them…one day.

A part of me knows that I’ll chose someone one day and he will pick me, too – a larger part of me has decided against selecting a man right now. Because my life isn’t defined about what happened in my past or what man is in my life. It’s not about the girl with the long, brown, hair and pretty smile. Or the woman who takes the place in the bed where I used to lay. And it’s not about why the man decided to walk away or allow me to leave. It’s not about them – it’s about this woman, right here, looking back me in this mirror, in this tiny NYC apartment.

And today, this woman picks herself.

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The Lack Luster Love: Mr. Buddy

Call me crazy, but I’ve never been the type to want to be friends with a guy before I date him. Maybe this is where part of my struggle and love addiction comes from – this unrealistic idea that I should just meet a guy and fall in love, not be BFFs with him for years before.

Somehow, I think if you know too much from the beginning (like ex-girlfriends, strange traits, etc.), that certain mystery and charm is eliminated from the courtship. Of all of the men I’ve dated, loved, or been sexual with – I’ve only been friends with one before we dated.

And my theory that friends before love doesn’t work for me was proven correct by Mr. Buddy.

My freshman year of college, I met Mr. Buddy after the first big snowfall in my sleepy college town. Even beneath his puffy jacket and earmuffs, I could tell he had this killer smile and immediately we clicked. Along with a friend of mine and a friend of his, we went sledding all night and exchanged numbers at the end of the evening.

Long story short, Mr. Buddy was leaving my college to pursue other goals and we decided that because we got along so well, we should stay in touch. For the two years that followed, Mr. Buddy was my go-to guy about any and every man trouble that I encountered. We literally spent hours talking via IM or text message, and even on the phone. He was always reassuring and complimented me endlessly – and I returned the favor when he ran into lady drama.

During my last few weeks in NYC when I interned at Cosmo following my sophomore year, Mr. Buddy’s tone started changing. He was become flirtier and more standoffish if I told him about my New York date-of-the-week. While I wasn’t sure what I thought about it, I continued to be honest and open with him, not changing how I always was, and finally, he asked for a phone call.

And low-and-behold, he told me how he felt: he was falling for me.

At first, I was stunned. Here is this guy who literally knows everything about me – what gets to me, what makes me happy, how many times my heart has been broken, what I look for in a guy, what I hate, what I want, what I need – and he likes me? He’s seen all of my mess and he still is falling for me?

I wasn’t convinced I felt the same way yet, but I decided to agree to a date once I returned to North Carolina. When he picked me up and I saw that same beautiful smile that I loved in the cold two years previous, I decided I would give a romantic relationship a real shot. He happened to bring me a congratulatory present: a map of the world – something I’d mentioned I wanted months and months ago, and he remembered.

How could I resist?

And so after a good “first date” we decided to become official. In the two months that followed, we went on dates, slept over, “met” our respective families, and visited each other. On the outside, we seemed and appeared like any couple that was gradually falling in love with each other.

But in the inside – something was missing.

For me to be gaga over someone (or even in a “bad romance”) I have to feel that thing. That sensation that extends from the bottom of my heart, the tips of my tongue, and well, from down below, too. And somehow, because I knew so much about Mr. Buddy and he knew so much about me – I couldn’t find the perfect ingredients and the right recipe to get the mix to work. However, I was determined to keep him as my friend and I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to end everything and throw in the towel on love, so I stayed.

But then, he started acting differently – not returning texts or calls, being unpredictable, and not being affectionate – and even in our tenure as friends, he was never this way. While I questioned it, I also had this fear of “being left again” so I didn’t want to scare him away (as I thought and at times still do think I do). I started not being as open and more importantly, I stopped being myself. And for a “relationship” that was based on both of us being ridiculously honest with one another, him changing and me changing, and not being who we really were with each other – was a prescription for disaster.

One weekend in the two months we dated, he came to a football game at my school. I bought his ticket and his favorite food, and he helped me carry over items I agreed to bring to the school newspaper’s tailgate. After he barely said anything to the staff (even though I’d bragged about how I was bringing my new beau) – he asked for his ticket. Confused, I asked why he needed it yet, if we were going together. He quickly replied that he was going to go tailgate with some friends he hadn’t seen in a while and in case we got separated, he wanted to make sure he could get in.

I reluctantly gave it to him, kissed him, and…that’s the last time we’ve seen each other.

He basically got highly intoxicated, ignored my phone calls, hung out with his friends, and at the end of the evening, finally called me and told me “it just wasn’t working out.” He then asked if I would kindly place his overnight bag outside my door.

My friend M and A and I responded to this outlandish and disrespectful breakup, followed by a ridiculous request by destroying most of his clothes, dumping his cologne, scrubbing his toothbrush on the toilet (sorry Mr. Buddy!) and ripping the map he gave me into smithereens. And placing it, “kindly’ outside my door. Mature? Not at all. Gratifying? Incredibly so.

It was nearly eight months before we had a mature conversation about the whole incident. And just like Mr. Fire, Mr. Buddy decided with my anticpated move to Manhattan, he didn’t have much to offer me. And like me, he liked our friendship as it was before we introduced a love component to it.

So now, with some forgiving and some laughs, we’ve gone back to our friendship. Only now, when I ask questions like “Is it just impossible to date me?” or “I must be awful in bed” or “Why can’t I find love?” he has a better ground to stand on when answering them.

From the whole experience, I learned that even if a guy gives you the whole world, loves you for who you are (messy and annoying and all), if you don’t have that thing. That thing that I can’t even put into words – he’s just not the guy for you.

But maybe, just maybe, you can tell him, you’d love to be just friends.