After 10 days of heavy antibiotics (thanks to an impromptu trip the ER), when my friends suggested margaritas on a Friday night, I happily obliged. We went through our usual catching-up work — craziness, what exercise class we’re planning to go to, the awesome event we should all sign-up for — and then we turned to the most entertaining topic: dating.
The two ladies I happened to be snacking guac and downing tequila flights with that evening were single like me. And though we’re all at varying levels of singleness, we all settled on one little fact: it’s hard. But while they stayed mostly optimistic about it and at least somewhat excited about the prospect of new dates (that could hopefully, turn into more than happy hour partners) — I was on an entirely opposite end of the spectrum. I’m tired of dating. Continue reading →
Though I’ve lived in New York for five years and consider myself some sort of a hybrid of the East Coast, the truth is: I’m a born and raised Southerner.
I may not have an accent (sorry, dudes, I know it’s apparently sexy) and I take my tea unsweetened, but when it comes to chivalry and the importance of gestures in dating, my North Carolina roots always shine through.
If you’re lucky enough to be graced with the presence of a Southern lady, here’s a few things you need to know about dating these so-called belles (ahem, never call me that):
1. We don’t mind a little dirt.
I grew up next to a farm where I happily retrieved eggs from the hens for my neighbor every day after school. My dad taught me to drive a tractor when I was 1-year-old, and I learned how to ride a bike on a gravel road (I have the scars on my knee to prove it).
I spent more time outside than inside, and though I might rock stilettos and Calvin Klein dresses, I don’t mind a little dirt.
Every time this blog has crossed my mind the last month, I’ve felt a sense of guilt. Sometimes, even dread. Believe me, this little spot in the big ‘ol internet has built my life in so many incredible ways, I could never truly complain, and it’s not the blog’s fault for how I feel…
…but I can’t hide how I do feel anymore. You guys… I’m burnt out.
It’s not that I’ve given up on love (I still believe in it more than anything else). It’s not that I don’t want to go on dates (though I’d rather the good start outweighing the bad). It’s not that I don’t want to help inspire and invigorate every single woman (or dude) out there to put themselves first, value their worth and not rush into an okay relationship instead of waiting for a spectacular one. It’s not any of these things… but it’s something.
It’s this deep-rooted, incredibly painful, slightly manic and utterly obsessive fear that’s in the pit of my stomach and within every racing heartbeat. It’s what has been keeping me feeling a little less like myself and a little more depressed lately. It’s been the language I’ve been using and the words I’m selecting. It’s been the tone of my voice and the hushed cries at night that embarrass me more than enlighten me. It’s what I’ve been Googling and what I’ve been G-chatting about with my closest friends, who for some odd reason, still love me despite all of my messiness and need for reassurance on the same damn topic.
We haven’t met yet, but I’ve thought about you…my whole life. When I was flying back from Europe for the first time (with your grandma), I wrote you a letter about why I hope you travel, and that you take more advantage of your passport than I did in college. There’s so much world to see, and while you’re out there having grand, exciting adventures, you might meet a boy or girl that you’re interested in.
Your mom sure has met plenty of boys along the way.
And though I’d like to meet your father, I haven’t yet. I think of him often, and everyone tells me (like your aunts and uncles and grandparents who you’ll love) that once I fall in love with your dad, I will be amazed that I worried about finding love. It’s a comforting thought, and at times, it helps me power through another date, but it’s also impossible to hear when you’re in the middle of what feels like a neverending revolving door of men you don’t want to date. You’ll understand one day, love. Continue reading →
I lost my virginity the way that most girls dream about: to my dedicated, kind high school boyfriend who adored me, with candles lit and Boys II Men playing softly in the background. Totally not kidding. My first ‘special sex’ was pretty stereotypical (and so sweet), but it took me nearly a decade to really understand just how “special” sex can get.
There’s nothing like that first time you orgasm and finally understand what the hype is all about, or when you get up the nerve to have a sexy vacation tryst (and no, you’ll never see that person again, but whoa, what a night). Or frankly, when you feel like a lingerie model because you’ve worked so hard to get fit, and you’re crazy-confident on top.
Special sex is special for a reason. And thus, here are a few types of rendezvouses that every woman should experience at least once in her lifetime……
1. The “We Just Said ‘I Love You’ and I’m Trying My Best Not to Cry” Sex
OMG, we’re totaling changing our Facebook status in the morning, but first … get naked, babe.
In October of last year, with my mouth full of tortilla chips and tequila on my brain, I was talking about how long I’ve lived in New York, when my friend Erin interrupted me, “Linds, it won’t be four years in March that you’ve lived here. It’ll be five years!”
In that moment – and frankly, in this one – I was in disbelief that half of a decade has passed since those black Target pumps marched out of JFK into what, at the time, seemed like the start of everything.
I didn’t know it then – but it really was. March 14, 2010 was the beginning of what has become not a journey or a roller coaster, not a blog post or a story, not some romantic comedy or book that’s yet to be published… but the start of my adult life.
My first birthday in New York, before I started this blog a few days later. With Erin.
As I sat down to write this post, highlighting some profound lesson from many lessons and experiences in Manhattan (and Brooklyn and Queens), I kept coming up short. Every other year, I had a clear picture of what I wanted to write about: what it means to be a New Yorker, how the rain has followed all of my prized moments, how I almost gave up on New York (and myself) but didn’t, my own version of ‘Oh, the Places You’ll Go’ – but this year…
You know the scene: You’re at a bar with your gals on a Friday night and a drunken weirdo won’t stop hitting on you hardcore, even though you’ve made it very clear you’re not interested. For many ladies, the ‘I have a boyfriend!’ white lie is an easy escape tactic. But guess what? It doesn’t have to be a white lie anymore! With InvisibleBoyfriend.com, you can create a magical fake boyfriend that sends you text messages, leaves you voicemails, and gives you all the (fake) validation you could ever want. Obviously, I had to try it. Continue reading →