Tag Archives: Men

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I Thought of You Today

I thought of you today while riding the subway downtown to a date I wasn’t quite sure was actually a date or not. I caught myself not being able to turn my attention away from an older couple — sitting next to each other, reading the paper on a Friday night at 8 like it was the most normal thing in this city. They shared the Times, flipping through thoughtfully, digesting each sentence and with care, turning the page. The husband rubbed his wife’s knee from time to time during my 20-minute commute. She turned her attention to him with a casual smile, probably the same look she’s been giving him for decades. The same look that he loves, the same grin that’s gotten him through the tough times and the good ones. They looked insanely comfortable and so beautifully, easily, sweetly with one another.

It was adorable.

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And it made me think of you. You — whoever you are. You who I haven’t met yet, or perhaps I have. Maybe we’ve already dated, broken up and lost contact. Maybe we’ve seen one other naked. But no, I don’t think so. I could have caught a glimpse of you while walking my dog or picking up groceries around the block. Perhaps I didn’t catch your name when we were briefly introduced at a loud bar somewhere in the West Village months ago. Maybe, as the psychic predicted, your name begins with J.

Or not.

Whatever your name is — I try not to think of you. I know better than to imagine and create illustrations and hopes of what you look like or how your voice resonates in my head without actually, ever meeting you. I know that believing in things that feel impossible or totally out of reach at this moment can only make me feel worse. Especially if everything I dreamt of, everything I’ve considered true about love and marriage someday just become things I once thought would happen, instead of things that are. How can I think of you – you, with eyes I haven’t locked with, lips I haven’t actually kissed – when you’re just someone I’ve never known? How can I think of you without one hundred percent knowing your existence is something I can depend on?

That you’re someone I can believe in?

But it’s when the world feels a little lonely and my personal universe is a little uncomfortable or uncertain, that I do think of you. It’s when I dream of you, knowing better and rebelling against logic in romantic spite. It’s when I close my eyes on a crowded train or tucked away at night, looking out at the stars I convince myself I can see, even when I know I don’t. City lights are brilliant and alluring but they conceal the sparkly specs I love to see. I think of you and the days I hope will come, the children I hope I’ll bear. The love I can’t wait to make in our bed I want to share. I think of you in a way that’s unfair and extremely biased — without ever being introduced to you, without tracing your face or feeling your grip on my hip, I both love and hate you. I love you because I hope you’ll be mine, and I hate you for hiding. For taking so long. For not being here…

…Right now. On this train. Next to me. Kissing the side of my head and excited to show me a new downtown joint you discovered. Holding my hand that holds your ring, looking at me in the way my father always promised you would. With love, with admiration. With everything…

…after making it through everything to get to you.

And yet, I try not to think of you. And so usually, I don’t. I pick myself up from that moving train and away from that couple I aspire to be like, and head out to that date. And I smile at a perfectly good guy who doesn’t ignite a spark but insists on walking me to the station. I may kiss him for whatever it’s worth, to disguise the disappointment on my face. I may politely respond to him the next day that I see more of a friendship and I’ll head out to continue with my weekend, trying my very best not to think of you. Trying not to look for you in the cute guys who pass by me or the ones who smile in my direction. I’ll stop myself from thinking of the stories I’d like to tell, the ones I’m dying to write and the adventures that seem so far-fetched that planning them would seem crazy. I won’t think of you that day or the following week, maybe even a month.

But then, on an unusually windy April afternoon, as I walk to pick up a latte after another less-than-interesting Saturday night, I’ll see an elderly man shushing the oncoming cars and taxis as his wife shuffles along with a walker. It’ll take two traffic rotations for her to make it across, but he just tells her to take her time. She’ll be wearing red lipstick and he’ll reach over to make sure she can make it up the sidewalk, and I’ll be standing right there, watching it all unfold in literally, slow motion.

Then I’ll smile. And I’ll think of you, whoever you are, wherever you might be. And I’ll pray that you’ll make your way to me soon because I’d rather walk these streets alone than to meet someone who isn’t you.

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Another Friday Night

One more stretch, you can do it, I encouraged myself early last Saturday morning, listening to the off-beat of my feet in Central Park. As I often do when my body can’t keep up with my racing thoughts, I become my own mental cheerleader and professional negotiator.  If I make it to that lamp post, I can have the large iced coffee instead of the medium at Dunkin Donuts. If I make it to the east side of the park, something amazing will happen.

If I make it. Something. Will. Happen, I told myself.

With a race in a week and not enough running logs in the last few weeks, I challenged myself to push more, even if all I wanted to do was curl up in my corner of the Upper West Side, far away from the city below. Far away from those unfortunate feelings I unfortunately still battle.

Last Friday night was a rough night. And even the splendor of a pretty park run that next morning didn’t get the negativity out of my sight. With my friends unavailable and spending weekends with their boyfriends, I was left to my own company to attend an engagement and birthday party. Though I was exhausted from the busy week at work, I put on a lace top and heels, ready to flirt and celebrate. But a handful of vodka tonics later (and one pickle back), I found myself staring down the bar, sad and defeated by the NYC dating scene I write so frequently about.

It’s not like it was the first night I wasn’t paid any attention by a man or the first time I wasn’t bought a drink. It wasn’t the first time I had a massive zit right next to my nose, while I watched tall, slender girls with dewy complexions march into the bar, turning heads and stealing attention. It wasn’t the first time I worried about how I looked (Pretty? Thin? Sexy?) or how I came across (Too nice? Too closed off?).

And though I know it’s silly and even though I’ve written about self-love so many times I can recite my own words, I felt invisible. Not good enough. Ugly. Unwanted. Like all I wanted to do was run home.

And so I did. I tried my best to hide the tears on the train and then again on my walk to Dunkin, to claim my iced prize for making the extra mile. While sucking up the tears, I listened to my mom tell me it’ll all work out. But it just doesn’t have the same effect when it hasn’t worked out… like, at all.

It’s funny advice that people who have found love always tell you: it’ll all work out! It’ll just come together! It’ll be so easy and so fast and it’ll feel right. You’ll just know. It’ll happen when you least expect it. It’ll happen when you aren’t trying.

It’ll happen when you find love in yourself first.

It’ll all work out… After you get through all the work of dating and flirting and bar hopping and profile shopping and having good (and bad) sex and getting your heart broken a few times and getting your hopes up and learning to get your hopes down and having an amazing first date and never hearing from someone again that you thought you liked.. and this and this and this…

And that. And on and on. And on. 

Logically and intellectually, I understand the advice. I accept it even. But emotionally, nothing could be more discouraging than promising things will work out and come together in some magical beautiful way, when currently, it’s anything but. Maybe somewhere deep down I know they’re right, but after playing the game and making the rounds for years… they’re suddenly just words to me.

Ones that aren’t facts or proven truths. Ones that show up when dates or love go sour. Ones that become an old adage I don’t look forward to hearing. Ones that make me feel less accomplished or less worthy or less something for having difficulty believing them time and time again.

But it’s when Friday night has pissed me off and I’ve pissed myself off the next morning by still caring that I do think of those words. Even if no one says them. Even if I don’t tell anyone I was upset. Even if I don’t actually trust them like I did three years ago. I just remember… It hasn’t worked out. Not yet. But maybe. Just maybe, it will.

After all… There’s always another Friday night.

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Delete. Delete. Delete.

Sitting in my blue fuzzy robe, drinking a glass of my favorite Chilean Cabernet, I chuckled as I deactivated every last dating profile I have.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Writing about love for a living comes with its perks, one of the best being free access to online dating sites. I’ve never actively forked over cash to flirt with anyone but I have spent countless hours exchanging and browsing for men. It’s a lot like searching for an apartment — it’s not only hard to find one that meets your criteria but it’s exhausting, too.

Some guys cut straight to the chase and get to what they’re after (an extra martial affair, a threesome, hooking up) or others are so obviously searching for a wife that they ask you rather personal questions on date #1 (where do you see yourself in a year? What do you seek most in a lifelong partner? What size wedding band do you wear?). Kidding.

Kinda.

For a girl who is somewhere in between wanting a fun buddy and a long-term (and maybe forever) relationship — online dating has been too messy and too time consuming to deal with.

So I decided to get it out of my life — it’s complicated and demanding enough without throwing in a pool full of men that I have no desire to dip my toe in, much less take a dive with.  I’m a big supporter of getting online to find love — it can be effective and helpful, and at the very least, a great place to meet friends or people you’d otherwise never cross paths with. It’s a simple way to quickly land a drink date within a few hours if you’re bored and a casual way to investigate a new scene.

But for me, it started to become anther box in my weekly check list: buy groceries, get dog food, go for a jog, get dinner with the girls, find a guy to go out with Friday night on OkCupid or HowAboutWe, get my eyebrows waxed…

Ugh.

I blame myself completely — because I really sucked the fun out of it all. The suitors were probably perfectly good men and a handful might have had the capacity to be the next big thing but with my interest and commitment to the whole interweb game waning, it felt like a big waste of space in my Google Chrome bookmarks.

I don’t really care how or when or where I meet the next possibility. I wouldn’t be embarrassed to say we met online or at a trashy bar on the Lower East Side. How we meet is far less important than how we fall in love — but if I’m to do the latter, I have to out myself out there physically.

And at the same time, give myself a break.

It’s as easy as looking up on the subway or making eye contact more often. It’s looking past my glass of wine to see the men lurking at the bar. Maybe it’s not being ashamed of my rosy cheeks while running and smiling back at the guy who smiles at me. Or it’s letting friends pair me up with someone who is a tad shorter than I prefer. Or someone a little younger than the 30-something dudes I find myself attracted to.

Or it’s just going with it and being okay about it. Dare I say — forgive myself and freeing myself — from F.O.M.O. I might not go to a happy hour and I could skip cocktails. Maybe I don’t stay out late at all or I keep my latte as my coffee date instead of a man who likes espresso.

The point is, I think anyway, is to relax about it all. I’m good at obsessing and over-analyzing (and ahem, writing about it), and I’m even better at tying everything with a sweet bow and putting a happy ending at the end.

But that’s not how dating works — it just figures itself out somehow. You work at it, you take a break. You fall in love, you fall out of it, you get your heart broken, you recover. You retreat, you rebound, you cry, you get horny. You make lots of mistakes. You date those mistakes a long time. You break up again. You sleep with them for a while. You rebound again. You dye your hair. You cry really hard. You spend a lot of time alone. You’ll get online. You’ll delete, delete, delete. You’ll meet someone new.

Then you do it all over again and again.

Until you don’t. And then you start a new cycle of marital challenges and experiences, ones that might not be like dating but are most likely, equally as frustrating and at times, exhilarating.

I may not be scouring bachelors online or totally one hundred percent out there offline. But I’m open to love. I’ll let it come if it wants to. I’ll let it find me.

It just may not find me via a search engine. For now, anyway.

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Believing in the Unknown

I traveled to North Carolina last weekend for some much needed time with my family. The three days and some loose change of hours were blessed and bittersweet — we all knew the time was too short, as it always is, and the circumstances, not ideal. My father– the brawly fireman that fights as fiercely as he loves — has had three surgeries in the past six weeks. My mom has taken on the role of sole caregiver, bandage changer, and keeper of the finances, the household and the sanity, leaving her, unsurprisingly, a little insane.

With the kindness of my great job, I took off a day to help out and give as much support as I could offer. The trip was full of some tears and laughs, red wine and margaritas, shopping trips and steaks shaped like hearts, all underneath the transcending beauty of the bright blue Carolina sky. I always forget just how vast and endless it feels in the south — uninterrupted by the skyscrapers and smog, quiet and subtly enticing. I spent my mornings waking up early and retreating to our back porch, drinking coffee and just staring at the horizon, gulping in the fresh air and the crispness of the day. I walked barefoot with my family pup, Suzie, feeling the dew on the grass and the gushy, gooeyness of the mud in between my toes. I tiptoed from stepping stone to stepping stone to retrieve the mail and take out the trash; all the while my dad, sore from surgery, hollered out for me to come back inside. Then at nighttime in layers of jackets — my mom’s and then my dad’s because I forgot to bring one of my own — I looked up at the same familiar stars that I used to dream under, thinking about those same shining lights in Manhattan that I’d one day be part of.

It reminded me of being a kid. And I liked it.

Nothing can quite prepare you for the truly hard parts of being an adult– leaving the home you knew and the parents who raised you on hearty meals, boat rides and unconditional, encouraging love. Or learning how to save money for a future you’re not sure you’ll actually see, while spending enough to create memories today that you’ll tell your grandchildren about 40 years from now. Or how your 20s feel so incredibly long and intolerably fast all at the same time, making you squirm somewhere in between thinking you’re getting old and that you’re too young enough to care.

It’s confusing and maddening, and yes, beautifully educational.

At the ripe ‘ole age of 24, I’m proud of the decisions I made and of the zip code I selected — but as wonderful as my little apartment and job is, I still miss my mom and dad. I still long to be taken care of like and to be void of any responsibilities, cares or concerns. When my greatest achievement was catching those fireflies and sneaking a flash light under the covers so I could write in my diary. When boys only mattered enough to hold hands in the hallway and call you for half a minute at night. When your parents seemed ageless and young, incapable of being human, but rather all-powerful superheroes who rescued you from all of the bad guys – the boogeyman, the bullies and the insecurities that wrestled your mind and mirror. When time seemed like something obsolete and fascinating, when adulthood meant turning 22 and having all of your dreams already perfect.

Once you’re actually a 20-something, you realize that nothing is perfect and that maybe, nothing will ever be exactly how you planned.

But that’s why childhood needs to be sweet. So that when you’re sitting on a bus back from JFK on a Sunday night, longing for the comfort of your dad’s arms and your mom’s laughter, you savor the life you’ve already had. You can close your eyes, even if they’re filled with tears and your heart full of prayers. You can think about those memories to keep your warm and keep your hopes high. They remind you of where you came from and how you were able to be the lady you are, living this life you worked hard to create.

So that even when times are unsure or uncertain, for when you realize how little control you honestly have over everything, for when things change and so do you, you think about those possibilities you always knew were possible. You remember those people who told you that you could if you set your mind to it.

You open your eyes to look outside to that skyline, its dazzling puzzle luring you in, once again, to take another step. To give something another try. To keep believing in the unknown, in the things that have yet to come, the people you’ve yet to meet, the experiences you haven’t felt yet.

If you believed in them when you didn’t know any better than to believe in extraordinary, imaginary things, you can believe even harder when you do know better. Because that’s when believing gets tough, that’s when it becomes worth it.

That’s how dreams become more than stars glittering above your 7-year-old head on a chilly North Carolina night. That’s how you go from being a wanderlust kid to an adult that knows the unknown isn’t as scary as it feels, it’s where all the magic actually happens.

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Perfectly Good Men

Sitting across from a tall sports-fanatic in Hell’s Kitchen a handful of Saturdays ago, I considered my escape route.

The establishment – an Irish-y bar with many beers on tap – was dark enough. It wasn’t a bad pick for a first date and we had simple, meaningless chats over artesian beers and a fried appetizer platter. He came from a great family (check), had a job (check), was moderately entertaining and endearing (check, check) and yes, attractive (check). Our conversation was easy and flowing, without awkward pauses or strange questions or topics that shouldn’t be discussed on a first date (like your ex-girlfriend, take note, Mr. Unavailable).

He was a perfectly good man, but I didn’t feel a thing.

I offered to pay my portion when the check arrived but he insisted, like a gentleman, and I tried to squint enough to picture him as a boyfriend. But it was a fruitless try – to me, he was just another guy. In a very long string of guys I’ve dated lately. On paper – or on their online dating profiles – there is nothing wrong with them, and honestly, we should be pretty compatible. And yet, I find myself twirling my hair, attempting to ignore my phone, making small talk and getting through drinks or coffee by going into journalist mode: asking questions just to hear answers and seem interested, not to actually get to know someone.

That night, I met up with my friend K for a late-night dinner and then with Mr. Wingman for a night out in Flat Iron. I found myself drinking strong cocktails and talking to seemingly strong men and instantly dismissing them as romantic opportunities. Maybe my mind was somewhere else or perhaps my standards are finally reaching an all-time high, but when it comes to dating the past few months, I’ve not only been a little lazy, I’ve just lost my desire to get-up and put lipstick on.

Yet somehow, I’m pretty happy about it.

Though my social calendar has taken some hits lately since my lovely lady friends have all paired up with equally lovely men, and I’ve been spending more time alone (or with the white pup), I’ve found myself retreating back to those first days of the blog. Back to the days when I was still discovering peculiarities of the city and figuring out where my feet were meant to be planted. When I didn’t have many friends and was eager to try new things, meet new people and explore what this beautifully spastic island had to offer me. Back to when dating was just for free food or the possibility of friendship, not of a nightcap. Back to saving money to move, except now it’s to travel overseas with a passport that badly needs exercise.

Back to when I was figuring out how to be single – how to be happy – how to be… me.

Admittedly, this shift was scary at first. I was terrified of losing my best friends or of never going out for a night on the town again. I worried that with moving in together also came marriage and then that baby carriage. I didn’t want everyone rushing toward the family finish line while I took my time sipping lattes and writing these blogs analyzing, for the hundredth time, my (lack of) love life. Then what would become of me? Would I become one of those ladies in waiting, waiting for something I’m not even sure I want… right now? But then after a couple of dates with perfectly good men, I realized that maybe, just maybe, I’m not ready for a relationship.

Or that I don’t want one just yet.

The thing is – it takes a great man to snag a great woman. And my settled down gals paid their dues without ever settling – they’ve been out there on those dance floors and those grimy bars, writing dating profiles and nursing heartaches to get to where they are now. They aren’t living with perfectly good men – they’re building a future with ones that are better than that. My time hasn’t come yet and I’m sure, if the universe is correct like it always is, it will in its own sweet way.

Apparently someday when I’m least expecting it.

I’ve come a long way since that faithful day sulking in a tub over flying solo. Three years, 460 posts, one great love, one bittersweet heartbreak and a dozens of frogs, a dream job and endless experiences later – I’d say I achieved what I set out to do:

I fell in love with who I am – with or without a man. And I’d rather be sans-dude than settle down with just a perfectly good one.