Tag Archives: Men

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Every Day a Post, Every Day a Lesson

In coffee shops, uptown a few blocks and here. On my bed, at my desk, on my friend’s phone. At my computer, on Mr. P’s laptop, in Penn Station waiting on a train. Sitting in the airport days before Christmas. In my living room, on the couch, at the kitchen table. In Bryant Park at night, at Columbia University, sitting cross-legged on the cold hardwood floors.

Wrapped up in blankets as the snow came down, while looking out dirty windows at some cafe in Williamsburg as I watched Mr.P concentrate with his tongue out across from me. In a rush, with days to spare, when it was way too rainy to set foot outside. Lounging naked in front of my air conditioner, rushing in after a busy day to beat the clock, standing in the corner on one leg so I could have enough signal in the back of a Southern-themed bar on the Upper West Side.

For the last 364 days, I’ve published this blog from dozens of places.

The ideas and the fodder have been just as diverse. From conversations with friends and family to experiences I’ve had with Mr. P and all the others. While trying to sort through emotions, while watching people in love, people falling apart, people being messy and complicated, as people often are. In dark instances where the world seemed too big, in bright, sunny days that gave me Louie Armstrong memories and made me feel like the world was actually quite small. During times I couldn’t understand and through days where I felt like I had it all figured out. While feeling my heart expand to welcome a possible love in and then while feeling it shrink when feelings weren’t mutual. Through months of feeling lost and uncertain, questioning everything I ever knew, and throughout the hours where everything felt so right that it was scary. When inspired by people I meet or books I read, or places I’ve been or things I’ve seen, but also when nothing at all made me want to write other than knowing I’d regret it at 12:01 a.m.

And now, as I write this, knowing that tomorrow will come and go, that the final post that I’ve yet to write will go live and then the day will pass, I can’t decide if I feel sad or thoroughly impressed with myself. To be honest, it’s probably a bit of both.

My intentions changed as the blog continued, as I progressed and I noticed loyal readers like Larry who comments nearly every day, and girls who remind me of myself, like Katie, Christina and Suzie. Or some beautiful soul who lives where it rains all the time, drinking coffee and giving superb, heartfelt advice. And then there’s the ladies from Tel Aviv and Ms. Lexamantis from South Africa. Or Jenny from Philly who is quite tweety, and Moose Michaels who inspired one of my most well-trafficked blogs. And Dear Ex-Girlfriend who provides cheeky, sarcastic advice from a real dude’s point of view. Or my San Fran gal who is talented and ever-so-kind, even sending me a real-life Valentine. And Kacey, Marlee and Stephanie who update Facebook regularly with cute pictures that remind me of my life in New York. And Lovephool from London and Cat from this city, and Divorcing Mr. Wrong who’s red dress I’d love to borrow. I couldn’t even begin to explain how many more there are, too.

This blog has been my personal journey, but it’s also been the journey of so many people. Most of which, I’ll never meet. But somehow, there is something about being open and honest, allowing my raw emotions and candid thoughts to have an open forum and space for people to relate…that has made LoveAddictNYC.com what it is. It’s the first domain name I’ve ever bought, and it was worth every penny.

I’ve grown so much over the past year, through each of those 12 steps, through all of the changes that have made my current life what it is, and I’m so thankful that others could find comfort in what I wrote. I can now promise without any doubt whatsoever that anything you’ve felt, anything you’ve wondered, anything that’s caused you tremendous pain or any worry you thought was ridiculous about love or about how you look or about being a 20-something…someone else has had too. And someone will again.

Nothing I’ve said on these pages is original or unique, they are just my struggles and my achievements, my analysis of the wonder and the bewilderment that love often brings. They don’t give insight into a true addict’s nature, just into the obsessive and scary dangers of being someone who tries for love, who tries to be their own greatest fan, who tries to be all that they can, and sometimes fails. Without those moments of crazy, we could never have those visions of clarity.

Thank you all for being there with me, for your honesty and your advice. For sharing my work with others, for helping me land my dream job (yes, this blog was part of it!), for sending me Tweets and emails, liking me on Facebook and liking me in real life. For being my friend, even though we may be oceans away. For helping me learn a lesson with ever post I wrote. This journey may be coming to a close in a matter of hours, but you will all forever be part of my journey.

And tomorrow, come back for your final daily visit at 2 p.m. EST.

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With Loving Eyes

I stood wearing my only pair of expensive heels, a silky scarf from Urban I snagged during a fabulous sale for $10, a lacy black dress belted at the waist and my Longchamp dangling from my wrist. The ring I picked for the day was actual ruby, the necklace a diamond from Mr. P back when we were happy, and I was hanging out by his side as he chatted with a chairman.

We were in the VIP section of an Oktoberfest, wearing fancy bracelets that gave us free beer and grub. We even had a slightly fancier port-a-potty than everyone else. Girls in skimpy German outfits (even in the chilly weather, God bless ’em – they’re practicing for Halloween) served us bite-sized German-themed appetizers and we were part of an interesting, powerful group – ambassadors, diplomats, prestigious journalists, a dude from Beard Wars, and I even met a song writer.

Mr. P was going on about something with his friend and I started to drift away in my thoughts. I was still slightly hungover from my birthday party the night before but beer seemed to make the headache nearly existent. From the fun times had last night, I had nearly lost my voice, so even if I wanted to be part of their conversation, I sounded like a frog. I let him do his thing while I did mine; still thinking and analyzing our relationship. Or really, our lack of anything that looks like a relationship. I mean, we didn’t even last my birthday without having some sort of a tiff. I know it’s about as unhealthy as the amount of carbs I consumed but resisting is always easier when it’s something we really don’t want, in terms of food and especially in terms of love.

His hand was wrapped around my belt and I became distracted by a family within sight. The father was handsome and tall with glasses, his 3-year-old son looked about the same. The mother was shorter and tanner, their daughter an adorable little blond. The kids were dressed up in traditional German clothes, suspenders and braids and all. They were running around and giggling, making funny noises and genuinely having a good time. There was no alcohol involved, they didn’t need it to loosen up because they were simply that happy.

As the children played together, the wife walked over and I caught a glimpse of the husband’s eyes when he looked at her. And what I saw was purely love.

I obviously do not know anything about who they are or what language they speak or if those feelings are true or not – but his eyes said a thousand words I could never write to give justice to. He showed the same admiration (rightfully so) to his children – scoping them up and tickling them, kissing the side of their rosy cheeks. It all seemed so intimate and innocent, natural and inviting.

Here I was, among the distinguished and more intrigued by the ordinary. By the gentle, calming and warm feeling that comes from seeing people who really love each other. If given the choice, I’d trade the fancy clothes and by-invitation-only invites to have simple clothes and an open invite into someone’s heart who actually wanted to love me in return.

I didn’t watch them very long, maybe a minute or two, and Mr. P grabbed my attention, looking me in the eyes as he kissed my forehead. I smiled cautiously and attempted not to show my disappointment. This was fun, it really was, but is it what I want? Can he give me what I want? Does he have the ability to feel about me how I want him to? Could I picture any of this with him?

Could those eyes that I’ve looked in, searching for a solution, for a sign, for an indication, for anything, ever give me what it is I really need? Could he ever look at me with those loving eyes?

Or is it time for me to look elsewhere?

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Make a Little Wish

I wish to be a princess like Sleeping Beauty, I closed my eyes super-duper tight, envisioning a dress of revolving blue-and-pink, and clicked my heels three times for good Wizardly measure. I opened to see my mom with her fluffy permed hair and big, bright smile that served as a gentle reassurance that my dreams would come true. I would be a princess. I’d get that fancy castle and the charming prince. I’d be able to sing like the songbirds and I’d have that hourglass figure I thought was so grown-up, so pretty, so princess-like.

Until I stopped wishing for crowns and crayons, and started wanting recorders and notebooks.

I wish to be on television! To be like Lois Lane and find Superman, I wished while wearing a more mature dress, toting around my recorder and interviewing anyone who would speak with me. I quizzed my party guests on how they felt the party was going, what they would have liked to be different, and if they were having fun. I even questioned my kitty, Indy. Then after the Aladdian cake was cut, the pinata was smashed and the presents were revealed, I went to write away the events of the night. I then would properly hand them to my mom, bounded with string, and retire to the sitting room to watch Nick Jr. My wish would come true one day, I’d be a journalist.

Until I didn’t want to be filmed anymore, but I just wanted to write. And I wanted to write about boys.

I wish that Mr. Curls would fall madly in love with me and we would get married and have babies and be happy and he’d be smitten. OH MY GOD, Please, please, please, PLEASE – just let him love me!!!, I wished through crooked-teeth while covering my pimply chin with Covergirl makeup, and sporting a totally rad crimped 90’s hairstyle. My cheeks were flushed red from skating to Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys. I anxiously looked above the moms standing by and my friends, all chattering away and eating intensely sugary cake, to see if Mr. Curls had arrived. He was invited, he said he would come, but he was late. I looked at my mom who looked angry and frustrated, probably just as disappointed as I was, but angrier that I was sad on my birthday. That night, I cried while silently wishing he’d have a good excuse and listening to Mandy Moore’s, “I Wanna Be With You” on repeat. I wished he’d be mine. I wished that adorable little mop head would fall for me.

Until I got over him and moved onto other boys who fell for me quickly, yet not as quickly as my father had fallen.

I wish, dear God, that my father would get better. I hate seeing my mom sad and I’m so scared of losing him forever. I don’t know what’s wrong but I wish for it to be fixed. I wish for his health, I looked around our tiny kitchen while my puppy Suzie circled my feet, whimpering. Dad attempted a smile, though he never quite got all the way there. I knew he was equal parts happy for the birth of a new year, and then sad that I was getting older. I was terrified of him getting older, of getting sicker. There couldn’t be any better gift than his health, even if I was going off to college. I wished for him to find his peace, so my mom could rest. I wish for his happiness so I wouldn’t feel so guilty leaving.

Until he did fully recover and turn back into that jovial man I adored growing up. The only downside was now I wanted to leave. I needed to leave.

I wish that once I graduate, I’ll be able to make it in New York City. I wish to be a writer, to live in the city. I wish to leave Mr. Idea behind and find someone else. I wish for it all: my city, my job, my man, I looked up and greeted Mr. Idea’s stare, noting the deep wrinkle in between his eyes. Those eyes that just weren’t as doting as I wanted them to be. I was finally 21! Now, I can drink and be cool, sophisticated and employed. I have to move to New York – it isn’t even a wish as much as it is a demand. It can’t be wishful thinking, but positive thinking! If I can believe it, I can do it. I wish to be a New Yorker. I wish to write. I wish to come into my own.

Until of course, I do live in New York. I am a writer, or actually, an editor. I did ditch Mr. Idea and I did find something else that I may very well ditch, too. I’m not a princess but I feel royally blessed. I don’t desire to be on television but you may see me from time-to-time in an unintentional cameo, especially when my wonderful job gives me the opportunity to meet Sarah Jessica Parker. I’ve been able to move past guys who don’t do as they say they will, and I’ve found myself smitten with the life I’ve been lucky to lead.

So when all those wishes come true, when you have everything you ever wanted for this stage in your life, what do you wish for? When the pieces fit together, when you’re content and blissful, when all worked out in a more perfect way than you could ever wished – what’s a girl to do? What’s that birthday candle for?

What do I think when I close my eyes as my friends say: “Make a wish Linds!! Blow out those candles, girl! Get em!”

This year, it’s for you. For all of you who have read this blog for the past year. Who have been supportive and dedicated, consistently giving feedback and advice when I needed it the most. For my birthday on this special day, I wish that all of your dreams come true just like mine have.

And most of all, I wish you all love. The kind of love that starts and ends from within. It’s the kind of love that makes you realize you don’t need all those wishes after all. They aren’t what got you here – it’s you. It’s all that love that makes you believe in the magic that is you.

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Once a Cheater

Anthony Weiner, Jesse James, Tiger Woods, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Eliot Spitzer. And those are only the ones I can think of off the top of my head. All prominent, successful and some would argue, talented men, who had wives equally as brilliant. And yet, they cheated. Some by sleeping with an unbelievable amount of women, others through sexting – the coward’s way of showing his goods to someone who isn’t supposed to see. Others even fathered other children, keeping their love babies hidden for a decade.

The lack of guilt is astonishing to me. If you decide to get married, why would you stray? If you think there is a chance of that happening, why get married or enter a relationship anyway? I try not to be of the mindset “once a cheater, always a cheater”, considering I did give Mr. P a second-go after the Dubai frenzy. I’d like to think that people make mistakes – some worse than others – and if they really want to change, if they really want to be better for themselves and their partner, then they can be.

But if they’ve promised to be faithful and they continue to jump from bed-to-bed – is there a way to build that trust back up?

I’m not sure. I’m not convinced that once you’ve introduced infidelity into your relationship, that the relationship can ever repair. Even though Mr. P & I weren’t official then, when he explored other possibilities with a woman I had never heard of before – it wasn’t easy to continue with the then-friendship. But I thought he was worth it and I thought he sincerely cared about me, so I swallowed the fear and went forward, promising myself I’d learn to trust him again.

I never really did, though.

Partly because of his hesitation to introduce me as his girlfriend when I was introduced to others. I was usually just “Lindsay” or when absolutely necessary or flat-out asked, he’d balk at the title before actually admitting it. He didn’t want to be claimed by anyone, I suppose – and yet, all I wanted was for him to claim me. This, plus an awful, incurable wondering-eye, always put me on the edge, wondering if he’d repeat history and cheat for real this time. After exclusivity is accepted by both parties, any confusion can basically be put to bed if one strays. I hoped he was getting what he craved at home so he wouldn’t be tempted by the fruit of models in meatpacking, which he constantly commented on, but who knows? You can’t blame your partner for the reason you decide to dip into other parties or to let yourself out to play with others a little too nicely.

He promised up and down, and continues to swear that he’s only been with me and will remain true. I can’t say that I don’t hope this is the truth but I also can’t deny I have my doubts. Even if he does spend the evenings with me, call and text me, keep in touch constantly – there’s a whole world out there that’s changed the face of cheating.

Simply by making it instant and anonymous.

Technology offers limitless opportunities to connect with others, which is great for my parents and I and for video-conferencing at work, but problematic for relationships. With the click of a mouse, with a simple BBM, with a Facebook message that no one can see, by hiding your wall from others, by locking your phone and having everything you own blocked by passwords, you not only welcome others into your world, but you block others out. I’ve never been one to snoop, I find by looking you always find what you think you will, regardless if it’s based on fact or implications. So I don’t log into personal accounts and fish, I just try to remind myself that if anything is hidden, it’ll eventually be uncovered.

Cheaters may make incredibly convincing liars but they are often messy. Tracks will lead to something, or better yet- someone.

I don’t understand why betrayal is so common but we’re all surrounded by it. I once met a guy who has cheated on his girlfriend dozens of times, yet is considering proposing. He reasons that once he’s married, he’ll stop. He’ll make a choice to be faithful. Someone else I know doesn’t think cheating is really wrong unless you are married – in dating relationships, all is fair game as long as you check “single” on your W9. I’ve heard of open relationships that actually work well, and people with different levels of cheating: grinding on a dance floor and a little kissing doesn’t count, but foreplay does. (What’s the difference?)

So will Mr. P cheat? Will I even know if he does or if he has? Can you build trust once it’s shattered? Are celebrities and technology making the road to infidelity surprisingly easy and even alluring? Does monogamy work?

I’m not sure I know the answers to these questions but I will say that for me, being with someone is simple. If I decide to be true and faithful, I will be. If I sleep with you, you’ll be the only one. If someone advances, I’ll pull away. If flirting seems outlandish, I’ll change the tempo.

And if you cheat on me and I figure it out, you better be able to run as fast as I type.

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I’m a Feelin’ Old

My first business was babies.

I became a Red Cross Certified Baby Sitter around the age of 12, my dad whipped up some pink business cards cleverly titled “Lindsay’s Baby-Sitting” with our home number and a totally original slogan: safe, reliable childcare, and I was off to make my first hard-earned cashed. To ease me into the role that would pay a whopping $7 an hour, I practiced with my the children of my godparents: two twin boys.

I grew up with this duo — they had incomparable energy, and while I remember them always being very kind, they also always seemed extremely loud. My parents joked then (and still do now) that it was good practice for me to care for twin boys (I went on to babysit another pair of matching dudes a few years later), since the twin-generation hits me on both sides. And since my cousins are already finished birthing and have only had girls, it’s up to me to bring in the men.

Of course, the girly-girl is destined to have a house full of little guys running around. Fate’s funny.

Anyway – my very first babysitting gig was taking care of K and C, who wanted to play hide-and-seek in the dark and watch action flicks, resulting in one of the worse headaches of my life and snoring on the car ride home because they wore me out so badly. My mom found it humorous (so did my godmother) but I was nervous: what if I was a bad babysitting? Where would my boomin’ business go? My worrying pre-teen self anxiously awaited my next opportunity to care for the boys so I could prove myself as fun and responsible.

A few weeks later, I stayed in with them and they actually managed to fall asleep rather early. I munched on brownies and watched television, proud of my accomplishment and praying they didn’t wake up before their parents got home. The next few years would follow in this manner, I’d babysit and sometimes feel great about it, sometimes be exhausted, sometimes love the idea of kids, sometimes decide (at 15, no less) that I’d never have children. I guess not too much has changed — I’ll admit I still feel a little unwanted and unworthy of baby-love if I smile at some tot on the train and they burst into tears. What is it about that sound that rips my heart to shreds?

I hadn’t thought about children in the context of my own life for a while now, until Facebook popped up yesterday morning with some interesting news. One of those twin boys – the first child I ever babysat for – is engaged. He’s several years younger than me and he’s going to be gettin’ hitched before I figure out how to make a long-term relationship work. I’ve blogged for nearly a year, and doubt I’ve actually learned much of anything other than the fact that all courtships are different and must be treated as such.

Sensibility tells me that he’s in college, that he’s been with the broad for years, that he’s in the South, that his parents were married young, that he’s happy with a little home and a little church, and I’m still searching for so much more than that. I’m confident I’m nowhere close to meeting the man I’ll marry or even wanting to marry – but it’s so odd to think that the kid I babysat for has found true love before I have.

Talk about making a gal feel old.

Alright, fine – I’m not old. I know that much. I have more than enough time, and I’ve recently sincerely relaxed after realizing so many women have babies well over 35 and are fine. I don’t feel pressure to pair up, I don’t crave white lace as much as I desire my Friday night out with the girls, and if Mr. P is any indication of New York men, I think I’m going to search for transplants like me, instead. I’m happy -actually I’m quite smitten – with how my life is right now. I feel blessed to have this much success and love surrounding me constantly, and if I could capture these years in a ViewMaster to click-through in years to come, I’m sure I’d be a very joyous middle-aged woman.

But in a little girl voice, just like the one I had before I was old enough to drive, yet competent enough to care for twins, I have to whine about one thing immaturely (but rightfully so!): Hey Southerners! Stop getting married so young! It’s scaring me into becoming a Northerner, and I know ya’ll don’t want that, now!