Tag Archives: Men

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I Wish for Wrinkles

It is often the first thing I notice in the mornings, when I wake to splash water on my cheeks and prepare for the day ahead. I see it when I powder my nose in the shadowy mirrors of downstairs basements of downtown clubs I don’t pay to get into because I have breasts. I see it when I click through tagged pictures on Facebook and reflected back to me in the sunglasses of my friends on hot summer afternoons, sipping on mimosas and pretending Eggs Benedict isn’t bad for me.

It’s become part of the structure of my face, a defining feature that adds to my visual character, something that most would refer to as a flaw, but I see as beautiful: a wrinkle, quite deep for someone my age, smack dab in the middle of my forehead.

If I hold my face perfectly still and refuse to react during conversation or to concentrate while writing, it is hardly noticeable. But if you’re around me for five seconds, you’ll quickly see that I almost always have something to say, and I say it extremely animatedly. So even if I wanted to disguise my wrinkle, I’d have to try extremely hard with careful thought, and then I wouldn’t be acting like myself.

I haven’t always been fond of this crease – I used to try to clog it up with makeup, somehow convinced foundation would work like cement, filling in this hole I despised. I considered it ugly and distracting, an imprint I couldn’t erase that caught attention instead of my baby blues. I envied my friends with their flawlessly-tanned skin, without any acne scars, without even the slightest indication of aging or sagging to be found on their faces. Some of my friends are blessed by the kiss of a complexion so clear, you’d think they still had the layer of skin they were born with.

It’s easy to feel insignificant and even invisible in the presence of those who have something you want. It’s easy to compare yourself and to measure all the ways you fall short on the levels of attractiveness when put up against someone who you find alluring. I’m still guilty of entertaining self-defeating thoughts when it comes to my looks, but instead of analyzing the bar scene to see if my friend is getting more attention than I am, I’ve started reminding myself that she’s probably doing the same.

We all have insecurities and parts of our bodies and faces that we wish we could change. Even though we’re all familiar with the prevalence of PhotoShop and the fact that models in person don’t look how they appear on the ads – we all secretly wonder if we could look that way. We see the chiseled, defined bodies of celebrities who we know have the luxury of a personal trainer and dietitian to tell them what to eat and what to work out – and yet, we think we can exercise the same self-control they do, sans scary-drill-sergeant, sans certified-brownie-thief. And we all see features on our friends that we wish we had – crispy, white smiles, legs to die for, hair that always shines. But rest-assured, they see something in us that they want, too.

I’m sure my friends or strangers don’t long for my little wrinkle, but I’m also sure they don’t really notice it. Come to think of it, the only person who has ever mentioned it was Mr. P, but it was in the context of compliment during an intimate moment. Contrary to my personal belief, it isn’t the first thing others notice about me, nor something that would be a deal-breaker for a could-be mate. That wrinkle, which is only the first of many to come, is a tiny reminder of the things about me that are beautiful.

It came to be only because I chose to laugh so hard that I couldn’t control the corners of my grin. It came to be because I’ve spent endless hours thinking and writing, trying to put into words the story that’s always lived inside of me. It came to be because I decided to cry when I was sad, to express enthusiasm when I  was happy or inspired, and to verbalize anger when it couldn’t be softened.

I don’t really wish for more wrinkles and I’m not against plastic surgery within reason, but if having no fine lines means never living one hell of a fine life, then I’d rather have those memories outlined on my face for the world to see. For the world to witness all the beauty I’ve been able to find – in its people, in its challenges and joys, and especially within myself.

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Dudes and Dogs

So my roommate got a kitten. She’s tiny with piercing blue eyes and her name isBowie.

When she started flirting with the idea, browsing Craigslist looking for eligible animals that were rescued or abandoned and now up for auction or for free – I admit I was a little jealous.

I’ve never quite been a cat-person, though I grew up with one who recently passed away. His name was Indiana Jones Tigar, named after one of my favorite series as a kid. We nicknamed him Indy, and he was adventurous and quick, always getting away from me with a smirk that spoke louder than his meow. And then of course, there’s M’s baby Milo, who as my “godson” is permanently embedded in my heart and I’ll admit, that when the earthquake shook New York, I wondered how he was alone in M’s apartment.

And now, there’s yet another kitten sashaying into my life and with her arrival, my heart sinks just a bit. While some women at my age, God bless ‘em, feel like they’re achin’ to have kids, I’m achin’ for a pet.

Specifically, one of those puppies with sad, sad eyes from the Humane Society commercials. Or maybe one that’s across the street from my friend K’s apartment in the WestVillage– the one that every time I walk past it on my way to her place, I fight the urge to ask just how much is that puppy in the window?

The time isn’t ticking on my ovaries anymore than it’s ticking on my ability to support a dog right now, but I have this overwhelming desire to own one. I want to come home after a glorious day at work, followed by drinks with my favorites, to a wagging-puppy-dog-tail that’s excited to see me and will lay by my feet at night. I want to have responsibility for something else, something to take care of, something to depend on me, something that’ll grow because of my loving nature and guidance.

Rationally though, I know I’m not in the right time of my life to adopt a dog. While I could support it financially, I couldn’t give it the time and attention it deserves and that it would crave. Walking a dog through Central Parkwhen it’s painted with an earthy palette while wearing my fleece peacoat seems beautiful and idealistic, but it’s quite unrealistic.

Animals, like relationships, aren’t as cute as we imagine and far more work than we’d like to realize. I’m fully aware of this truth, both with puppies and men (quite similar if you think about it…), and yet, I still want them both. I’m not sure which tail is cuter, frankly.

But sometimes, the right decisions and the hard decisions are one-in-the-same. Being an adult means sucking up what you want to decide what’s best. Ensuring your life and your happiness continue to excel means getting rid of those things, those people, or those ideas that hold you back. Even if one of them happens to be the image of a rescued, wet-nosed pup who adores you. Maybe even a man who adores you, too – though he’s not the best for you, as much as you’d like him to be.

Because when you take the plunge and commit to a puppy or to a guy, you’re promising to come home each night, just as you said you would. You pledge to be there to fill their bowl and build their ego, stroke their cute little heads when they need encouragement or to be soothed. To excitedly call their name, even if they’re not really doing anything you are getting excited about, and to play with them, regardless if you’re tired and have a headache or not.

Men and puppies require attention and time, both things that aren’t difficult to sacrifice when you have many other things that fulfill you. But the fever that comes with dudes and dogs is one that’s rather difficult to extinguish.

But I fight the puppy-fever by volunteering to help others with their pets. By giving Milo andBowiean extra pat on their tiny kitten heads, by complimenting dog owners on their adorable pets, by volunteering when I can at shelters. By bookmarking photos of dogs I’d like to have and stopping at every rescue center or puppy-for-sale store I see.

And man-fever? Well, I still have 26 days to figure out how to battle that high.

 

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Half-Hearted Love

I can’t believe I’m subjecting these heels to pavement, I thought as I crossed seventh avenue rushing to meet a stranger I met online. I also can’t believe I made a profile on Plenty of Fish – aren’t I too young for this? I wouldn’t respond to someone who called himself Play6969 in real life, why did I think I’d be intrigued when he messaged me “Watup gurrllll” in an anonymous inbox? 

Linds, what’s wrong with you?

Seeing the address a block away, I considered turning around and catching the uptown train. It wasn’t too late – I hadn’t actually seen the guy and I purposefully didn’t save his phone number, just in case he didn’t show, I wouldn’t be the whiny, pensive girl who reached out to see where he was, I’d just act like I didn’t care. Even if I did, I didn’t have a way to complain about it via BBM, and I’d be damned if I signed onto PlentyofBullS*** after being stood up.

Standing him up, though – that didn’t seem like such a bad idea. I could free myself from any troubles, from awkward first-date introductions, from telling him the basics about me that don’t really mean anything (I like red wine. I’m allergic to peanut butter. Yes, it is pronounced like the animal. Yes, I promise. Yes, it’s funny. Check please?), but I’m hungry. And he’s tall, right? Didn’t he say he was a doctor? If I had a Jewish mother, she’d tell me I’d be crazy not to go. I close my eyes and picture Fran Drescher”ma” on The Nanny, and enter the restaurant.

Mmmm, he’s stunning. Glad I wore the red heels, I complimented myself while praying for them to stop pinching my feet and for my skirt not to ride up. Maybe it’s a little too tight for the doctor type – or maybe he wants me to play nurse? Let’s see how engaging the conversation is. And he planned everything about this date, so let’s see how clever and creative he is – then maybe I’ll let him take my heart rate or maybe look at that thing, down there, that’s been….hurting? Yeah, something a little achy – like a lady part that’s pathetically lonely and bored of inaction.

He has a nice voice and he’s kind to wait staff, even talking like he’s old pals with the bartender, I analyzed while sipping on the drink he ordered. We would be hitting a few places around the Hell’s Kitchen, Times Square area – he had just moved here, after all. He wanted to see things he hadn’t before, try places he hadn’t tasted, perhaps wrangle wildlife he had yet to learn how to tame? I watched him carefully eat his food, taking incredibly small bites and demonstrate his near-perfect table manners. He even held his fork the European way, something I hadn’t seen a man do since my days of pageantry in the South. There the judges expect you to be a crystalized, real-life version of a Barbie Doll with humanitarian intentions, so they’ll give you a bit of class while eating overpriced Chicken Pot Pie at the table with ya.

The night continued in the fashion of most New York evenings – where anyone who didn’t live here would be amazed by the views, I had become in a short time, used to them, only experiencing those Louie Armstrong moments occasionally. And though we were walking around the tourist and rodent-ridden eight blocks of congestion and extremely bright lights, just as he wanted, Mr. Half just wasn’t that intrigued. The more he drank, the more reserved he became. By the last bar, it was so painful to consume our shared plate of french fries and specialty beers, that I finally had to pull the journalist out from hiding (she knows it’s not appropriate to interrogate on the first date, much better to listen), and ask him what happened. Where did my cheerful doctor who was going to inspect my body after a romantic night on the town go? Why was he so sullen that he matched the hideous gray walls in a sub-par bar charging $8 for a Bud Light?

He took another sip of Amstel, sat it down with vengeance, cut his eyes at the lines of liquor ahead of us, gave me a little grin, and asked me: “Is it possible to love with half of your heart? You’re a writer, right? You write about this stuff. Is it possible? Because as beautiful as you are, as much as I feel lucky to be here, as much as I’d like to take you home tonight, I only have half a heart left. The woman I thought was the love of my life took the rest.”

After nearly falling off my bar stool, I gathered myself and smiled at him, tears obviously welling up in my eyes. I took a deep breath, having recently ended my relationship with Mr. Idea, and answered as honestly as I could: “I have no idea, Mr. Half.”

It’s been over a year since that date, which happened to be our last (I never heard from him again) – but I remember taking a cab home that night, not because I was tipsy but because I was sad. For one of the first times, I didn’t make conversation with the cabby, but shut the window and cried as silently as I could, only pausing briefly to pay and head upstairs, to sob some more. My heart ached for Mr. Half, for myself, for all the people who put themselves out there, gave every bit of  a heart they have, only to end up with half of it at the end.

Relationships are funny that way – we all want to find that person. The person who is all that we wanted, with a few surprises we didn’t know we liked, but do. And in the middle of an ordinary day (as all days mostly are), we meet someone who makes us believe that it’s possible. Who is different and charming, but not someone who strays. Someone who wants to stay, who wants to give, who proclaims their love. Who feels warm in the winter and so easy to be around that summer days fade all the way into October. And though we swore that the last time would be the last time. That we would never invest so much of ourselves, of our hope, of our precious love into another person after being so broken before. That we would never have the ability to open up because we had become so hard that softness was a distant memory of what we used to be, not what we are now. That we would never subject ourselves to such scary vulnerability when history tells that it’ll just end up crumbling us into a cab speeding up the Westside Highway following a downright depressing date. That we would never be able to love with our whole heart because we merely had half of one left.

Even though we made all those promises to that box of wine (yes, box), to that half-gallon of Ben & Jerry while sobbing to The Notebook over our version of Noah that looks nothing like Ryan Gosling – we go against it all the second that butterfly lands in our tummy. From that first kiss or that first indication of “something is happening here.” I don’t know how to mend a broken, a half, or a whole heart, but meeting someone with potential certainly helps speed up the process.

So if I were to go back to that date, if I hadn’t met my own Mr. Possibility months later, if I had known then what I know now, I would tell Mr. Half to lean in and kiss me, madly. Because the only way to see if you can love with half of your heart…is to try.

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The Possibility of Unavailability

A while back on Labor Day of last year, I met a man.

I was returning home from a trip to North Carolina to visit my family at our lake house. I spent the weekend chatting with my mom over endless glasses of wine, getting appropriately sunburned, and pretending anything that’s grilled is void of calories. It was just how a weekend away from the city should be – full of laughter and remembering the good times, while trying to hide that happy anticipation to return to the home you made for yourself.

After a seamless flight, I caught a $15 bus back into the city, a relatively new thing for me. I was used to taking cabs and the subway, but decided to save some money and some headache. Foolishly of me, I put on some super-tall slingbacks and a summer dress belted at the waist with a rather floppy hat – not exactly bus riding attire.

With my red carry-on in hand, I boarded the bus and started to walk down the aisle, smiling at a cute man I wanted to sit in front of. And then, instead of gracefully lowering myself into the seat while maintaining eye contact – the bus driver stomped on the gas pedal and I went flying forward, dropping the suitcase and catching myself.

The cute guy’s friend asked if I was okay and I grudgingly replied that I was, before taking that seat with far less sass. The cute guy, who I now saw had pretty blue eyes, gave me a hard time and by the time we reached Grand Central, we both realized that we lived close, so we took the train together. We exchanged cards and I didn’t anticipate hearing from him, but the next day he emailed me.

It started off innocently enough. I originally thought he had a speech impediment, but it was just because I wasn’t used to hearing a true Northern accent on a daily basis. I didn’t accept his Facebook request right away, trying to decide if I wanted to pursue another bachelor or just stick with going to bars for fun conversations and empty promises. This guy, after all, made it pretty clear that he wasn’t looking for anything. He was just getting out of a relationship, was having a hard time getting over the girl and he needed space to grow.

To live. To find himself. To be single. Hmm, that sounds awfully familiar.

This was right around the time I started the blog, where I was tasked with the same challenges of learning to love myself, learning to fly solo before letting someone take the steering wheel at times when I allowed. It seemed like a platonic match made-in-heaven: two wounded souls, working through our issues with a person of the opposite sex, without any strings, without any sex, without any complications. It wasn’t supposed to be friends-with-benefits, it was just supposed to be friends. We were both after all, ultimately, unavailable.

And so he became Mr. Unavailable.

After helping him through a grand gesture that grandly bombed, our friendship just continued to grow closer. We’d go on non-dates where we’d wonder about town, talking and giving our best psychiatric advice, mending our own broken hearts while connecting them to one another. He’d talk about his lovely ex, reminding me of how I was so similar to her, making me quite angry at times, but eventually – he proved himself right. Being smart and lovely, she stumbled across the blog and guessed his identity. We met for drinks and now we’re quite close, with more than one very interesting thing in common.

But time passed and things changed. Mr. Unavailable and I became intimate. He started sleeping over. He introduced me to his family. He started calling me “baby.” We didn’t place a label, but we knew we were both starting to become less unavailable and more attached. We were developing this chemistry that translated easily into a relationship. I mean, we already knew everything about one another and our respective dating histories, doesn’t that make sense as the recipe for a perfect partnership?

Just as things were heating up and feelings were becoming more concrete, snow started to hit the ground, and his job sent him overseas for a while. It was then, that he gave me permission to create a new identity for him – one that would illustrate him beyond Mr. Unavailable. A character that would show that we were more than that, that what we were creating was full of hope, had promise – was a definite possibility.

And so, Mr. Possibility arrived on these pages and references to Mr. Unavailable mostly ceased. Why not just make it the same character and be honest throughout the blog? Well – a little bit of mystery never hurt anyone, and I didn’t want to give the wrong idea that a Mr. Unavailable could become a Mr. Possibility, until I was certain the possibility was possible.

I’m still not sure if I can attest to that fact – there are times when he is rather impossible and severely more unavailable than I would like. Having each other’s personal love resumes of disappointment, regret, and lost love has proved quite troubling for the relationship. Talking about the past and exes is also a difficult boundary to make, after it was such an open playing field for so long. It took us a while to actually call the relationship, a relationship, because I wasn’t sure I wanted to give up the single status (though I already had in every way except by saying it here or on Facebook), and I was still trying to trust him from things that happened before we were officially, official. I didn’t want the exclusively non-exclusive relationship anymore, but did I really believe that someone so damn unavailable would turn into a true possibility for love?

Six months later, I can really only promise one thing – every person you date has the possibility to become someone you will love. And every single soul you cross paths with, is unavailable in a way you may or may not ever know. We all have the possibility of being emotionally removed, turning away from our partners, never creating a relationship worth standing on, and crumbling to pieces before you can build anything. Each guy presents that opportunity, especially the ones who are unavailable to begin with – and outright about it, to boot.

But if someone seems like they deserve a chance, like there is undeniably a possibility for romance, then check how you feel. Make sure you are confident within yourself because they may not find stability on their own as you have. Make sure you want to support the weight of someone else as they go through a hard time, knowing you may not receive the attention and the love you deserve, in return. Make sure you are happy with your life and that you don’t need someone else to bring that joy to you.

To be with Mr. Unavailable, you have to make compromises. For him to become Mr. Possibility, you have to remember not to compromise yourself. We like to take care of Mr. Unavailable, but you shouldn’t date him unless he has truly transformed into a Mr. Possibility. And if you start to do that on the way to making the impossible, possible, you also have to know when it’s time to stop, turn around, declare how much you’d like to be beautifully open and available…but you can’t. At least not until messes are tidy and hearts are ready, you may just turn into Ms. Unavailable.

Maybe, anyway. There’s always, a possibility – right?

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We’re Such Little Adults

Chatting way over drinks at The Standard Beer Garden, my bubbly and sassy new friend A says: “We’re such adults now.” At the time, the rest of us laughed and shook our heads playfully at her with the “well, duh” look on our faces. The conversation and the beer continued, along with a block-or-two walk to catch the train.

On the way home, M and I stopped by Trader Joes – an inexpensive grocery story with mostly organic, healthy items – to shop for the week. We compared prices, came up with lunch and snack plans by thinking about which nights we’d be out and which ones we’d spend in. We chatted happily about our new jobs, both floating on Cloud 9 of success, finally landing just where we wanted to be. We continue to dream about an apartment together one day, maybe some place downtown, maybe a little more pricey, but one that’s definitely kitty-friendly for baby Milo. I’m hoping to adopt a puppy from the rescue center within a year – I’ve already named him, but I won’t share it here, just in case it jinxes it.

Because of M’s super-bus-riding skills, we caught the M7 heading uptown and people-watched while commenting on our tired feet and excitement for taking a much-needed good night’s rest. My stop is a few ahead of her’s, so I hopped off and called my mom to check in, then checked the mail, checked the fridge for expired things, checked my Gmail for the first time today, checked my bank account to see where I stood on budgeting, and checked to make sure I had everything ready for work tomorrow.

Slinging off my Jessica Simpson slingbacks, plopping down on my bed, finally, mentally going over my life checklist, I heard A’s voice ringing in my head: “We’re such adults now.” My, oh my was she right – my birthday’s approaching (guess how old, folks?), and though by any standard I’d be considered an adult, I’m just now starting to feel like one.

We are such little adults.

I’m refraining from unleashing my Southern roots by typing the lyrics to Martina McBride song, “This One’s for the Girls” where she describes 20-something females in tiny apartments, just trying to get by, living off of dreams and spaghetti-o’s. I may upgrade to higher-quality food these days, but I practically live off of dreams, that now, somehow have a bit of reality to them.

As much of a fantasy land New York always has been for me, it now is a place with commitments. It’s now the place I call home, where I pay my cable and electric bill, my rent, my student loans, where I save and where I spend, where I have a library card, where I have a gym membership. It’s where my boyfriend lives and where I’m developing some strong friendships I’m convinced will last my lifetime. It’s where I started and where I continue my career. It’s the location I picked just for me.

It’s the first thing I want to see in the morning and it’s really the place that made me into that little adult I am.

Into that woman who knows how much to set aside to save, have fun, and meet monthly monetary requirements. Into that woman who grew incredibly excited by the idea of a book club proposed by a friend. Into the woman who can map out the subway – mostly – without the help of Google (not the buses, though). Into the woman who pays taxes, votes, reads the newspaper, does the crossword, attempts to gym-it and now read a book a month, who checks the New York Times each morning and has more Google Alerts than probably necessary. Into the woman who wants so much more than where she came from, but values and loves that Southern state so deeply. Into the woman who can go from rockin’ heels and a dress to an all-cotton assemble in a minute and feel just as beautiful.

Into the woman who knows she’s a little adult now…and couldn’t be happier for that sweet responsibility.