Tag Archives: Men

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Invite the Sun

Last week was one of those weeks where anything that could go wrong, went wrong. Work was very stressful, Mr. Possibility and I got into a tiff, I had an event or something with a deadline every single evening, and my suitcase from vacation is still unpacked, spewing clothes across my bedroom floor.

By the time after-5 rolled around yesterday, I couldn’t have been more excited to relax with some of my favorites. As much as I advise against it and regardless of how much credit I get as a dating blogger or recovering addict, the balance between work, life and love is always an act. Sometimes some parts give to others and sometimes you have to give others parts of you in an effort to maintain and mature relationships.

But I tell ya, as much as I care about him – when Mr. Possibility took flight for a weekend away with some old friends, I felt a sigh of relief. A little space and room to miss your partner is highly underrated in an age over over-connectivity.

Even so, as I walked on the west side, passing the highline and browsing through Chelsea Market in search for the perfect something I didn’t actually need, I couldn’t shake the weight off my shoulders. My ever-lasting to-do circulated through my mind, my cell phone seemed unusually unresponsive, and all the change I’m anticipating was bubbling in my veins. I felt unprecedented pressure and for whatever reason, worry had attached itself so closely to my stomach, it felt like even hope couldn’t remedy the ache.

With more time to kill than I wanted, I arrived at Chelsea Brewery in my dependably-early fashion. The young underage waitress who blushed when I asked her for a pale ale recommendation sat me in a booth facing the Hudson. Thumbing through my phone, and casually looking at the menu, a ray of sun demanded my attention outside.

And there it was.

Why was I snapping my fingers and pushing myself into a fit of fury and fear over what’s next or what’s wrong or what could or couldn’t be when I have this in front of me? When I’m in the place I adore, with those who adore me on their way? When all that I said I’d do, I’ve done, when I have a roof over my head, an address in Manhattan, and a byline nearly every single day? When I’ve met someone who could be something and still managed to keep myself in tact at the same time? When the beauty of my life often outweighs the ugliness I dread – if I just open my eyes.

If I invite the sun into my life, whatever darkness that lurks about somehow disappears. If I see how blessed I am instead of what I’m missing, the happiness I find is paramount. And if I just take a breath and take a sip, those footsteps of friends won’t be far away, as well as all those answers to questions I keep asking myself.

And maybe, for that Friday night and for the rest of my 20s, could that answer be in the simplicity of being? Of reveling in blessings?

Even if that blessing is just in the form of a raspberry beer and a sweet summer sunset.

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Dating the Doppelganger

Last night, my company had one of our big award galas followed by drinks on the boss and then the younger crew took to the streets for additional boozing. Needless to say, our GM’s request for us all to come in a little later was much appreciated.

My hair wet and my makeup carelessly applied and smudged, I couldn’t bring myself to read F. Scott Fitzgerald as I rode the downtown train. Somehow, Gatsby just seems to deserve more than my hung-over attention. Instead of reading, I did one of my prized past-times, people watching. Though I usually stand, at this mid-morning hour I gave into the desire to plop down and bulge my elbows to claim my personal space bubble.

Glancing through the straphangers, I met eyes with a few cuties, made a silly face at a baby with curls and said a prayer for the homeless man scratching himself in the corner of the cart as everyone around him scattered, afraid they could catch “homeless” if they got too close. The married, gray-haired man next to me read his Wall Street Journal folded up into a tight little square, opening it as he slowly read the financial news of the day. And a rather non-amused teenager listening to Nicki Minaj so loudly it made my eardrums ring.

And then across from me, sat Mr. Possibility.

Or so, I thought, anyway. But no, it couldn’t be – Mr. Possibility is out-of-town this weekend and there was no way he’d be riding the downtown train from the Upper West Side to Chelsea at 10 a.m. I did a double-take when I first saw him, trying to further convince myself that it wasn’t in fact my boyfriend, but his doppelganger.

I couldn’t help but study him, left with nothing else to entertain myself with for the next six stops. His hair laid the same way. His eyes were the same color. He made the same face that Mr. Possibility does when he’s thinking really hard. When he lost at whatever game his phone was entertaining him with, he mouthed “F***” just as I imagine Mr. Possibility would do if he had actually downloaded that Angry Bird app he once played for an hour straight at a friend’s barbeque. His attire could have been pulled out of Mr. Possibility’s closet. I didn’t know this man, but here I was watching him intimately, feeling like I could strike up a conversation with little effort. He doesn’t know me, but I’m dating his doppelganger. Who is this guy and what is the universe trying to tell me? It’s an omen of death to meet your own look-a-like, so what happens when you see the twin of the guy you’re dating?

Once I exited the train, I didn’t give too much more thought about the character I encountered and busily got to writing and editing articles. When 1:30 rolled around and I realized I was still surviving off my pizza indulgence from last night’s shenanigans, I hurried out of the office to grab something simple to eat and a hot dose of caffeine to keep me going until half-past-five.

Taking the stairs to rid my carbohydrate-d guilt, I flung the door into the lobby open and found myself face-to-face with the doppelganger.

He looked surprised and smiled as he asked, “You were on the train this morning.” I confirmed and felt my cheeks redden to the tune of Akon, realizing he noticed me, noticing him. We talked about working in the same building and both living on the Upper West Side and what a small world Manhattan is. I wasn’t too incredibly freaked out by the meeting until he said, “Well, it’s nice to meet you, my name is Mr. Possibility.”

Yep. They have the same name too.

I stammered my way out of his vicinity and into the streets, less hungry and more intrigued. Maybe Mr. Possibility is my match, but I just met his. I said a silent prayer they weren’t just alike because that probably means there’s another one of me lurking around the corner, writing a blog about dating, love, sex, and ridiculousness.

But you know – I kind of already know I’m not one-of-a-kind. Sure, there’s not another Lindsay Tigar on Facebook or anyone who is just like or looks identical to me or has my same history and passions – but I’ve met women who are very similar to me. The planet has no lack of writers or editors and not enough jobs to fill the passion. Anyone who wants to be can be a blogger and if you want a byline, there’s probably an outlet for you somewhere on some website, somewhere in the World Wide Web. There are blue-eyed beauties and average-height brunettes who love heels and hail from North Carolina. And if you’ve dated at all, you’ve probably found a Mr. Unavailable, a Mr. Possibility, a Mr. Idea, and all of the rest. I have no doubt I probably have dozens of twins and perhaps even a doppelganger too, that I’d like to not meet anytime soon.

Maybe we’re not so unique but rather, vain enough to believe there is only one person who can do whatever it is that we do. Or perhaps we’re silly to believe that only one person is designed to be our partner in this life, that only one wonderful, dream-like dude can fit the bill of boyfriend or husband or otherwise.

But that’s not true. I’ve met two Mr. Possibilities. And really, isn’t every man a Mr. Possibility until proven…impossible?

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A Broken Give-a-Damn

The day before my college graduation, standing in streets covered with a slippery thin sheet of ice, Mr. Idea and I screamed at each other hunched under an awning a block from my apartment.

It wasn’t either of our finest moments.

It ultimately led to me throwing a high-heeled shoe in his general direction out of frustration, unchartered emotion and a little bit of booze. It didn’t hit him but he was astonished at my actions so much that he screamed (much to the dismay of my roommate): “You threw a shoe at my face! Lindsay! What’s wrong with you?” Equally as loud but through a thick stream of tears and unflattering nose-runnage, I replied: “I just want you to make me feel like you care and you don’t!!! Why can’t you just make me feel better?”

I’d like to say I’ve grown out of that immature statement but the truth is, I’m not sure we ever do. Maybe those totally-Zen, consistently healthy and one-with-the-world people are clear and peaceful in their relationships, but I don’t happen to be part of that demographic.

I’m emotional. I’m impatient. I can overreact. I have a tendency to overanalyze. I think people should give me just as much as I give them, though I don’t take all that much. When I’m mad, I cry. When I’m sad, I cry. When I’m furious, I need to take a walk (and apparently throw things). And when I’m upset in a relationship, as I was with Mr. Idea and probably as I’ll be with any man I date, I tend to think they should make me feel a certain way.

They should be understanding and kind. They should sometimes prioritize me above other things. They should have my best interest at heart and work hard at bettering my life, just as I hope to make their day-to-day brighter. Promises should be made and kept, not haphazardly planned and forgotten. I consider myself a great catch and you, whoever it is that I’m dating, should treat me as such. You should know what you have when you have me, and gosh-darnit – you should make me feel like the most amazing creature on Earth.

Right?

Well, maybe that worked once upon a time in never-never land, but in real life, in real relationship that are messy, complicated and flat-out irritating at times – things aren’t so cut and dry. While your partner should make you happy and positively affect your existence, they are not and should not be responsible for making you feel any way. And if you find yourself yelling at the top of your lungs, Jimmy in hand, begging them to make you feel differently – maybe you should check yourself. Check your emotions. And above all – check on the relationship.

There will be ups and downs and there will be fights. Hell, arguing can even be healthy occasionally and shows you how someone handles themselves in the heat of the moment or when tensions brew. But if there are more bad times than good, if you’re not getting what you want, if you’re not feeling what you want to feel, if you’re not finding that loving feeling as often as you’re battling the urge to run away – then what are you doing?

You’re waiting for someone to make you feel a way you can’t with them and maybe asking them to feel something they don’t. And if you can’t and they don’t, then the answer to your questionable exit strategy is…go. Breathe. Revel in yourself and in the possibility to meet someone who doesn’t frustrate you. Who doesn’t stand outside in the cold threatening to break up with you on the eve of your college graduation.

Because really, the only person who can make you feel the way you want to feel is you. The you who one day finds a love that doesn’t make you doubt or wonder constantly. And if you’re with the wrong one, you can never meet the right one. If you’re too busy fighting, you don’t have any energy to love. And if there is no love left, then girl, go out and find it.

And before you find it, find yourself. Decide your give-a-damn is broken and make yourself feel so in love with you that nothing else can compare.

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Beautiful Little Fool

I’ve decided to dedicate this summer to re-reading great classical literature. I came to this decision after helping Mr. Possibility clean out some bookcases and stumbling across an original 1925 copyrighted edition of The Great Gatsby.

Thinking back to the first time I read it in high school and then again in between years of college, I instantly remembered where I was at those points in my life. That’s the thing about good books; they leave your forever impacted, remembering just where you were just when you read their pages.

And so, in addition to my long list of magazines and websites I read daily, I decided to make New York memories reading some of my favorites throughout the summer. After all, what’s better to do in Central Park or on the train then get lost in a novel that’s so old, so lovely, that the sentences flow together with such ease you’d swear that type of writing doesn’t exist anymore? (It doesn’t really)

Flipping through Fitzgerald’s vivid description of the 20s, I fell in love with this line: “I hope she’ll be a fool – that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.” Daisy’s words never meant anything to me until now, after being the beautiful little fool a time – or two or three – in my adult life.

While Daisy isn’t the best leading lady in literature, she makes an interesting accusation. Is a fool really the best thing a girl can be?

Looking back into relationships I’ve had, both those that ended far too quickly and those that lasted way too long, I’ve admittedly played the part of the fool a few times. And as I’ve said before, to be a fool you have to be a little brave; for being foolish means opening yourself up to ridicule or failure.

But when you’re starting to date someone new – should you be foolish to red flags so you get to know who they really are before passing judgment? Should you be foolish before you make it official, putting it out of your mind that they are free to date and to sleep with whomever they please until titles are concrete and promises promised? Should we be foolish to believe that no matter how many times we’re hurt, we can get back up and try it again…and again?

Or can you only truly be a beautiful little fool until the first time you’re fooled? Like the same way patience runs dry the first time you’re passed by?

I’m not sure – some of the best relationships I’ve witnessed are based off of an encouraged oblivion. My parents, as an example, have never discussed their past. Neither know how many the other have slept with or why past boyfriends/girlfriend bit the dust. When they said “I do”, they said “I don’t” to the past – and never brought it up. Does it matter 25 years later what happened 26 years before? Nope, not in the slightest.

So is foolishness beautiful or is it a way to process things without thinking too much or reading in between lines that you can’t define? Should we be beautiful little fools or maybe in today’s speech, pretty little liars?

Only though, if we’re fools or if we’re liars, are we fooling and lying to ourselves? And is that healthy? Is that…beautiful?

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A Distracting Click

I call it the “click.”

Others refer to it as chemistry, shared interests, similar backgrounds, or an unparalleled connection. It’s that feeling – or maybe it’s a moment – when you’re just starting to date someone and you recognize the “click.” It’s that little voice or that nudge in your tummy that says, “Oh! This could be something. I like him!”

I think the click is different for everyone and specific to each relationship. The click with Mr. Idea was on our first date, while the click with Mr. Possibility took a few months to develop. Anything can ignite the click, a sentence, a discovery, a trip, an intense sex session, and the list goes on and on. Regardless, the click is important. It’s the beginning of the lifeline of a relationship-that-could-be and it’s when any eligible bachelor steps up from courter to, well, possibility.

My friend K has an exciting dating life, and I’ve often told her she should be writing this blog instead of me since I’m no longer making the Manhattan rounds. She’s an equal-opportunity dater: tall, short, older, younger, religious, unaffiliated, foreign, All-American, this or that. Her stories are wildly entertaining and her optimism is refreshing, no matter what she holds her head high and goes onto the next one if this one doesn’t fit. She’s quite level-headed when it comes to dudes – a trait I only developed through this blog – so when she Gchatted me first thing this morning to ask for advice in a somewhat frantic manner, I was a tad surprised.

She had the click with someone.

And this time, instead of just being another guy on the roster, he’s stepped ahead in the rankings and now a bazillion questions are running through her mind (and being asked via chat): how do I not get jealous over his ex? When is a good time to express that I’d be fine with not dating anyone else? How do I not peek over his shoulder when something piques my interest on his BlackBerry? Why does sex suddenly mean something because my emotions are tied to him?

Attempting to put things into check for her while still being a good friend – I felt like a hypocrite. I’m advising her to take it slow, to calm down, to keep her options open since it’s only been a handful of dates, to not worry, to be herself, to let him fall for her, and all of these cookie-cutter trite words of wisdom. But the truth is – once you click, it’s hard to compromise.

Because that feeling is intoxicating. It takes over all of your rational thought and turns you into an obsessive, crazy gal who wants what she wants right when she wants it. It makes fun sex have strings attached. It makes us want to stalk the ex-girlfriend by any means available. It makes us want to pull him so incredibly close that he can’t seemingly get away. It makes us want to lock him in as boyfriend, pray insistently that he isn’t tempted by the fruit of another, and more than anything, it makes us deathly afraid. We know the click doesn’t come along often and when it does, shouldn’t we capitalize on it? And not compromise what we’re feeling because we love it so damn much?

But we kind of have to. We have to slow down. We have to tell our heart to have some patience. We have to not get too attached too soon. We have to not let our hope rise too high because we know what it feels like when it falls too low. We have to put up some protection because we’ve been burned before. The click is the first indication but it isn’t a signal of longevity or a promise that love is in the making.

The click is just what it is: a brief feeling that sparks something. And that something, if we can swallow our fear and stomach the process of dating until (or if) casual turns into concrete, the maybe, that click will click into an actual something. Something that’s more defined and dependable.

We have to tuck away that obsessive nature and focus on something more important than the click, even when it seems like it’s the most valuable thing in the whole world.

You know, distract ourselves. Because if the click is going to distract us from everything else, the only compromise that makes sense is to distract it right back.