Tag Archives: Men

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Seriously, Wake Up

Following the very last class I took in college, I stopped by our university’s post office to check my PO box and forward my mail. I was excited and hopeful for the future, feeling relieved I would never have to attend another lecture unless I wanted to. When I turned the dial, I was surprised to find an envelope marked from Raleigh, NC with my name neatly typed on the front. Full name, mind you.

As I walked behind the building to my apartment on the main strip in town, I stopped dead in my heels and my mouth dropped: I had received my very first hate mail.

More or less, the anonymous writer wished me ill-will in New York City. They said they hoped I fell on my face, that living in the city for two months during an internship was no indication I could survive full-time. They misquoted me and promised me that fairytales don’t come true, that my Prince wouldn’t be waiting at Grand Central or Times Square or Bryant Park to greet me when I landed on Northern soil. They were rude and blunt, standing their ground as a coward who wouldn’t reveal their name and though they started the letter with “this is not from someone who is jealous of you – there is nothing to be jealous of” -each and every one of my friends could feel the envy seep into their hands as they read it and laughed with me in the days that would follow.

They signed their Letter of Unlove with: “Seriously, wake up.” I think there were some Gossip Girl-like “xoxo”s thrown in for good measure, and in all, it didn’t amount to anything more than a few sentences strung together without proper punctuation or a real purpose.

At the time, I was a little stunned. Part of me was hurt. The biggest part of me was curious and annoyed whoever had such beef with me wasn’t willing to say what they wanted to my face. I read their words with a grain of salt, never being one to let anyone’s opinions stand in the way of what I intend to do, no matter how unmanageable a task may seem to everyone else.

And I mean, I couldn’t exactly disagree with them because they weren’t telling me anything I didn’t know.

I never expected New York to be peaches-and-ice-cream, sunflowers-and-roses. I didn’t think I’d prance in and climb the media ladder without faltering here-and-there. But I’ve been successful. I’ve landed on my feet with a great group of friends, a job I enjoy, an apartment I adore, and a happiness that’s unparalleled. I didn’t think I’d meet my husband the second I moved (though in my love addict stage back then, I wanted to)- but I’ve been blessed to love a few good men and discover a possibility worth taking a chance on. I never wanted to work in magazines because I was “pretty” as the author claimed, but because my byline could has the opportunity to make tides – even if women’s issues in dating, love, relationships, and such doesn’t seem like that big of deal to many. (But don’t we spend the majority of our time obsessing about those things? Just sayin’)

Before I left to return to NYC today, I went through some old things on a bookshelf my father made and inside a book I read before I took flight when I moved, I found the letter in its original envelope. A dozen life lessons, heart breaks, changes, and tearful nights later, it had a different impact on me than it did on that cold December afternoon.

In fact, it probably had the intended effect the writer wanted. I read the typed lines, smiled and realized, I was awake. Anything that I once took for granted or anything I thought would be easy and wasn’t, most of the unrealistic notions I had about love and men, and all of the things in between – they’re all different now. I’m not cured, but I’ve matured. I didn’t need a letter to wake something up inside of me but it’s nice to know someone cared (or didn’t care) enough to go to the trouble to say such cruel things. If anything, I now see it is a testament to my own impact, my own power, and the essence I exude into the world by dancing across keys. I’m not the best writer, but unlike this author, I’m actually one who is brave enough to state my name. Even when more often than not, it isn’t always the easiest thing to do.

Without showing Mr. Possibility, I tucked the letter into my purse and decided just what to do with it. One day, when I find that private office, when I’m doing just what I want to do, when I’m happily married with a non-happily-ever-after mentality, when I live downtown and finally find comfort and cushion in my finances – I’ll frame this letter. I’ll hang it in my office where younger editors and interns can see.

So that they too, like every other dreamer in this city who also happens to have the conviction and courage to chase those desires with heightened ambition, will wake up. Because like me, they may find the life they created isn’t merely a dream, but a dreamlike reality based on your own hard work.

Seriously.

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My City, My Calling

Packing to return from North Carolina back to the big ol’ city, Mr. Possibility and I discovered two things: we’re coming back with far more than what we came with and our belt buckles are a tad bit tight. If there are any stereotypes about the South that are actually true (and I’ll admit they’re true) it’s that everything is buttery, baked, fried, and flat-out delicious.

Even so, it’s not exactly a cuisine that’s good for you. And while we were in the South, we didn’t hold back: grits and shrimp, biscuits with gravy, toast with jam and honey, Dairy Queen, Dolly’s Ice Cream, Tastee Freeze, steaks, potatoes, hot dogs, hamburgers, fatty bacon that doesn’t need oil in the pan, Lobster Mac N’ Cheese, beer, wine, Tequila (him, not me), candy, sweet tea (he didn’t hate it), strawberry shortcake, and I’m ashamed to say there is more I’m not listing out of embarsament.

So, as I sit here, writing this blog before my midnight self-inflicted deadline, bloated and amazed I was able to eat a dozen or so shrimp after attending a childhood friend’s lovely wedding as Mr. Possibility is in a food-induced coma in the next room, I find myself dreaming, yet again of New York.

Back to my Cobb Salads with non-fat dressing, happy hours with skinny-girl drinks and my favorite wine, healthy stir-fry, and avocados. Plus my near-daily runs taking in the energy of the city and feeling the weight of my chest rise and fall with each breath. Back to brunches and my friends, shopping at a discount, working at a magazine, and being able to go anywhere I want by raising my hand and smiling, not worrying about a DD or back-country roads that love license checks.

Oh sweet North Carolina, you are many wonderful things that I’ve enjoyed sharing with a wonderful dude who charmed my friends and family, but you just don’t hold a candle to my New York. You each have your own qualities and it would be nice for the North to Meet the South occasionally, but when I think about being happy and the place I’m the happiest, it isn’t here anymore.

My group of friends have changed, but I’ll never forget the bonds I’ve cultivated here, with people that no matter how much time goes by, it’s so easy to reconnect. What I want out of life has changed along with my ideas about the right age for growing up and doing adult-like things like mortgages and marriages, but I couldn’t be more ecstatic for those who are blessed to find their love at young ages. My day-to-day is continuously changing and is hardly ever the same thing, and the best thing about New York is the possibility. And no, not Mr. Possibility, but just possibilities in general.

New York seems endless with opportunities: to go, to do, to be, to achieve, to find, to cherish, to love, to live, to learn, to know, to teach, to want. Whatever it is, whoever you are, whatever you want, whatever you need, wherever you want to go – the city has it and if it doesn’t, it can find it for you. The quietness of North Carolina is lovely but I miss the rush. I miss the noise. I miss the push. I miss the bustle. I miss the intensity. I miss the excitement. I miss the thought that everything is within my reach. Everything is close-by.

And now, as I publish and sign-off, the best of all is close-by: my calling, my city, my New York. See you tomorrow – and I may even bring the Northerner back with me. Though he seems to enjoy the South “pretty darn well, y’all.” (His words, not mine)

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The North Meets the South

Surrounded by a green wonderland, mountaintops flirting with the bubbly clouds, and the sweet Southern sunshine turning my office-colored skin a simple shade of pink, I stopped rowing and I listened. In my kayak, caked in mud and refusing to remain idle even in a non-existent current, I felt the motion below and heard the songs of birds in the trees and watched the dragonflies swarm near me. A few feet above, a fish bubbled to the top of the river hoping for food, and a yard or so behind me were my parents and Mr. Possibility. I had purposefully rowed far ahead, going with the pull of the water so I could have a moment to myself. A moment for…

…quiet.

I’ve always taken the serenity of my hometown for granted – especially the old dirt roads that learned to ride a bike and then a car on. I never took time to lay in my bed and watch the Oak trees blow in the wind or notice how the lines in my mother’s face fill in the sun. Or how my dad’s skin glistens at the height of day, scarred and beautiful from hard physical labor and fire fighting. I never saw the ironic peace that comes from mud squeezed in between your toes or a trusting butterfly that lands on your arm as you move.

It’s funny then, how each time I’ve returned to the South for a visit since I traded tractors for subways, I’m told how much more calm I am. That I’m more relaxed. That I’m quieter. While I’ve transformed in many ways, I don’t really think I’ve eased up – if that was the case, I would never make in Manhattan. However, I do think I appreciate North Carolina far more than I did when I lived here. As they say, you don’t really know what you have until it leaves or you leave it.

And so when I come home, when I sit down my bags and I don’t have to think about my metro, keeping my wallet close, walking with ambition and confidence, budgeting money and carrying my god-awful heavy laundry bags a block or two, I release it all. I do relax. I do become quieter because I’m not forced to speak or to hustle-and-bustle with the best and the worse. When I’m home, I  conquer what I always hope to do from time-to-time in New York – I master the art of just being.

It’s not just in the physical sense either, but it’s a mental unwind, too. I don’t worry as much, I don’t overthink, I don’t think about my weekend plans or wonder who is doing what and if I want to go. I don’t question if I’m spending the night with Mr. P or if he’s staying with me or how we’ll survive in an un-air-conditioned room for a night.

Of course I shouldn’t worry about such things while I’m on vacation – though if we’re honest, if I was truly on vacation, would I be writing this blog? Let’s hope not. But if I could capture the sweetness of the quiet I find here and bring just a little bit (under three ounces so I don’t have to pay $25) to New York – maybe I would be more peaceful. Maybe I would let things go easier, maybe I wouldn’t hesitate in my decisions but have a warmth about them, maybe I’d actually have a tan instead of spending far too much time indoors. Maybe I’d find less reasons to be angry and frustrated and more reasons to be happy and thankful. Maybe I’d spend more time enjoying right now this minute, this afternoon, this day, and stop fretting that tomorrow will work out how I’ve planned it to.

If the fierceness of the North met the sweetness of the South – what would happen? Is that what I am? A little bit of both, with one growing exponentially and one waiting in the wings of yesterday? I’m not a Southern Belle and I’m not a Manhattanite – so who am I? And how do I keep both part of the me I’m becoming?

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An Unjustified Title

I can’t tell you how often I’m compared to Carrie Bradshaw. It’s practically an everyday occurrence now. While I’ve been home, my mom has even introduced me as her daughter, Lindsay New York, who writes just like Sex & the City. I am a fan of the show and of the first movie (second one wasn’t for my age bracket) and I do take it as a compliment, but I’d like to think I offer a more realistic view of a writer than someone who writes one column a week, lives in the UES in a fabulous one bedroom with a closet full of clothes and shoes that total up to way more than her rent.

But I digress.

This trip has given me the big ol’ dose of relaxation that I needed, some quality family time, and fun adventures with Mr. Possibility. It’s also challenged me to accept that fact that I’m in a relationship. You see, it took some encouragement and several months for me to admit to the blog that Mr. Possibility had become more than a possibility. Each time I’d see a friend who reads this blog, they’d ask: “So when are you going to say that you’re not…well, single?”

I’m going to meet everyone’s accusations and refer to S&TC, but I’m with Mr. Big on this one – I don’t like the word “boyfriend.” It just sounds way too…young. And referring to Mr. Possibility as my boyfriend just doesn’t have the ring to it that I’d like it to. And unlike Carrie, I’m not witty enough to respond cleverly and deem him my manfriend, nor do I like the sound of that either.

And this week has been full of introductions. Though it may seem like a big step to bring him home to meet the family, it was more a matter of convenience – there was a wedding I wanted to go to, I wanted him to be my date, and why would we waste money when we could stay for free? The decision was simple and the vacation has been pretty seamless…except when it’s time to claim him and really give him a title.

Why am I so timid about it? Why does it feel odd sliding through my lips? Isn’t this what I wanted? I did start writing this blog because I had obsessed about needing and wanting a boyfriend. So now that I have one, why does calling him as what he is seem so out of character? When asked by my friends, my family, and friends-of-the-family about my boyfriend, why is my initial reaction to dismiss him?

I think it boils down to some pretty huge differences that have happened over the course of this step-by-step journey to self-love. First and most importantly, I’ve done a lot of growing up, a lot of forgiving, a lot of detoxing, and a lot of re-evaluating my wants, my needs, and my fears. I’ve really learned more about myself and accepted myself for all that I am in the past nine months than I have in my 20-something years on this planet. And so now, though I have a boyfriend, though I do care about him tremendously, he doesn’t feel like the end all be all. He doesn’t make my sun rise and he doesn’t balance my orbits. He’s part of the light in my life, but not the light of my life.

And then there’s how much our story differs from relationships I’ve had before – in ways I’ve described and in ways I’d never dream of putting on these pages. We developed a friendship, we grew romance at a steady, relaxed pace. We took the time to get to know one another and we let things happen instead of forcing them. We didn’t rush, we didn’t overanalyze, and we didn’t place pressure where points could burst. We treated whatever it was that we had with care and in return, whatever we had turned into whatever it is now.

But I don’t want to scribble his name on notebooks. I don’t feel like I always have to hold his hand when we’re walking. I don’t have to tell the whole world that he’s mine for him to be mine. It’s not about being together as defined by traditional standards or by Mr. Zuckerberg’s updates that makes me comfortable with him – it’s just being around him that puts me at ease. And of course, the exclusivity factor is nice, too.

It’s not that we’re too old to be labeled as boyfriend/girlfriend, it’s just that I don’t think those terms are justified anymore. They are used so often and so haphazardly that they seem careless and insincere. I think partner is the preferred title. Because he stands by me, I stand by him. We’re friends and we’re more, but more than anything, we’re partners. We get each other, we get along, and we get what it takes to keep us going.

And introducing him as “Mr. Possibility” instead of “My boyfriend, Mr. Possibility” is better because it shows that we’re partners, that we’re together, without using the same word I’ve used since kindergarten. I mean, isn’t it time to switch it up? To grow up? To be a partner and not just another gf?

I think so.

 

 

 

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A Lesson in Unlearned Helplessness

In a sociology class I took in college, we discussed the theory of learned helplessness. Basically, it’s the notion that we mimic what we see portrayed or illustrated to us. In the context of the course, the lecture was specifically directed toward learned helplessness in women. We see damsels in distress on television, we see knight-and-shining-armor-like male characters rescue them from their sadness, and then we believe by being needy we’ll attract the guy we want.

I see this time and time again, and I’ve probably been guilty of the same “help me!” tactic in past relationships. There’s something about being upset and then being comforted by anyone – man or friend – that seems normal. Sometimes it even feels good. But the older I’ve become and the more men I’ve dated that were far more helpless than I’ll ever be at any given point in my life, the more independence I have claimed.

Well, until today when Mr. Possibility experienced his first unexpected summer storm. And unluckily for him, with my hands on the wheel.

Returning from The Biltmore, wind, rain, hail, and lighting encompassed the Carolina sky and we watched the cars on the highway slow and some pull off to wait it out. I’m not a fan of driving due to a scary accident I had in high school and torrential weather only intensifies my fear because it reminds me of how it feels to be out of control of your vehicle. Stuck in traffic on the expressway where everyone else was going at the same speed, I didn’t freak out. He kept quiet, I stayed focused and I felt comfortable enough to get us off at the right exit.

But then my nerves got the best of me. On the older, uneven country roads plagued with flood plains, the water rose to the top of my tires and with the inclination I could hydroplane, I almost burst into tears.

“Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!” I repeated continuously while gripping the steering wheel,  keeping my eyes peeled for wrecks ahead, and prepping myself for a disaster myself. Instead of consoling me or getting me out of the situation, Mr. Possibility calmly encouraged me to breathe, to keep moving, to not brake and assured me I could get through it. When we hit the next overgrown puddle, I returned to my “Oh my god” chorus and again, he let me know that this was in my hands, that I could do it and that this was all me. He even threw in a “Can’t Tigar do anything?” pep talk for good humor.

You could guess I was highly unamused.

Once we pulled over into a parking lot after a firetruck kept us from going any further because part of the road was underwater, I snapped at him: “Why didn’t you just comfort me? Why didn’t you just say ‘Baby, you’re fine. I’ll handle this, just pull over and get out’?” He reached across the car, placed his hand on my knee and asked, “Well didn’t you handle it?”

I nodded.

“And aren’t we safe because of you?”

I again nodded.

“You didn’t need me to comfort you. You didn’t need me to make you get out and let me drive. You could do it just fine on your own and you did.”

It took me a while to cool down, still convinced he should have just rescued me from the awful storm so I could crawl into the passengers side, curl up and hide my face from the ugliness outside. But once we pulled into the driveway and I finally exhaled an hour later, I realized he was right. I didn’t actually need him. If he had not been in the car, I would have been fine – I would have just said the same things to myself that he said to me.

So why did I suddenly feel helpless? Is it because we’re conditioned to give up and surrender when a man is in our presence? If a guy is by our side, do we throw away any gumption we had without them? Or is it just easier to tell someone else to do something, to get through the nitty-gritty instead of doing it ourselves? Instead of correcting what’s wrong with us or embracing our fears with courage?

A few hours later when I needed something out of our rental car (that luckily wasn’t damaged from the hail), I started to ask him to run outside and get it because it was still raining. As the words slipped out of my mouth and he asked where the keys were, I quickly excused him from the duty. Will I melt in water? No.

And I don’t really need Mr. Possibility – or any man that’s a possibility. I just kinda of want him – maybe that’s partly because he reminds me that helplessness isn’t part of who I am. And that if you can learn it, you can unlearn it, too.