Tag Archives: My Life

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The History of Vulnerability

Collectively and statistically, the number one fear is public speaking. Regardless if it is a crowd of strangers or a group of those who know us our very best, putting ourselves on display gives us the heebie-jeeibes.

While I personally don’t have that anxiety – I do have one I would like to argue is even more difficult to overcome, and that is the fear of vulnerability.

Mr. Google defines “vulnerable” as “exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally.” So while it isn’t exactly being on a stage giving a motivational speech or a wedding toast, allowing yourself to be vulnerable exposes something so precious we have to deeply inhale just to admit it: our hearts.

I thought incredibly long and hard before publishing yesterday’s post about Mr. Possibility. He has been a part of my life for a while now, but by keeping the intimacy we share away from this space – I was protecting myself. Somehow, if I didn’t type it out or read it with my own two eyes – I wasn’t actually allowing myself to fall for someone or be open to the hope of love.  But then, there it was, in black-and-white (and pink), before not only the World Wide Web, my collection of friends and family members, Mr. Possibility himself – but also, it was glaring back at me.

I read and re-read the post over and over again like the true obsessive person I tend to be (hence the blog). I questioned the words I used, wondered if I gave too much or too little, if I said the right things or if I was being clear enough – but still romantically vague. I lingered on my own sentences, analyzed my own feelings, and even though I was reassured from friends, fellow editors, the man the blog was about, and readers – something in me still felt uneasy. And it was a feeling that rooted so deeply, I could feel my stomach in knots and my heart on fire nearly the entire day.

I took me until close to 6 p.m., after I glanced over the post for about the 20th time to realize that it wasn’t actually the article that bothered me. It wasn’t what I was saying or how I said it. It wasn’t about the fact that I introduced Mr. Possibility to my journey. It wasn’t that something changed between him and I, in the tone and purpose of the path I’m taking, or in the goals I’ve made for myself.

The only part of my life that did a 360 was that instead of being Ms. Single (which I still am, for the record) – in my eyes, I became Ms. Vulnerable. Instead of keeping my feelings and my current romantic endeavor under wraps and non-serious, I revealed that it does have merit. It is something with meaning. I am feeling these feelings, I am accepting the risks that come with kisses, hugs, and making love – not to mention allowing someone to know me for who I am, no questions asked or excuses made.

And let’s be real honest- I’m terrified.

Anytime someone is a possibility or you feel those inevitable butterflies bounce around crazily in your stomach – you know that the time will come when you have to put all your cards on the table. That to be able to fall in love or to start a relationship or as I prefer currently, just keep experiencing this amazing companionship – I have to be vulnerable. I have to open up my heart – even if it is just a little bit. Because no true sincerity or passion or honest-to-goodness love (in any form) – is without liability.

When we walk down a road, holding a new person’s hand, admiring a new smile, and feeling new feelings – there is something faimiliar about it. Not because we’re on round two in a relationship, but because most of us, especially as 20-somethings, have been in love before. We’ve felt those things. We’ve crawled out on that limb, risking our bodies, our hearts, our sanity – to take a chance and give a piece of ourselves to another person.

And then, we’ve been burned. Disappointed. Hurt. Shattered, even. Completely led on. Misread signals, given mixed signals. Fallen in and out of love. Been amazed by the idea of someone, but not who they actually were. We’ve had someone pick another girl over us.

So, even though the man is new, the feelings are distinct – we know what’s ahead of us because we’ve been there already. And each time we become a little vulnerable, only to feel that sting of pain a tad bit deeper and harsher – we’re more hesitant to agree to try it again. If the Master of Time makes us go through another heartbreak, another disappointment, another man who doesn’t live up to what we pray he will – then we know the exact actions that’ll follow the demise. We know even the messiest parts of ourselves, the ones that not even our best girlfriends or family know about. We know the girl who is going through a heartbreak: she’s crying, sobbing, snotting, screaming into pillows, eating pasta that’s swimming in pure butter and salt, watching a ridiculous romantic comedy that’ll give her an excuse for the detriment she’s entertaining. We know that girl, we’ve been that girl.

So that’s why, when a tingle in our soul begs us to be a little vulnerable, we have to catch our breath. Because as we gaze up at this person, who maybe has shown no signs of departure or deceit – we are silently screaming in our heads: “Okay! I like you! I think this could be something, but please, my darling, don’t go break my heart. Don’t let it happen again.”

But maybe, it is okay if history does decide to repeat itself?

As I was sitting at my desk, realizing it was vulnerability that was getting to me, I thought about my past and the hurt I’ve endured. I saw images and flashbacks to those moments where I thought I would never feel the way I did about that guy. I thought I would never meet anyone more perfect for me. I thought that I was going to be in a constant state of lonely, of depressed, and pathetic – for any forseeable future. I thought I would never get up off that floor, wash my terribly sad puffy face, and move forward.

But guess what? I did.

So, if history does decide to turn the tides against me with Mr. Possibility – won’t I just endure again? Won’t I just pick up the pieces, wherever and no matter how hard they shatter, put on my super high heels, and push towards tomorrow? Like I always have?  By being vulnerable, I’ve allowed myself to feel with my whole heart. To look past the fear, look past the anxiety that comes with any new adventure – be it love or just moving to a new city. And wouldn’t I much rather feel everything – the bliss, the temptation, the passion, and even the frustration – then to not feel anything at all?

My history with vulnerability has given me a couple of scars and a ton of tears – but it has also allowed me to feel those feelings that we all crave to feel and to know that if those two arms wrapped around me, pull away – I know I can stand without their support.

So with that realization, with my vulnerability naked and open before the whole world (including me) to see – I made a decision to just go. To feel. To be. To hope. To dream. To just go with it – wherever it may end up. And though I’ll lock my door each and every night, sometimes, I may possibly give the key away to those who I think deserve an entrance. To those who may have the power to take the lock off completely.

But just so we’re clear – I always have a spare.

 

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The Love That Could Be: Mr. Possibility

So, without further ado, let me reveal that someone has walked into my life. Or rather, I stumbled into his.

Being the short gal with a love for high heels that I am, I was walking down the aisle of a bus from the airport back into the city when the bus driver so rudely took off before I had a chance to sit down. I went plummeting towards the ground, dropped my bag, but managed to catch myself – and when I looked up, I locked eyes with a blue-eyed beauty to my right.

However, he seemed rather uninterested or intrigued by the clumsy gal in six-inch Jessica Simpson heels who almost stumbled to her death. Instead, his friend, to my left asked if I was okay, and I simply nodded and took a seat in front of blue eyes. Then, apparently, is when he become more inclined to chat up a conversation. “Hey, it’s alright that you fell. It is your first time in New York but you’ll get used to the public transportation,”he  assured me.

I tilted my head, peered over the seat and humbly admitted, “Well, actually, I live here.” To which he replied, “Oh yeah, well then that’s embarrassing.” From there we discovered we both lived on the West Side, had similar backgrounds, and he revealed he had a weakness for smart, witty women. I don’t blame him.

Once we reached Grand Central, we took the same train to our respective homes and he asked for my card. I gladly gave it to him and to my incredible surprise – he emailed me by 10 a.m. the next day. What he wrote was simple and we started emailing back and forth for a while, until he grew tired of the 70-deep email threads on Gmail, and we started Gchatting. From there, we learned more and more about one another, and eventually, we decided to have a real conversation in person, and I vowed not to stumble. (Though, I have tripped quite a lot in the time that’s passed).

And since that day, there has been an easy, forgiving, sincere, honest, and healthy growth of intimacy and trust just between us. And not just in a “relationship” sense, but we’ve both transformed our own lives and mentalities as we’ve gotten to know each other. In a time of change, progress, and healing – he’s been a constant.

He is a New York native (I keep meeting those), works in the business sector at an office with a breathtaking view (and close to my job), enjoys the simple things as well as the extravagant ones, and he hopes to create a family that’s as successful as his career has been. Like me, he’s a saver, and we both share the same affinity for food that is absolutely awful for us. He’s not a runner, he isn’t dark haired and eyed like most of my past flames, and he doesn’t quite fit into my “checklist” – but he’s shown me a new side of myself, a new way of looking at partnership, and most importantly – I haven’t obsessed about him. I don’t freak out, I don’t analyze minutes between texts, I don’t worry (much) about him disappearing. I don’t stalk his Facebook and I think I’ve only Googled him once or twice. I don’t do any of the things I once did when I started liking a man – and yet, I like this one.

At the point when I met him, I had unfolded a new chapter in my life. I had turned the page on this blog and climbed over many mountains in this journey. My focus could not have been further away from meeting a man and especially someone who has the opportunity to capture my heart, and ironically enough, Mr. Possibility is right there waiting in the bay of defining himself, too.

He’s a little older than me, been around the block of love and the block of work more times than I have, and he’s reached a crossroads where he knows he is capable of so much more and he’s ready to go after it. If only, he knew exactly what it was that he wanted (I think maybe I’ll help him figure that out).  And for me, I’m at the start of what I hope will be a promising tenure as a writer, new to the city he’s known his whole life, and challenging myself to be secure, independent, and happy, with or without a man.

So neither of us, are really, ready for a relationship.

And while I’ve met men in the past who were not attainable (remember Mr. Unavailable?), this is the first time that I’ve been completely honest not only with a man about where I’m coming from and what I want, but it is the inaugural time where I’ve also been honest with myself. I told him from the get-go that my first priority is this journey, is this process I’m going through, and that nothing, would stand in my way. His response? Complete encouragement and support of the blog. In return, I guide him through his own grievances, listen when he needs to let it all out, and lift him up when he gets stuck in a rut.

That said, I’m sure the question remains: what am I doing with Mr. Possibility and what is he doing with me?

We’re enjoying the companionship and the comfort of one another. There are no expectations, there is no pressure, no reason to hurry or to rush. No price to pay or description to meet or title to place or exclusivity to insist upon. It is simply just riding the tide, exploring the waves of feelings, and not purposefully going towards the shore. He really is, for all intents and purposes, a peaceful, easy feeling in my life. Being around him, wrapped up in him, or smelling his smell is not hard and not too scary.

Because, I with my blog, and he with his past, have no inclination of how long this union will last. Or where it will go. Or how we will both feel. But for once, I’m okay with not having any idea. Because even if he was to leave or it were to fall apart or he or I were tempted by the fruit of another – I would be hurt, but I know I would survive. I also have this unyielding feeling that regardless of what happens, I’ve made a friend for life.

And the difference between this man and all of the men I’ve been with in the past, is that even if there was not romantic chemistry, or even if we didn’t connect on a level I have never felt with someone before, or if there wasn’t all of things that make for a great relationship – I would still choose him as my friend. He would be someone who I would want to hang out with, who I would want to set up with my friends, who I would trust with my secrets, and want to sit next to eating popcorn and watching a movie. I guess, it never really occurred to me how important it is to not just be smitten with a love interest, but also, just simply, to like them.

Sometimes, the like is more powerful than the love. Even when love is a possibility.

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Avoiding That Girl

We all know those girls.

You know, the ones who define themselves by the men they are dating or in a relationship or sleeping with. Every single word out of their mouth or text message they type is about the Mr of the week, of the month, of the year. They are the girls who we never know as single women and wouldn’t classify as independent of self–sufficient. When we make plans to hang out with them or grab a drink or schedule a phone date, we know the majority of the conversation will be geared towards their love interest. Even worse, we also anticipate the dreaded question of “Well, are you seeing anyone yet? Geez, you’re always single, girl!”

These women are part of our core group of friends and though they may irritate us, we also love them and respect them for who they are and how they function. We know how to handle them, how to cut them off, and how to smile and nod while effectively tuning them out.

How do we master the art of dealing with such women in question? Probably through experience – because  no matter how hard we try or how much we say “we’ll never be like that”  or consciously fight against it – inevitably, at some point in our lives – we become that girl. Not perpetually and not fitting every distinctive quality, but some of our actions become similar to the exact woman we don’t really want to be.

Somehow, when we first start dating a guy or feel that click or ignite that spark – something inside of us becomes obsessed. We analyze every little thing he does. We linger on his every word. We think so far into the future that we’ve decided we’ll be the lady who would love him even if he starts to bald. We imagine how the next holiday would be with him. We save text messages, voicemails, and emails, and even if we’re not, we play hard to get in an effort to keep him around.

And of course, as we’re dragging ourselves through the dating trenches – we have to have a team of ladies to confide in. Even if they’ve never been in a related situation, we want to know their opinion. Even if they hate the guy we’re seeing, we hope to entice them to change their mind. Even if they are so fed up with us chatting it up about Mr. Dude – we keep going and going.

I never thought I would be that girl and it wasn’t really until Mr. Idea that I realized that when I like a man, he becomes the subject of most of my conversations. When he is infiltrating my heart, he also becomes a toxin in mind, making it impossible for me to come up with anything of substance other than what little foundation I’ve found with him. When I try to think of something interesting to say or a new topic – I usually try to relate a dating story of some sort into the mix. For whatever reason, people are entertained not only by love, but by the trials and the disasters that get us one step closer to “I do.” Or at least we’d like to think so, right?

Ever since I started this blog and this journey, I’ve found myself purposely attempting not to talk about men as much. When people ask who I’m dating or what I’m up to or how my life is playing out – I steer clear of the “well I went on this really terrible/amazing/ridiculous date” conversation, and dive more into non-love, non-romantic topics. However, I still have found myself detailing the newfound friendship with Mr. Unavailable, and recently, the magic that could be with Mr. Possibility (you’ll meet him soon, promise!).

But, the major difference between how I use to obsess about men and how I handle it now, is that while I may talk about someone who intrigues me, I also know when to cut myself off. When I’m knee-deep into attempting to rationalize my feelings or my actions or the kiss I shared, I’ve learned to put a stop to the polluting thoughts and make myself go down a different conversation path. And when my friends, who are ever-so supporting in all I do, ask me about Mr. Possibility or Mr. Unavailable, I will respond with an adequate answer, but I’m careful to put all chatter to bed before I let it run away from me.

And somehow, by switching gears and ensuring I don’t become that girl who I don’t want to be – I’ve found more peace in love. Because not saying it out loud or listing every action or reaction or touch or fear, makes it seem not as intense. And without that intensity, there is not that pressure, and I’m allowed to just experience dating. I don’t have to report back to my friends mid-date if it isn’t going well and if I get nervous about something, I console myself instead of including four of my closest gals. It’s not that I’m keeping them in the dark, it’s just that not everything needs to be a discussion in the light. Sometimes, men and moments are meant to be intimate.

That intimacy, after all, sure does feel pretty darn good without all the headaches of obsession.

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When You Stop Looking

I once read somewhere that the reason men are constantly portrayed in movies and in books as observers is because women are so alluring to watch.

Some study completed some place by some group determined that men are captivated by women and more keen to watch their movements because yes, they are visual creatures, but also because women are constantly touching themselves. And no, I don’t mean like that (although, I’m sure the men may imagine that scenario a time or two), but us ladies are always doing something to attract the wondering eye of a guy.

We flip and run our fingers through our hair. We lick our lips. We straighten our clothes. We pick lent off our coats. We re-situate our intimate wear. We cross and uncross our legs. We apply gloss or balm. We make sure our skirt isn’t riding up. We zip up our boots. We take our feet in and out of our heels when they start to hurt. We tuck a single strand behind our ear.

I’m sure men do some of the same things, but the women just don’t seem to notice. I’d like to accredit it to the fact that we’re too busy with our own movements to get swept away by watching another person – and really, if we’re honest, men aren’t as pretty to gaze after.

I hadn’t really witnessed or believed this finding until a few days ago, as I was riding the train down to my job. I always feel my most beautiful in the mornings (or after a nice run or making incredible love) – so when I stomp my way to the subway at 7:15 each day, I feel powerful and stunning. As usual, there was no seat available on the downtrain train, so I was forced to stand. I removed my iPod (currently obsessed with “Firework” by Katy Perry, for the record), placed one hand on the rail, and started reading the paper in the other.

I become so engrossed with an article that I lost track of time and once I looked up to see I was one-stop away from my destination, I had to scurry to put up everything and prepare for the walk. As I placed my paper in my bag and went to put my buds back in my ears, I glanced up and saw four different men watching me. And not just the creepy dudes who you pray will stop gawking at you because you get uncomfortable– but men who were at least moderately attractive, within ten years of my age, and dressed nicely.

Embarrassed that I was being studied and nervously wondering if I had something on me, I cautiously looked down and attempted to hide the tiny grin that was making its way across my face. As soon as the train came to a stop, I rushed out and prayed my cheeks weren’t as red as the sweater dress I was sporting. I still felt incredibly flattered and taken aback as I walked the six blistering blocks to my job (damn you, New York winter, damn you!) and it made me think about this idea behind looking.

We’re told, as the members of the Single Women Army of the World, that when we stop looking – we will find love. When we are completely free of any obsession, any depression, any insecurity, and finally, beautifully, easily, just simpily happy with ourselves, we’ll find that man that we’ve dreamt of. Because if we’re not looking, if we’re not wondering or dreaming or hoping – he will magically appear out of the framework and become some surprising element in our lives. When we tell the story of how we met, apparently, we’ll say: “I wasn’t even looking for a boyfriend and here came Mr. Right, I didn’t even know what hit me!”

Well, maybe as women, we don’t gawk on the 1 train, but are we constantly emotionally searching? In the eyes of a stranger behind his classy Whiskey or Scotch? Or the man with the blue eyes who walks his dog at the same time each night that we return from the gym? Or what about the guy who gets his bagel from the same vendor, and we constantly cross paths as I walk back from Dunkin’ Donuts?

In the quest to find true love and our lifetime partner, do we ever really take off the binoculars and rest? Is there ever a moment when a glance doesn’t seem like a possibility or the sight of a reoccurring face that we start to recognize, become a sign of fate? Is it a reasonable request to call off the search team, raise our red flag of defeat (or just of pausing), and just let go of desiring happily ever after we meet our husbands?

Ask me three months ago and I would have easily debated this idea – but now, after reaching step 4 (and feeling close to step 5) and becoming more and more comfortable in my own two high-heeled feet – I really have stopped looking. I don’t lust after each attractive man who crosses my path. My future doesn’t reveal itself in the eyes of a stranger as he passes me, and if some dude works up the courage to hit on me, I don’t match my name with his last, and I certainly don’t feel rejected if he doesn’t pick up my bar tab.

Because instead of looking for a knight-in-shining-armor who will “rescue” me from my single life – I’m embracing it. And frankly, I’m starting to quite dig it. And instead of searching and pleading and enticing a man – I’m challenging myself to find who I am. Discover what it is that I need, that I want, that I deserve, what I’m capable of achieving. To believe without hesitation or reservation that anything and everything I desire will be mine, if I just believe in a simple and reassuring thing – myself.

So even though four men whom I will never see again (and I’m sure were amused by my embarrassment) were watching me, possibily undressing me with their eyes, or wondering what it would be like to share a dinner or a bed with me – my thoughts were far away from dreaming of a life with them. Instead, I was focused on going to my job, listening to my song, reading an article that interested me – and had I not of needed to exit the train – I would have never noticed them…noticing me.

Maybe when they, whoever “they” represents anyways, say the best things come to those who are not looking, really mean that the most amazing experiences are the result of not necessarily ceasing looking – but rather, gazing inwards. More about falling in love with yourself instead of an image you want to create in your mind or a box on a checklist you want to complete.

Not looking doesn’t mean you close your heart or close your eyes, it just means your priorities change. Instead of becoming a “we” the utmost goal to meet – loving the “me” you are  becomes much more important. And if we’re honest, reaching self-love is an obstacle that’ll bring more happiness, more joy, and more peace than any man could ever deliver. No matter how long or how lovingly he looked our way.

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In My Hands

Because temperatures in the city are extremely low, winds are terribly unforgiving, and my lips are dangerously getting close to being chapped – I have felt like a big round fluff of layers for the last couple of days. Sitting on the train yesterday, I started to unwrap myself, from my jacket to my scarf and my muffs, all the way to my gloves. As I pulled off my black leather best friends, I started gazing at my hands.

Now, I’ve always been told I have my mother’s hands and it is true. If you put our hands next to one another, pull her 50-year-old skin back a bit, they look identical. It makes buying her jewelry insanely easy and quite entertaining, since I get to try it all on. Nevertheless, at that moment, I started thinking about my hands and all of their many purposes.

I looked at the scars – one from a car accident that changed my life and my perspective on the human spirit (forever making me believe in angels and a philanthropic mind), another from a little too intense tickle fight with Mr. Idea, and a final one from getting too close to a withering candle. Unless I pointed them out, these scars are not noticeable, but to me, they represent the experiences that have taught me lessons and a very special man I’ve loved. These same hands have held a tennis racquet for years, danced across piano keys since I was seven years old, and held on tight to monkey bars. They’ve made their home on a keyboard or around a pen, stringing together words to release stress or inspire masses.

They’ve shaken hands with editors from all sorts of magazines, strangers I was introduced to only once and never laid eyes on again, and dozens of businessmen who I was instructed to network with. They’ve been kissed by my father my entire life and a handful of men who were into that romantic-type of thing. They’ve been rejected when extended for a dance, and they’ve denied certain pairs that reached out to them.

They’ve been decorated in every shade of nail polish, manicured to-the-nines, and also ridiculously filthy. They’ve kneaded dough, caught baby cousins as they were falling, and been lathered, rinsed, and lotioned countless times. They’ve joined with my best friend as we happily and drunkingly skipped down streets, safe in each other’s grip. And they’ve held her up as strong as they could in the most devastating moment of her life as she stood before everyone who came to pay their respect to her late mother.

They’ve intertwined with men starting on the first date, only to unlock at the final goodbye. They’ve been grabbed in the middle of night and placed on a hairy chest. They’ve traced the outline of a face that I never wanted to stop looking at. They’ve brushed the lips of a mouth that seemed too perfect and too honest to ever say anything evil or misleading. They’ve reached, they’ve pulled, they’ve grabbed. They’ve gripped the back of a lover in a moment of urgency and slipped away only moments later.

They’ve been held and tested, declared sacred, and they’ve challenged sincerity. They’ve felt that flutter of hope the first time a possible-someone wanted to hold them, and they’ve wiped away the sadness when trust became destroyed. They’ve cleaned messes and created them, been swollen in the mornings, and tired from typing at night.

I would say with my own two hands, I can do just about anything. And they’ve already been through quite some touching, quite some feeling, quite some healing. But at the end of all of that doing and going, leaving and staying, they’ve remained pretty much the same. They have new scars, veins that push up more than others, and of course, they will attract some wrinkles in the years to come -but they are still in tact.

They say that everything is in our hands – in our power – we have the ability to make anything happen in our own will. They say we are the masters of our fates, the captains of our own souls, and all that is, all that was, and all that will be is a result of our own doing. Our choices in partners, in dances, in cooking, in moving, in shaking – are all up to us.

And the beautiful thing about it is, though our hands won’t keep us from feeling that lovey-dovey optimism – they will break our demise if we start to crash. They will be dependable when we need them to fix something and soothing when there is no one there to run their fingers through our hair.

But most importantly, because they belong to us, because we make the choices, and we guide our lives in and out of handshakes, hand holding, and handymans – we get to decide when we wash them clean of whatever it is we please.