Tag Archives: New York City

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Can’t Have My New York

After brunch at 40 Carrots, M, A and I browsed the racks at Bloommies full of clothes  we can’t afford (but like to pretend we can), and chatted vigorously despite our hangovers. Deciding it was about time to get snow boots, we took a load off to try on Hunters, that unfortunately only came in one size and one color — neither of which suited any of our needs.

As M tried on a boot, I received a text message from Mr. P that felt like it made my heart stop.

Unable to really comprehend or to make sense of anything, I started gathering my things and wrapped my scarf loosely around my neck, when A looked up and noticed my panic. “What’s wrong?” she asked. I showed her the text message and said, “I have to get out of here.” M quickly stepped out of the temporary footwear and I pushed through Bloommies like I was someone important, completely careless to who I ran into. I felt like I was losing my breath and I needed to get to fresh air and out of a store that while I love it, doesn’t exactly give a warm and fuzzy feeling.

When we reached the cool outside, I exhaled for the first time and felt the tears splash down my cheeks, uncontrollably. I didn’t care who on Lexington Avenue gawked at me, the pain hurt so deeply that I knew trying to conceal it would only sting worse. A gave me her D&G sunglasses to hide the mascara residue and M quickly filled our conversation with laughter and always-insightful perspective. Walking to the subway on the way home, where we would all veg on pumpkin cheesecake and movies that have nothing to do with romance, I tried my best to not look around at everything we passed.

The Plaza, Central Park after the first snow of the season. Barney’s, Columbus Circle, the horse-and-buggies that are so old-fashioned and cliché that they’re beautiful. Tiffany’s. The last surviving multi-colored leaves and the feeling in the air that the holidays are near — all of these things make New York what it is at this time of the year. And for me, they remind me of all of the hope I used to feel toward Mr. P. Of when it seemed like he would actually change from Mr. Unavailable to a true possibility. I’m taken back to strolling while holding hands, to admiring his rosy cheeks that I could feel myself falling for, to how I thought New York was magical because it was New York, but also because I thought I was falling in love.

And you know, I did. I did have that first New York romance that’s every single bit complicated as it is dysfunctional. I stayed longer than I should have, I wore those rose-colored glasses when I would have been smarter to invest in a good pair of D&G’s that apparently, can conceal most anything from passerbys. I was loyal and true, and I let myself believe that someone who can’t love himself could ever love me in the way I deserve. I gave more than I had and when it wasn’t enough, I convinced myself that leaving would surely invoke passion in someone who is quite passionless.

There is no harm in believing, but there is harm in deceiving yourself. And I became the master of tricking myself to see a vision of Mr. P that doesn’t exist — so much that I allowed myself to go back to the scene of the crime, only to be disappointed, again. I played the part of a fool as brilliantly as a fool can be played, and in the end, I only found myself with swollen eyes, bundled up in a winter jacket next to the two best girls in Manhattan, feeling disposable, degraded and wondering how in the world I will be able to love someone with all of my heart ever again.

But then I reminded myself — sometimes you put those big girl panties on and deal, and sometimes you stupidly take them off to make more mistakes. Sometimes you make the wrong decision despite knowing that eventually you’ll just cry about it later. Sometimes you see the goodness in people to the point of self-destruction. Sometimes you love someone blindly, hoping that with love will come change, forgetting that it’s really only changing your outlook and standards that will bring you love. Sometimes you can do all of the right things, say the right words, be the right kind of person, love the rightful, selfless way — and still, the person you give so much to, will not give you the same in return. Being a compassionate and kind-hearted person will get you very far, but only if you’re surrounded by people who are the same.

Looking at me as I stared off into the anonymity of the MTA, M said, “You can’t let him ruin Bloommies for you, though!” A excitedly nodded in agreement and I smiled. She’s right — he can’t ruin Bloommies for me. Or Barney’s or Rockfeller Center. Not even Bryant Park where we had our first date, or Williamsburg where he lived in a tiny little room. He can’t ruin the splendor of Christmastime in New York or the magic I feel in my heart on these streets. He can’t ruin Central Park or Tiffany’s or put a dent in that magnetic skyline that’s always been destined to be my backyard.

He can take a lot of things from me and he has. And I have let him. My patience, my give-a-damn, my dignity, my pride and the pieces of my heart that were too warm and sincere for him to ever deserve. He can make me cry outside of Bloommies, on my birthday, in a sushi restaurant I’ll never go to again, in my hometown with my parents in the next room, at a bar in meatpacking and one in the Lower East Side.

But he can’t have my New York or define my happiness here. As a native, he’ll never understand it’s shine, and as a self-centered careless 30-something bachelor, he’ll never be able to appreciate my shine for all that it is.

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Making a Commitment to Me

It’s a lot easier to see a relationship clearly once you’re not in it anymore. That’s the way it is with anything — sometimes your friends understand you in ways you can’t, your family accepts you, even when perhaps, they shouldn’t, and no matter what you do right or wrong, those who love you, see you through your moments of crazy and of clarity. Even if the first is more common than the latter.

The period following a breakup is like that too: it partly makes you feel like you’re losing your mind and partly makes you feel like you’re finally getting your mind back. In this particular case, it feels like I’m getting my life back.

I was walking back from the gym on Wednesday evening after a very difficult workout, chatting with my friend L and my mom, and I remembered what it felt like before Mr. Possibility. When every decision I made was based on what I wanted and what I needed, not on what I thought would make him happy. I remembered what it felt like to run nearly every single day a week and the instant confidence boost I feel every time I go. I remembered what it was like to reconnect with friends and to make plans for the entire weekend that revolve around nothing else but a good time and giggles. I remembered what if was like to wake up when I wanted to, to not share my bed or my heart, and to just be…me.

I didn’t see how the relationship was affecting me when I was in it — those rare nights where everything felt right with Mr. P always seemed to outshine the rest of the days when everything was completely off. I didn’t realize how I pushed my friends aside or how I put my feelings and my desires on hold in an effort to be what he desired. I knew, but didn’t fully comprehend how little time I took to actually take care of myself or how much I really missed running, even with the aches and pains it brings me. Come to find out, the aches and pains a man who isn’t right gives you are actually quite more difficult to get over, and require a different kind of stretching.

When I returned to my apartment, I noticed how much cleaner I’ve kept my room, how it finally looks like someone lives here, instead of someone who just passed by because she’s in such a rush to get to her boyfriend’s apartment. I looked around at the space that no longer houses anything that really reminds me of Mr. P, and with a glass of wine and a delectable dinner I cooked just for me, I retreated to the living room to enjoy the company of myself. My roommates gradually joined and chatted, and even though I’ve lived here for five months, it was one of the first times I really connected to them.

I would never say I regret anything that happened with Mr. P or that my time with him was time wasted. I value what he taught me (even if I’m still trying to figure that out) and a part of me will always love him. But I couldn’t see how unhappy I really was until I had the strength to leave and rediscover the happiness I had forgotten about. The happiness that comes from just living my life, doing those things I love to do, and spending time with those I love. Regardless of the words I wrote on this blog or the advice I gave, when all was said and done, I was the girl who still let a man monopolize her life. I put him before myself and before my friends, and in the end, I’m not only rebuilding my mojo, but the bridges I let crumble.

For the first time ever, I think — I really don’t want a relationship. In the hysteria of our ending when I was upset and angry, I immaturely screamed at him: “Well you cured me, Mr. P! I don’t want anything to do with love!” Of course one day, I’m sure I will — but I don’t really long for companionship. I don’t envy the couples I see. I’ll go out on dates, but I’m not begging or working for them. I’m quite content on my own and I really don’t feel like I need a man to complete my life — it already feels complete.

I’m healing and I’m learning more about myself each and every single day. And until I get to the point where I know that I won’t lose myself in another relationship or in the arms of some guy, I really have no desire to be committed. Instead, I’m making a commitment to myself, one that involves running again, spending more time with my friends, doing things that I’ve put on hold, taking time to rest, working harder than I have before, traveling and falling in love with this city…

…as I try to fall in love with myself again, too.

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Taking the Higher Road

After my first post break-up kiss with a near stranger, I scurried home close to 1 a.m. on Saturday night, prepared to sleep in super late to catch up on lost shut-eye. You can guess my blighted hope when I got up, finally, after an hour or so of tossing and turning, around 8 a.m. Tired of wrestling with my thoughts and sheets, I decided to be productive and clean everything in my apartment I could reach.

After scrubbing the bathroom nearly from top to bottom, vacuuming my room with a nifty sucker for hardwood floors (who knew?), I showered in a hurry, dressed in a rush and headed out the door to meet R and M for brunch at one of our favorite places. Deciding the subway was too cramped and the weather was too nice to pass up, I decided to walk nearly 30 blocks in my fall wedges. But even the bright blue sky and cotton-like fresh air couldn’t lift me high enough to rise above the anger boiling inside of me.

I’ve tried – I really have. I’ve made lists of things I have to be happy about, I’ve declared my newly adopted Zen attitude toward my life to anyone who will listen. I’ve refrained from contacting Mr. P, I’ve tried to take a higher road instead of saying what it is I really feel. But all these efforts have kept me from…well, saying what I feel. Or really experiencing the motions, the stages, the terrible aftermath of a love that turned into a not-so-beautiful disaster (sorry, Kelly).

I didn’t fool my friends though. After a few sangrias and some bra shopping at Vickie’s, R settled into my apartment to escape an unexpected downpour. Proudly playing some empowering music, R sweetly looked at me and asked: “Aren’t you sad though, Linds? Aren’t you disappointed? It’s okay to cry about it. You don’t have to be so strong. We’ll all understand.” Then today, after book club with A, M and K, M asked about how I was dealing on the train back home.

My face flushed and I quickly gave a short speech that after second thought, sounded rather rehearsed and scripted: “There are good days and bad days, times where I’m alright and times where I’m not. But I’m fine, really.” She turned her head sideways and questioned me (she’s good at that): “But I think you’re sad because you think you should be, and then you’re ‘Zen’ because you think should be. The only thing you should be is how you feel – whatever that is.” Again, I brushed off her words as carelessly as I did R’s and changed the subject to hiring interns.

The truth is I don’t know how I feel. R’s right, I’m disappointed and M’s right too, I try to be mature and collected, not let it affect me too much, but that isn’t always what I personally express in privacy. Part of it is my own pride – I don’t want to let a heartache get under my skin because I envision Mr. P as actually fine and coping easier than I am. I see him finally having the freedom he seemed to so badly desire while we were together, when he would eye other women, and that’s what I imagine him doing just so: picking up chicks for the sake of picking up women, without any regard to how his heart feels. That is, if his heart is suffering at all in comparison to mine.

But it’s not a competition. I shouldn’t compare breaking up notes – especially when I can’t see his, considering we aren’t speaking. Rationally, I realize my ridiculousness, and I think that’s partly my problem: I understand that eventually I’ll feel less disposable and more dignified. I know that I’ll validate my own self-worth instead of wondering when he’s going to send the “I’m so sorry” email or I’ll run into him the same way I ran into Mr. Fire and he told me I was the one who got away. I know I’ll be moved on and happy, settled into my life – single or taken – and Mr. P will finally realize what he had, when at some point, he had me.

Then again – maybe he won’t. Our ending wasn’t what I expected, and there is no guarantee of the days, the months, the years to come. Relationships don’t always end with a pat on the back, a wish of good-luck and fortune and then placed on the shelf, categorized alphabetically. Two people don’t always feel the same way about one another, some feel different levels of love than most, and some people, sadly, don’t love themselves enough to ever give someone else the love he/she deserves. It’s a sad and awful truth, but one that so many lie to themselves about to be comforted. There may be another Lindsay to step into Mr. P’s life and be that same saving grace I was for nearly a year – but he may never value the place I held in a way that I think pays tribute to what we had. I can’t match our perceptions of the relationship we shared, and I shouldn’t need him to apologize to validate what I felt. Or to make the relationship, the love, seem as real in his eyes as it did in mine.

But I feel like I do. I want him to want me even though I don’t want him, just to feel wanted. That’s about as honest as I can put it into words. I could break out into song singing “Cry” by Faith Hill – but I do refuse to go that backwards into my Southern roots. At least for the time being, anyway.

Maybe it gets more difficult to suffer the older we get, or maybe we just choose to suffer in privacy. Maybe we still have those emotional outbursts that are unfounded and out of control, but we scream into our pillows instead of into the phone. Maybe instead of sending hate e-mail to exes, we send it to our friends so it’s read, but safe in their inbox where it can’t come back to hurt us again. Maybe we still eat far more calories than we burn, but it’s done carefully by nibbling at a single cookie at book club or accepting an offer of M&M’s at work from a co-worker. Maybe we still feel all those painful and tiring stages of releasing someone who once felt vital in the intricate design of our existence – but we don’t share them because it feels too personal to display such grief. Maybe we still harbor resentment and bitterness, but we know better than to let it get the best of us if we ever want to rise above.

But maybe we don’t really rise above much in terms of love. Maybe instead, that’s just called growing up and moving on because we realize there are so many more important things in life than the end of a relationship that was never meant to be, anyway.

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Love Won’t Give Up on Me

As I smiled over cheap red wine and city lights, I chatted with a rather short endearing business man, and thought about Mr. Possibility.

We’re not speaking and I don’t really care to talk to him at this time – but he had just left me a voicemail and I heard his words lingering in my mind. Breaking up is tough, but really, I don’t think it’s as life-altering as Adele often makes it sound (though I do love the gal). I don’t find myself mourning the relationship as much as I miss the friendship. After an extended time, partners are of course lovers, but they also become our very best friend. They are the person you share the most intimate details of your life and your body with. Everything and everyone else hears the same stories, but they almost seem to have more value when you share it with someone you love. Part of the beauty – and the appeal – of a relationship is that you can come as you are, fall apart as you wish, and you still have someone to nestle into your neck at the end of the night.

But cuddling isn’t a reason to stay with someone, especially if to be spooned, you must spoon away parts of yourself to make room for all the mess they bring, I reminded myself as the businessman asked me about what I do and where I live. These are the most tiresome and common questions in New York, my friend M says, and I’m starting to agree. Small talk may be insignificant but it’s also exhausting, especially when you’re just not in the mood to connect with anyone. It’s too soon and for the first time – maybe ever – I have no desire to meet anyone. I’m enjoying and reveling in the time I have alone to really start doing the things I want and becoming the person I moved to New York to be. Single is as single does, and for me, it’s the perfect state to embrace right now.

But like any other person that has blood running through their veins, I still think about love. And for a few days after the final demise of our relationship, it made me incredibly sad to think about a thing that often appears so far-fetched. We all enter relationships with this hope that they will ultimately be the relationship. Casual dating is fun but at a certain point, age and mindset, we stop picking men we know are entirely wrong for us and we look for a stroke of special in the mates we mate with. But really, only one relationship actually works out – the rest teach us how to mend our broken spirits and they teach us what we really value in a person. All the Mr. Wrongs have brought both joy and tragedy, magic and misery, passion and pain to my life, and as the love comes to a close, it’s always up to me to decide how I want to process those varying emotions.

In the past, my first reaction was to declare I”ve given up on love. In an effort to strip my heart of any lingering memories or feelings, I’d drown myself in champagne and cheap conversation by dancing with boys in bars just so they’d buy me a drink. I’d write and spew hateful truths (or white lies) about the man who stepped all over my dignity and I’d position him in the part of my brain reserved for only things I despised. I’d yell and scream in the privacy of my own home, cry my eyes out until there was nothing left to escape. I’d foolishly call my ex continuously, hoping that they’d feel an ounce of the torture I felt like I was going through. I’d become instantly jealous of everyone I knew who seemed to have their love life together and I’d stop listening to love songs, just so I wouldn’t have to be reminded of what I thought I had but really didn’t.

Sure, this time, I could give up on love – but love won’t give up on me.

It’s still there when I see a random act of kindness on the subway when a teenager gives up his seat for an elderly woman. It’s there when one of the kids I volunteer with smiles so brightly at a job well done that my heart swells in admiration. It’s there when I see an older man block off the rest of the passengers on the bus so his wife, with a cane and a limp, can get off at her own pace. It’s there when the city surprises me with its ease and when a handsome man doing his laundry holds his glance at me a bit longer while trying to conceal a crooked smile. It’s there when I Skype with my parents and still, after all these years, they still make each other laugh. It’s there in the comfort of my friends, that no matter what I do or how ridiculous I may be, stand by me with umbrellas and cheer, reminding me of all the city I have left to discover and all the people I’ve yet to meet.

And so, even though it’s let me down countless times and probably will continue to for years to come, I choose love. I choose to focus on the things, the people, the places and the experiences that remind me of the goodness in my life. I choose to release the negativity and the hurt that comes with a difficult breakup and set my sights on the higher road I’ve decided to take. I choose to not lose too much sleep or too many tears over Mr. Possibility, for his purpose in my life has been fulfilled and has now ended. I choose to believe in the moments where the world seems beautiful instead of those dark hours when it appears impossible.

And most importantly, I choose to never let anyone or anything cause me to give up on love. Because as long as I decide to fill my heart with love, there will be no room for anything else.

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The Sound of Hope

Puffy-eyed with my ego severely bruised, I sat across from Mr. Possibility feeling especially vulnerable and terribly foolish. It was the great exchange on Saturday: returning the items we kept at our separate places to their rightful owner. I refused to travel to Brooklyn, and so after a little expected protest, he made his way to the Upper West Side, carrying a pair of heels and some cheap perfume (I dare not leave anything of value in his hands – we already saw what that did to my heart).

It is never a pleasant experience to take back the physical things you left in someone’s care. Keeping something even as simple as my night creme or some hair conditioner is symbolic in a way, but it’s more territorial. It’s saying: my stuff is here so no other lady’s stuff can be here, and vice versa. Sure, there are ways to get around such an unintended (but purposeful, I think?) clause. Though I knew I would probably cry and so would he, I was actually looking forward to sealing it all up. If there is nothing left for me to hand over, nothing else I need from his place, then I can put the whole baby to bed. Then, I can really start to mend myself and get to healing the pieces I let get the best of me by being united with him.

It didn’t go as I thought though, it was far more dramatic, as it always is with Mr. P. There were both hateful and loving words, accusatory remarks and pitiful apologies. There were dated excuses and lack-luster advances, discussions of what was and a question of what could be. It was up and down, just as our relationship had been, and he made no real commitment to do anything with graciousness, just has he never done before. By the second hour, I was teetering toward sincerely crying my eyes out with no hope of the type of remorse I wanted him to have in return, when I heard a faint saxophone in the distance.

Distracted by the Louie Armstrong-esqe tune, I stopped talking and asked him to kindly shut up. I listened to the notes and I was brought back to nearly a year ago, almost to the day – when I had my date with freedom.

It was one of my favorite posts and one of my dearest New York memories. I had walked around the Jackie O reservoir, treated myself to fine wine and dinner, and took a gander around the Metropolitan Museum of art. After taking my time and observing everything around me with a loving, attentive eye, I started to head out into the fall afternoon when I heard a saxophone at the edge of the steps at the Met. I never included this part in my post, for at the time, it felt too magical, too personal to share with strangers I hadn’t started to connect with yet.

With that beautiful melody, so smoky yet clear – I sat down near him, threw a dollar or two into his case and just listened. I leaned up against a pillar, my high-heeled feet relieved for some much-need relief and I watched him play. His fingers moved so quickly, his face scrunched up in pure passion – and I could relate. That’s how I feel when I write – when I put everything I have into the medium I best express it with – that’s when I feel alive, that’s when I feel my own form of music run through my veins. It doesn’t take as much breath support, but it requires some pretty fast hands. He was older but with a kind face, and I think he was satisfied with the company he attracted. I couldn’t tell you though, anything about those people who shared that moment with me. At the time, it felt like I was listening to the melodies in the New Orleans, in a private little bar that was just for me.

I was mesmerized.  Once dusk started to trickle into the city, I picked myself up and gave a few more dollars before walking away and making a promise to myself: I will go to a jazz club alone, wear a stunning black dress and red lipstick, and I will sit in the front row with some burgundy wine and spend the night with the music.

I never went to a jazz club,” I said to Mr. P wistfully. “You never told me you wanted to go to a jazz club. I would have taken you,” he defended himself (as usual). “Because I didn’t ever want to go with you. I wanted to go alone,” I replied, maintaining eye contact. “Well, if you ever want to go, I could maybe take you sometime,” he offered, fully trying to free himself of any guilt. “I won’t want to go with you. I want to go with me,” I replied before leaning further out of my chair, trying to hear more of the sax.

He probably didn’t get it – I’m not even sure I did right then-and-there. But what I meant was, against my better judgment and during this wonderful journey, I still lost myself in the relationship. I still wandered off my own path to try to make two parallel roads join together, though as logic tells us – they never would have. I stopped doing those things I wanted to do. I placed my best interest and sometimes, my friends and family behind Mr. Possibility in some desperate mission to make something that wasn’t working, work. I lost sight of what New York meant to me in an effort to make myself mean something to him. I stopped planning for what I wanted, what I hoped to do, so I could try to urge Mr. P into making plans with me.

But then – mind my ridiculously cliché pun – I heard the music. I was brought back to that date, before Mr. Unavailable was Mr. P, before there were any distractions of the male kind. And I remembered what I wanted to do, and there in that depressing moment where I knew my relationship was officially over and the key to his door and to my heart were switched – I found some strength. I found something to look forward to.

Tonight, on my way to the train from yet another blissful day at work, I walked down 14th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenue and I heard that addicting melody again – someone in some apartment was playing their little tune, and I smiled. It echoed on the block the whole way down, almost like a marching anthem to remind me of what’s important in my life. When I turned the corner and cascaded down the grimy steps, already bubbly from hearing the music, I was so astonished to see another saxophone player on the platform that I laughed.

Those who noticed my uncontrollable giggles probably wrote me off as another crazy mad woman in New York — but to me, the mix of my own laughter paired with the brilliance of a talented, bluesy player sounded like one thing: hope.