Tag Archives: New York

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Legalization of Love

I don’t purposefully seek out political conversations. I’m informed enough to hold my own and while I think my views will forever shift as I mature and have new life experiences, I don’t prefer to talk politics.

But rather, I enjoy hearing about other’s perspectives.

It’s in this way that I learn more about why people think the way they do and also see if their views are based on fact, religion, or emotional responses. Most of time, it’s a combo of all three. When it comes to civil liberties and rights, if I’ve done any campaigning, it’s been for women and when I’ve volunteered for campaigns (once in NC), it’s because I believed in the candidate’s platform and thought they could make real change.

So for me to voice my opinion on a topic that is way more controversial than it should be is a rare thing. But right now, I feel ignited to do so. It’s unclear if Albany will vote on the bill to legalize gay marriage in New York state today or if it’ll be delayed a few days. To pass Senate, the measure needs 32 votes and with 2009’s defeat, many are optimistic it will succeed vote.

It astonishes me how passionate people are about gay marriage. Sure, I come from the Bible Belt of the conservative South, a place where the fury of God is feared and redemption looms boldly, threatening the end of time. But I’m also fromAsheville– a town with a very large homosexual population and usually, a city that turns blue during elections. Regardless if you’re conservative or not, I’m not even sure why marriage has been on the state governments’ chopping board for so long.

Frankly, it’s none of anyone’s business – especially political leaders – who we decide to marry or who we decide to love. And under any circumstance, there is no reason why you should be kept from being with the person you love because that person happens to be of the same-sex as you are (and note I say sex, not gender, for they are not interchangeable).

Those who argue say same-sex marriage shouldn’t be legalized because marriage falls under “religion” and not “state”, claiming that the Bible says Adam shall not lay with Adam. Those for it say it doesn’t matter what a text says because the legalization of love isn’t up to the state or the church – a union is a union and should be recognized by law as so. Your genitals and what you do with them shouldn’t be a matter of opinion or determine what rights you have or don’t.

It infuriates me to think that my friends who are homosexuals are not given the same liberties I’m given because I’m heterosexual. If I can walk down the aisle, if I can have my husband stand next to me on my death-bed, if I can adopt a child just because I’m a woman who loves a man, there is no reason why a woman who picks a woman or a man who wants to marry a man, shouldn’t have the right to do the same.

And if we want to talk about stimulating the economy – perhaps on a very small-scale, but on one all the same – passing a bill supporting gay marriage would mean more fabulous galas and events, more homes or apartment closings, and more assets tied together.

But does that matter? Is that the issue? Or is it that so many were raised to believe that homosexuality is wrong and that with therapy gays can overcome their perceived disease? If I didn’t decide to be heterosexual, if I didn’t decide to be sexually attracted to men, what makes anyone think homosexuals picked what their orientation? Why are labels “gay” and “straight” necessary to qualify the validity of feelings or the intended success of a marriage?

And you know, yes, I consider myself a Christian. Yes, I sleep with men, not women. Yes, I have friends who are gay. Yes, I have friends who would never support this to pass. Yes, I was raised by parents with opposing views. Yes, I know what the Bible says.

And yes, I think homosexuals should be able to marry. It’s a civil liberty of being an American, of being human, and of being a person with the capacity to give and receive love, take care of children, and build and share a life with someone.

Though for now, the legalization of love will be handled by the states, in my mind, it shouldn’t be handled by anyone except the two people in the relationship. It shouldn’t even be an issue at all. If you’re aUnited States citizen or a child of this world, your right to say “I do” should never be up for debate.

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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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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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Lindsay New York

I always thought I’d be afraid of flying. I’m not sure why exactly – I’ve never feared heights and I’ve used every opportunity I could to try things that go fast: like jet skis, speedboats and sportscars. I went bungee jumping and have plans to go sky diving this summer – but yet, the first time I flew (to NYC from NC for my summer internship in 2008), I was disappointed when my tummy didn’t do flip flops at takeoff.

I thought “having a tiny fear of flying” sounded cool for some reason. Much in the same way I thought having a somewhat good singing voice would make me one of the many hopefuls for American Idol, though if we’re real honest, I only sound halfway decent in the shower and in the car, only in the company of myself. (Though Mr. Possibility tells me I have a “sweet’ singing voice and can hold a tune, but if you heard him sing, you wouldn’t trust his recommendation).

I guess I wanted to be known for something. Be the girl who did this or felt this way or had this kind of talent. For whatever reason, it’s appealing to me to have a title – “My friend Lindsay, she’s this incredible artist. You should see what she paints” or “God, my girlfriend, Lindsay, she’s so adorable when she flies, she grabs my hand and squeezes her eyes so tight, she can barely open them when the seatbelt light goes out.”

But no, I never really thought I was anything all that special. Sure, I have preferences and specified interests: I love puppies, not cats; I hate pickles, but I’ll eat them fried; I coo at babies and can’t stand cauliflower, not based on its taste, but because I think it looks like broccoli gone bad. I stand like a flamingo when my legs are tired and though it isn’t the most becoming quality, it is best I stay away from cheese at all costs. I love mayonnaise on pretzels, it is almost physically impossible for me not to date a guy I can’t sport sky-high heels with, and I’m addicted to all things Italian: men, food, wine, you name it.

Growing up, though, none of these things never quite mattered. But then I moved to New York and I started visiting the South for vacations and holidays, I realized that I actually do have something special about me. I am rather unique and my friend E was the one who predicted my out-shining quality. You see, I’m fromNew York now, not from North Carolina.

Each time I come home, someone – a friend, family member or parent – doesn’t introduce me as Lindsay anymore, but as “Lindsay. FromNew York.” Now really, I’m not Northern and I really don’t want to be. In fact, when I first met Mr. Possibility, I thought he had a speech impediment because his accent was so thick. But even though I don’t mispronounce “car”, I’m not the biggest fan of bagels, and I don’t curse every other word, when I return home, I suddenly become a New Yorker, though the city doesn’t endorse me yet.

Apparently it’s such an anomaly for a blue-eyed, freckled petite little miss to transplant herself from pearls and babies to resumes and stilettos, that as soon as I changed my address and my voter registration, I became Lindsay New York.

But ya know what, as outlandish as it is, I don’t mind. I have always wanted to be known for something and if that something happens to be my admiration of NYC, that’s not a bad trait to claim. I guess when you’ve loved something for decades, it does become part of your DNA. It does become part of what makes you, you. It does become the thing you miss, even when you’re lying in your childhood bed watching your possibility chat with your dad over beers.

Where you’re from may be the thing that makes up the pieces of who you are, the bundles of lessons and dreams that give you morals and ideas – but it’s the place you go, the people you meet, and the stories you tell from that place and the person you bring home that change you. It’s what makes up your future. And maybe it’s not as interesting as a killer voice or as endearing as someone who is afraid of climbing, but it’s me.

You know, me, Lindsay New York.