Tag Archives: New York

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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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The Show Goes On

Since the pharmacist decided to take her sweet time, I was running late to a luxury event where, apparently, they revealed a fabulous new car for 2012. Not one for automotives unless they are yellow and can take me from point A to point B — I wasn’t annoyed to miss the big unveiling, but rather the unveiling of the champagne.

When I arrived in my worth-every-penny gold and white heels, sporting an orange dress and tousled locks, the first thing my dear friend A said was: “Your hair always looks so good. I kinda of hate you just as much as I love you.” I put together a smile while I put together my attitude and looked around, attempting to take in the expensive scene that technically I couldn’t afford, except for the fact I’m considered press. No one needs to know I cover love and sex instead of new cars and overpriced chocolates (though they were quite delicious).

It came as no surprise that my friends were camping out in the beverage line and I was thankful to have such beautiful lushes as my affectionate accomplices. M and A tried out bourbon while K and I stuck to wine, and as I whipped around, still situating myself and my bag, I found myself eye-to-eye with someone I didn’t want to see…

…Mr. Possibility’s best friend.

I didn’t notice him at first, as I was carefully trying to ignore the creepy older dude hitting on K and I behind us, but when I turned my head, he swiftly said, “Lindsay! What are you doing here? I didn’t think you noticed me.” He was right — I hadn’t. I was far too consumed in catching up with the girls to pay attention to someone who only brings back memories of a time that may have been recent, but now seems so far away. He’s a lovely person with an impressive resume and Rolodex, and while there may be tension between Mr. P and I, I decided to be the bigger person and greet him with the same pleasantries he presented me with. We exchanged a few words and I introduced my friends before we headed off to make our rounds around the event. The second we separated, I whispered over my Cabernet: “That’s Mr. Possibility’s best friend. How is it such a small world?”

I followed the advice of my friends and carefully put the fear of Mr. P showing up in the back of my mind, though I casually kept one eye on the entrance, praying he didn’t walk through, arm-in-arm with a tall blonde that would put my short stature to shame. We tasted the most delicious macaroons I’ve ever had, ran into some old friends who happen to play Manhattan Rugby (in other words, trouble!), and made an effort to be as ridiculous as possible at such a fancy occasion. You could blame our age or the fact that pricey things aren’t impressive as our bond — but either way, I’ll go with the latter. Sometimes giggling is more fun than gawking — right?

As we stumbled out to the Autumn night, thankful that the rain subsided, we made our way to a local place we love, ordered truffle french fries and laughed about things we won’t remember tomorrow. We discussed weekend plans while confessing how sincerely happy we are with our jobs and how sometimes we just want to pinch ourselves out of a reality that seems so dreamlike. There was hardly any mention of relationships, no deciphering about a guy who may or may not like us, no realization of insecurities or inconsistencies. Instead, if we talked about guys, it was in the context of how badly we wanted sex and how we could possibly go about sleeping with half of the foreign population of Manhattan without losing our dignity. We haven’t figured it out yet, but when we do, I’ll be sure to update. Promise.

As I saw the street lights reflect off my plate and in the eyes of women that I haven’t known very long, but feel like I’ve known forever, I felt a certain sense of peace and an undeniable joy stem from my heart. There may be no Mr. Possibility left to go home to, but the possibilities before me seem quite endless. I thought, nestled in my own corner of Manhattan: The city is still alive and so is my life, it’s just that one chapter has come to a close. There is still so much more ahead. 

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have mixed feelings. There are moments, like when I see a mutual friend or when I walk past something I first saw with Mr. P that I miss him. There are times when I still get the urge to text him or to email him, and a few times, I’ve given into that longing, only to be further disappointed by the response. The thing about breaking up with someone who wasn’t giving you the love and commitment that you deserve, is that once the relationship has been solidified as over, that disconnect only seems more evident. His name is still sensitive to my ears and the memory of his touch still endearing, but the level of settling I’d have to surrender to go back to his bed is far too high for me to rationalize it. My heart may feel one thing, but my head places it in its place when it’s pulling too roughly.

Being single isn’t easy — but we all know I know that. If I didn’t, this blog would have never existed. Some of my dearest friends are radiating with the newly-engaged splendor, others are going through a divorce at the ripe age of 23 and even more are doing just what I’m doing: discovering men while discovering themselves. I used to want to skip the dating part and skip the trial and error that it brings. I used to hope that I could just wake up, walk out of my building and be greeted by the man who would be the end of my heartbreak — but now, I long for adventure. I wish to figure myself out more. I wish to try new things and meet new people. I’m thankful that the idea of getting married makes me uneasy because I know I’m not ready. I find peace in being by myself and I try my best to make the most of my solo life before it becomes a duet performance.

Walking back from the subway, sporting M’s new perfume Chance by Chanel, I caught a whiff of my youth. It smelled a little like sunshine, a bit by stale red wine and a lot like curiosity. I smiled at the stranger I passed and I held the door open for the teenager who scurried up the stairs with rosy, blushing cheeks. Once he was out of sight, I turned up my iPod and danced, all by myself, waiting for the elevator to come . No one saw and it didnt’ matter because the words of Lupe Fiasco were enough for me:

The show goes on. After heartbreak, after change, after failure, after disappointment, after the end of something you really cared about. No matter the trouble, no matter how you think it will turn out, no matter what you face, no matter who you love, no matter who you hurt.

The show just keeps going on. And luckily, so do I — as do you.

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Make a Little Wish

I wish to be a princess like Sleeping Beauty, I closed my eyes super-duper tight, envisioning a dress of revolving blue-and-pink, and clicked my heels three times for good Wizardly measure. I opened to see my mom with her fluffy permed hair and big, bright smile that served as a gentle reassurance that my dreams would come true. I would be a princess. I’d get that fancy castle and the charming prince. I’d be able to sing like the songbirds and I’d have that hourglass figure I thought was so grown-up, so pretty, so princess-like.

Until I stopped wishing for crowns and crayons, and started wanting recorders and notebooks.

I wish to be on television! To be like Lois Lane and find Superman, I wished while wearing a more mature dress, toting around my recorder and interviewing anyone who would speak with me. I quizzed my party guests on how they felt the party was going, what they would have liked to be different, and if they were having fun. I even questioned my kitty, Indy. Then after the Aladdian cake was cut, the pinata was smashed and the presents were revealed, I went to write away the events of the night. I then would properly hand them to my mom, bounded with string, and retire to the sitting room to watch Nick Jr. My wish would come true one day, I’d be a journalist.

Until I didn’t want to be filmed anymore, but I just wanted to write. And I wanted to write about boys.

I wish that Mr. Curls would fall madly in love with me and we would get married and have babies and be happy and he’d be smitten. OH MY GOD, Please, please, please, PLEASE – just let him love me!!!, I wished through crooked-teeth while covering my pimply chin with Covergirl makeup, and sporting a totally rad crimped 90’s hairstyle. My cheeks were flushed red from skating to Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys. I anxiously looked above the moms standing by and my friends, all chattering away and eating intensely sugary cake, to see if Mr. Curls had arrived. He was invited, he said he would come, but he was late. I looked at my mom who looked angry and frustrated, probably just as disappointed as I was, but angrier that I was sad on my birthday. That night, I cried while silently wishing he’d have a good excuse and listening to Mandy Moore’s, “I Wanna Be With You” on repeat. I wished he’d be mine. I wished that adorable little mop head would fall for me.

Until I got over him and moved onto other boys who fell for me quickly, yet not as quickly as my father had fallen.

I wish, dear God, that my father would get better. I hate seeing my mom sad and I’m so scared of losing him forever. I don’t know what’s wrong but I wish for it to be fixed. I wish for his health, I looked around our tiny kitchen while my puppy Suzie circled my feet, whimpering. Dad attempted a smile, though he never quite got all the way there. I knew he was equal parts happy for the birth of a new year, and then sad that I was getting older. I was terrified of him getting older, of getting sicker. There couldn’t be any better gift than his health, even if I was going off to college. I wished for him to find his peace, so my mom could rest. I wish for his happiness so I wouldn’t feel so guilty leaving.

Until he did fully recover and turn back into that jovial man I adored growing up. The only downside was now I wanted to leave. I needed to leave.

I wish that once I graduate, I’ll be able to make it in New York City. I wish to be a writer, to live in the city. I wish to leave Mr. Idea behind and find someone else. I wish for it all: my city, my job, my man, I looked up and greeted Mr. Idea’s stare, noting the deep wrinkle in between his eyes. Those eyes that just weren’t as doting as I wanted them to be. I was finally 21! Now, I can drink and be cool, sophisticated and employed. I have to move to New York – it isn’t even a wish as much as it is a demand. It can’t be wishful thinking, but positive thinking! If I can believe it, I can do it. I wish to be a New Yorker. I wish to write. I wish to come into my own.

Until of course, I do live in New York. I am a writer, or actually, an editor. I did ditch Mr. Idea and I did find something else that I may very well ditch, too. I’m not a princess but I feel royally blessed. I don’t desire to be on television but you may see me from time-to-time in an unintentional cameo, especially when my wonderful job gives me the opportunity to meet Sarah Jessica Parker. I’ve been able to move past guys who don’t do as they say they will, and I’ve found myself smitten with the life I’ve been lucky to lead.

So when all those wishes come true, when you have everything you ever wanted for this stage in your life, what do you wish for? When the pieces fit together, when you’re content and blissful, when all worked out in a more perfect way than you could ever wished – what’s a girl to do? What’s that birthday candle for?

What do I think when I close my eyes as my friends say: “Make a wish Linds!! Blow out those candles, girl! Get em!”

This year, it’s for you. For all of you who have read this blog for the past year. Who have been supportive and dedicated, consistently giving feedback and advice when I needed it the most. For my birthday on this special day, I wish that all of your dreams come true just like mine have.

And most of all, I wish you all love. The kind of love that starts and ends from within. It’s the kind of love that makes you realize you don’t need all those wishes after all. They aren’t what got you here – it’s you. It’s all that love that makes you believe in the magic that is you.

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I’m a Feelin’ Old

My first business was babies.

I became a Red Cross Certified Baby Sitter around the age of 12, my dad whipped up some pink business cards cleverly titled “Lindsay’s Baby-Sitting” with our home number and a totally original slogan: safe, reliable childcare, and I was off to make my first hard-earned cashed. To ease me into the role that would pay a whopping $7 an hour, I practiced with my the children of my godparents: two twin boys.

I grew up with this duo — they had incomparable energy, and while I remember them always being very kind, they also always seemed extremely loud. My parents joked then (and still do now) that it was good practice for me to care for twin boys (I went on to babysit another pair of matching dudes a few years later), since the twin-generation hits me on both sides. And since my cousins are already finished birthing and have only had girls, it’s up to me to bring in the men.

Of course, the girly-girl is destined to have a house full of little guys running around. Fate’s funny.

Anyway – my very first babysitting gig was taking care of K and C, who wanted to play hide-and-seek in the dark and watch action flicks, resulting in one of the worse headaches of my life and snoring on the car ride home because they wore me out so badly. My mom found it humorous (so did my godmother) but I was nervous: what if I was a bad babysitting? Where would my boomin’ business go? My worrying pre-teen self anxiously awaited my next opportunity to care for the boys so I could prove myself as fun and responsible.

A few weeks later, I stayed in with them and they actually managed to fall asleep rather early. I munched on brownies and watched television, proud of my accomplishment and praying they didn’t wake up before their parents got home. The next few years would follow in this manner, I’d babysit and sometimes feel great about it, sometimes be exhausted, sometimes love the idea of kids, sometimes decide (at 15, no less) that I’d never have children. I guess not too much has changed — I’ll admit I still feel a little unwanted and unworthy of baby-love if I smile at some tot on the train and they burst into tears. What is it about that sound that rips my heart to shreds?

I hadn’t thought about children in the context of my own life for a while now, until Facebook popped up yesterday morning with some interesting news. One of those twin boys – the first child I ever babysat for – is engaged. He’s several years younger than me and he’s going to be gettin’ hitched before I figure out how to make a long-term relationship work. I’ve blogged for nearly a year, and doubt I’ve actually learned much of anything other than the fact that all courtships are different and must be treated as such.

Sensibility tells me that he’s in college, that he’s been with the broad for years, that he’s in the South, that his parents were married young, that he’s happy with a little home and a little church, and I’m still searching for so much more than that. I’m confident I’m nowhere close to meeting the man I’ll marry or even wanting to marry – but it’s so odd to think that the kid I babysat for has found true love before I have.

Talk about making a gal feel old.

Alright, fine – I’m not old. I know that much. I have more than enough time, and I’ve recently sincerely relaxed after realizing so many women have babies well over 35 and are fine. I don’t feel pressure to pair up, I don’t crave white lace as much as I desire my Friday night out with the girls, and if Mr. P is any indication of New York men, I think I’m going to search for transplants like me, instead. I’m happy -actually I’m quite smitten – with how my life is right now. I feel blessed to have this much success and love surrounding me constantly, and if I could capture these years in a ViewMaster to click-through in years to come, I’m sure I’d be a very joyous middle-aged woman.

But in a little girl voice, just like the one I had before I was old enough to drive, yet competent enough to care for twins, I have to whine about one thing immaturely (but rightfully so!): Hey Southerners! Stop getting married so young! It’s scaring me into becoming a Northerner, and I know ya’ll don’t want that, now!

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Good Time Guys

This summer was an odd one for me. It challenged me to sincerely examine myself and what I want, and gave me the bittersweet opportunity to take a step back and reevaluate my life. Though I was terrified to see what was under all that bright spunk that gave me the alter-ego of someone totally together, I knew if I wanted to succeed, if I wanted to be happy – I had to look under my own hood.

Somewhere between working at a business magazine that wasn’t my thing and being in a relationship that wasn’t exactly healthy, I not only forgot where I stood but where I wanted to go. So when a buzzing and wonderful new job opened the door for me to be happily content in my career – the boyfriend started to lose his luster. Sure, it’s impossible to have all parts of the JAM secure at one time but you can’t have something at home keeping you from being able to pay your bills so you have that lovely home.

So for the last month or so, I’ve been pulling away from what I had to figure out what I wanted. And more importantly, to find that sassy confidence, that style that captures attention, that talk that makes the walk special, that certain something I’ve always had. But what I found wasn’t that something, but a challenge: Lindsay needed to get her groove back. I felt it slipping away because I was spending countless weekends wrapped up in two very burly, studly handsome arms that made me feel good but also felt quite suffocating, too. I didn’t want to be tucked away in Brooklyn – I wanted to be in the city, in my city, with my friends or even by myself. Just as long as I wasn’t wasting away with someone who gave up on gumption and was slowly, bitterly wasting away already.

Maybe it was the sudden upswing of my career or maybe my bulls**** meter just finally boiled over – but about a month ago, I developed a new perspective. The relationship didn’t change, I did. I started becoming more demanding and quicker to complain. I asserted what I needed and if it wasn’t met, I with held my company and found the company of my best friends instead. I made a short list of what I no longer wanted to hear about (like ex-girlfriends, maybe?) and if the conversation developed toward that genre, I turned my head in defiance until it shifted. I stopped being the fixer-upper who made dinner, folded clothes and made sure all was well and satisfied, and I started doing whatever I wanted to do. I took on the role of Mr. P, basically, to see if he would do some role playing with me.

Could he be understanding and doting? Pick up the slack when I relaxed? Give me those things I needed to find happiness and security? Grant my wishes because I felt disrespected when they were ignored? Step up to the plate because I had been holding it with one hand, with even one finger, for far too long now?

And the answer has been ringing loud and clear in the silence of my voicemail, the emptiness of my inbox and the hole that’s growing in my stomach – he may not be a guy for the long haul. He could just be a Good Time Guy.

The always seem like the best kind – don’t they? When you’re in the beginning stages of dating, when you’re first getting to know each other personally and sexually – they are so much fun. You let yourself go, you dance on tables and you stay out later than you normally would because their attention is just so intoxicating. Just being around them makes you feel sexy and beautiful, like this wild little thing who was alluring enough to hold his glance just a second more. You can really talk to them about anything because everything they say just feels so good. Their words and especially their touch make you feel alive, make you feel like you could…

…really fall in love with them. But it’s in that pivotal stage that they become dangerous. Good Time Guys are good times until times aren’t good anymore. When you start to feel stronger than they do, when you begin to need more than what they can offer, when your vulnerability becomes more tender than they can handle – they want you to go back to your Good Time Girl self. They want you to slow down and stop having such deep feelings that they can’t latch onto. They want to pretend the aching elephant in the corner of your relationship isn’t there, and more so, they want you to admit that any type of anything isn’t progressing more than they are comfortable with.

Good Time Guys may want more than the good time – but only if it is on their terms.

And the problem when a Good Time Guy meets a girl trying to get her groove back is that they clash. She’s turning back into the hell on heels she once was, the good time girl that he fell in love with but because she witnessed what he was like when she wasn’t at her hottest…that Good Time Guy stride isn’t as magnetic. Instead when the girl gets in her groove, he starts to look quite pathetic.