Tag Archives: North Carolina

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Seriously, Wake Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seriously.

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My City, My Calling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The North Meets the South

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

…quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

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It Is Scary to Care

My friend R recently started a no-strings attached, friends-with-benefits type of relationship with an old pal from high school. Having been through a hell of year and in dire need of a few (or many) orgasms, she agreed to release some tension with a person she’s always sorta had a thing for, but more importantly, someone she’s comfortable with.

Though R is in North Carolina and I’m in New York, we’ve maintained a close friendship – often sharing every intimate detail of our personal lives with one another, no barrier too gruesome or risqué to cross. And since both of us are rather open, our conversations tend to be a tad dramatic and almost always wildly entertaining. Since she’s been with the Sex Buddy, I’ve received phone calls and text messages, asking for advice and describing her romps.

But this morning, the chat I received was less about hanky-panky, and more about something far more intense than any hard-on or sexual dilemma: feelings. She claimed she almost hyperventilated before they spent the night together because she realized she was starting to like him, as opposed to just liking his down under action.

Maybe When Harry Met Sally’s assumption that men and women can never truly be friends is accurate or maybe it’s another indication that sex messes up even the most nonchalant courtships, or maybe it’s a truth that dates way past either of the aforementioned: it is scary to care.

There’s always that turning point in a could-be relationship where ends stop being loosely tied and emotions connect on a level that neither can prepare for. There is a period where you can place your heart on hold and enjoy the moment, until those moments increase, along with tension and the need to let your heart off the hook, and onto your sleeve. And that’s when brevity turns into the hope of longevity; and defining what you have or what you’re working toward starts to take over those crazy-girl parts of your brain, and thus, you find yourself hyperventilating while texting your friend.

Because when feelings develop, fears and questions come along with them: what if he doesn’t feel the same way? What if I get my heart broken? What if this is all too-good-to-be-true? How does he view me? What if he cares more and I end up breaking his heart? Is he seeing other people? Do I care if he’s seeing other people? Does he care if I am? What are we????

I don’t want to count how many times I’ve entertained these thoughts with different men at different points in our pseudo-relationships. I’ve laid in the arms of guys as they play on their Blackberrys, wondering if they were texting the girl they’d share the same bed with the following night. I’ve put off “The Talk” in hopes eventually the dude would beg me to be his forever and ever, and I’d never have to have a proper conversation defining what we were doing and what we were. I’ve held everything I felt, especially what I didn’t want to feel, inside for so long that without a notice, in the middle of a sunny, beautiful July afternoon, I inappropriately exploded a fury of frustration over Cobb salads and sangria.

And that’s the worse part about being scared to care – if you don’t let yourself do it, you’ll end up scaring the person you care about away. Or worse yet, scaring yourself so badly that you never end up caring in the capacity you’re capable of or that you deserve.

There is no denying that falling in love and willingly giving parts of yourself to another person is terrifying. I have a theory that to truly be in love with someone, you have to be not only brave, but be a tad crazy, too. No rational, independent person would place their trust, their heart, and perhaps their life and future in the hands of someone who has no tangible obligation to stick through the thick-and-the-thin with you. Being vulnerable isn’t a pleasant feeling, but if you can get through the initial pang that your heart could be ripped out of your chest – you’ll find something equally scary but comforting too. Or at least it tends to be comforting for me, anyway.

When you do put yourself out there, when you do allow feelings to grow, become stronger and more connected; when you give away pieces of your soul and place work into a relationship when it faces conflict, and when you take a chance on love – you don’t know if it will work out. You can’t predict and you can’t place your bests in a space where safety is guaranteed – but you can place a wager on yourself.

And if history does repeat itself, the fact of the matter is that even if you’re scared to care – you’ve been scared to care before. Even if you deeply in love and you notice how perfectly you match with someone else – you’ve felt that way before. And even if whatever you hoped for doesn’t come to be – you’ve been let down before, too.

So you overcome the fear. You fall in love. You revel in the magic. And if you have to, you overcome the heartbreak. Because no matter how scary it is to care, it is even scarier to never care again because you’re afraid of doing something…you’ve already done.