What if your Sunday afternoon of busy to-do’s: your laundry, grocery shopping, tidying up, prepping for the week ahead, is always something you do by yourself? What if those Monday mornings where you roll over groggily, angry at the alarm clock, and longing for the warmth of another body against yours… are always met with an empty space by your side? What if all of that time you’ve spent dreaming and imagining, hoping and believing that something – someone – quite wonderful is somewhere out there, wasn’t worth your energy?
What if he doesn’t exist? Continue reading
When I can’t fall asleep or post-savasana in yoga class when my mind is supposed to be clear, I start to wrestle with negative thoughts. Most of the time I can ward them off, but there’s one that plagues me more than any other (possibly because it’s a big fear of mine):
Why the hell am I still single?
I could list all of the things that are great about me and what I could bring to a relationship, but while those things are true, it’s also true that I’m pretty damn picky. And that I like the little life and routine I’ve built for myself. And that I keep dating in the same way (online, at the bars) and expecting different results. And well, I don’t date as much as I know I should be (isn’t once a week enough?!). Continue reading
You’ve been there: after a not-so-great date, you’re venting to one of your coupled-up friends, expressing your frustration and practically begging for an answer to when your luck in love will turn around. After some calm words of reassurance and promises of a happily-ever-after that’s frankly a little difficult for you to imagine, you snap at your pal for being so positive when dating is anything but that.
For most of us, that friend who has managed to find love will almost always say: “You know, it’s a lot about timing and a little luck.” Continue reading
There was a period of time last year when I basically refused to go out.
I wouldn’t say I was depressed – that’s a bit of an exaggeration for me – but I wasn’t happy. There were a lot of things going on, from my family to my non-existent love life – and no matter how hard I tried or how much I damned myself to be more hopeful, I just couldn’t get there. And when my friends all made fun plans to go bar hopping in Brooklyn or hit up a gimmicky club in the Lower East Side, I politely joined them for dinner and weaseled my way out of of the late night excursions.
Logically, I knew that staying home snuggled up with my pup wouldn’t get me closer to finding The Infamous Love of All Loves – but emotionally, I couldn’t stomach standing in some crowded place, having drinks spilled on me and drunken guys attempting to hit on me while slurring their words. I wasn’t in the mood for it and frankly, at the time, I didn’t believe it would actually help me meet anyone worth meeting (I’m still not convinced it will, for the record, but I do go out more now). But more than the immature 24-year-olds hitting on me or the blaring pop music…
…it was all of those girls.
On my 24th birthday, still hungover from the night before, I stumbled into my favorite pet store downtown and bought a dog. I was a bit heartbroken from my last relationship (yetstill sleeping with him) and I saw a cute clearance puppy in the corner. They say when you meet the right person, you just know (I wouldn’t, since I haven’t), but when I held Lucy for the first time, she fell asleep in my arms and something in me said: buy the d*mn dog.
A few hours later, Lucy and I were sitting on my bedroom floor surrounded by hundreds of dollars worth of dog toys, training pads, a dog bed, treats and food, staring at each other, wondering: Now what?
I’ve been thinking about London lately.
About how easy it was to get around the city, even with it’s hushed voices and last-calls at 1 a.m., instead of 4. I’ve been thinking about how the men were such gentleman, wishing me a good day and commenting on how ‘quite lovely, quite everything, quite was’ in their darling accents that stupidly remind me of Hugh Grant. I’ve been thinking about how even though I tried to have an afternoon delight in Kensington at lunchtime with a tall, handsome character I met in Shoreditch the night before – he refrained. I’ve been considering the echoes in my head from all the women who complained – over their cigarettes and their pimms – that the men are far too serious, that they want relationships too soon, that they just bore of them ‘quite quickly, I’m afraid.’ I’ve been thinking that maybe, a British man might be what I’ve been looking for, after all.
I’ve been thinking about Paris lately.
A few weeks ago, I went out for a second time with a tall, fit blonde-hair boy with dimples, and as I sat across him, sipping wine and nibbling a cheese plate, I only could conclude I was drunk on our first date.
Because otherwise, why in the world would I have agreed to go out with him again?
Now, forgive me for being critical (it wouldn’t be the first time someone suggested such a thing) – but there wasn’t anything wrong with him per se. Except that he was upset that I choose to sit at a table instead of the bar (since I arrived 5 minutes early and he arrived 10 minutes late, I got to take my pick). And that he spent the better portion of our date complaining about his job, and the last few minutes of our date laughing telling our handsome European waiter (who was interested in my work) that he doesn’t “read shit like mine.”