Tag Archives: NYC

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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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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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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.