Tag Archives: NYC

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The Sound of Hope

Puffy-eyed with my ego severely bruised, I sat across from Mr. Possibility feeling especially vulnerable and terribly foolish. It was the great exchange on Saturday: returning the items we kept at our separate places to their rightful owner. I refused to travel to Brooklyn, and so after a little expected protest, he made his way to the Upper West Side, carrying a pair of heels and some cheap perfume (I dare not leave anything of value in his hands – we already saw what that did to my heart).

It is never a pleasant experience to take back the physical things you left in someone’s care. Keeping something even as simple as my night creme or some hair conditioner is symbolic in a way, but it’s more territorial. It’s saying: my stuff is here so no other lady’s stuff can be here, and vice versa. Sure, there are ways to get around such an unintended (but purposeful, I think?) clause. Though I knew I would probably cry and so would he, I was actually looking forward to sealing it all up. If there is nothing left for me to hand over, nothing else I need from his place, then I can put the whole baby to bed. Then, I can really start to mend myself and get to healing the pieces I let get the best of me by being united with him.

It didn’t go as I thought though, it was far more dramatic, as it always is with Mr. P. There were both hateful and loving words, accusatory remarks and pitiful apologies. There were dated excuses and lack-luster advances, discussions of what was and a question of what could be. It was up and down, just as our relationship had been, and he made no real commitment to do anything with graciousness, just has he never done before. By the second hour, I was teetering toward sincerely crying my eyes out with no hope of the type of remorse I wanted him to have in return, when I heard a faint saxophone in the distance.

Distracted by the Louie Armstrong-esqe tune, I stopped talking and asked him to kindly shut up. I listened to the notes and I was brought back to nearly a year ago, almost to the day – when I had my date with freedom.

It was one of my favorite posts and one of my dearest New York memories. I had walked around the Jackie O reservoir, treated myself to fine wine and dinner, and took a gander around the Metropolitan Museum of art. After taking my time and observing everything around me with a loving, attentive eye, I started to head out into the fall afternoon when I heard a saxophone at the edge of the steps at the Met. I never included this part in my post, for at the time, it felt too magical, too personal to share with strangers I hadn’t started to connect with yet.

With that beautiful melody, so smoky yet clear – I sat down near him, threw a dollar or two into his case and just listened. I leaned up against a pillar, my high-heeled feet relieved for some much-need relief and I watched him play. His fingers moved so quickly, his face scrunched up in pure passion – and I could relate. That’s how I feel when I write – when I put everything I have into the medium I best express it with – that’s when I feel alive, that’s when I feel my own form of music run through my veins. It doesn’t take as much breath support, but it requires some pretty fast hands. He was older but with a kind face, and I think he was satisfied with the company he attracted. I couldn’t tell you though, anything about those people who shared that moment with me. At the time, it felt like I was listening to the melodies in the New Orleans, in a private little bar that was just for me.

I was mesmerized.  Once dusk started to trickle into the city, I picked myself up and gave a few more dollars before walking away and making a promise to myself: I will go to a jazz club alone, wear a stunning black dress and red lipstick, and I will sit in the front row with some burgundy wine and spend the night with the music.

I never went to a jazz club,” I said to Mr. P wistfully. “You never told me you wanted to go to a jazz club. I would have taken you,” he defended himself (as usual). “Because I didn’t ever want to go with you. I wanted to go alone,” I replied, maintaining eye contact. “Well, if you ever want to go, I could maybe take you sometime,” he offered, fully trying to free himself of any guilt. “I won’t want to go with you. I want to go with me,” I replied before leaning further out of my chair, trying to hear more of the sax.

He probably didn’t get it – I’m not even sure I did right then-and-there. But what I meant was, against my better judgment and during this wonderful journey, I still lost myself in the relationship. I still wandered off my own path to try to make two parallel roads join together, though as logic tells us – they never would have. I stopped doing those things I wanted to do. I placed my best interest and sometimes, my friends and family behind Mr. Possibility in some desperate mission to make something that wasn’t working, work. I lost sight of what New York meant to me in an effort to make myself mean something to him. I stopped planning for what I wanted, what I hoped to do, so I could try to urge Mr. P into making plans with me.

But then – mind my ridiculously cliché pun – I heard the music. I was brought back to that date, before Mr. Unavailable was Mr. P, before there were any distractions of the male kind. And I remembered what I wanted to do, and there in that depressing moment where I knew my relationship was officially over and the key to his door and to my heart were switched – I found some strength. I found something to look forward to.

Tonight, on my way to the train from yet another blissful day at work, I walked down 14th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenue and I heard that addicting melody again – someone in some apartment was playing their little tune, and I smiled. It echoed on the block the whole way down, almost like a marching anthem to remind me of what’s important in my life. When I turned the corner and cascaded down the grimy steps, already bubbly from hearing the music, I was so astonished to see another saxophone player on the platform that I laughed.

Those who noticed my uncontrollable giggles probably wrote me off as another crazy mad woman in New York — but to me, the mix of my own laughter paired with the brilliance of a talented, bluesy player sounded like one thing: hope.

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Claiming My Bed Back

Sitting in the Village with my dear friend K, I munched on a taco while trying to keep myself together enough to stomach the meal. Don’t get me wrong – K is great company and usually says all of the things I wish I could say, but never work up the courage to actually speak. Perhaps in a few years when I’m her age, I will.

We had just finished catching up in her apartment (which if she ever decides to leave, I will claim before anyone else can) and thought to grab an inexpensive bite about town. There, we chatted about her upcoming weekend with the new boy she likes – semi-tall, charming, funny, great in bed and most importantly, for the first time in a while – she just simply likes him. It’s nice to see her blush and if he doesn’t work out, there will surely be more – but maybe, just maybe, this one will be something. As she usually does when she gets on a roll, she shared a rather adorable conversation they had post-bumping:

“We were laying in his bed, talking, my head was on his chest. After a while, he interrupted me and asked if my feet were hanging off the edge. I’m so used to my feet dangling, that it never occurred to me  – I didn’t even notice. When I can’t sleep, I always kick a foot out of the covers and it soothes me for some reason. But because he knew we were around the same height and I was lower down in the bed, my feet would be hanging off. It’s funny – sleeping habits. We are both so used to being single that we also both sleep in the middle of our beds – that doesn’t always work with two people!”

As she’s happily telling her story with a little hesitation (somehow talking about the happy things makes them seem like they’ll disappear), I thought about how I’ve never experienced any of those things: 1- I’m rather petite, so I can’t remember any instance where my feet are anywhere but tucked closely to my body, several inches from the edge of the bed, and 2- Even when I’ve been single, I’ve always kept to my side of the bed, leaving lots of idle space next to me.

Well, until last night that is.

I thoroughly cleansed my room of Mr. P – took out pressed sheets, reorganized my dresser drawers, bought some new candles, packed away his photos, notes and jewelry for safe keeping, and bought myself a new bouquet of fresh flowers. I threw open the curtains and let the cool Fall air breathe new life into my apartment. After indulging in some much-needed therapy: good food, Desperate Housewives and Friends (the show and the real things), read a few pages in my friend’s book club book of the month and went to settle into bed. Without thinking, I instinctively scooted over near the window, until I heard K’s words in my head and decided…

…it was time to claim my bed back.

This bed no longer smells of him and while he was the last man to lay in it, he won’t be the last. He used to have that corner and that pillow, but the cases are different and the space in my heart is healing. He used to sleep on his side and look at his BBerry at 4 a.m., waking me up prematurely. But not anymore, this room will stay dark until the morning creeps in quietly, not via his loud BBM alert. Only a few months ago, I made a rather significant commitment to this bed – buying it with my own hard-earned cash. The comforter, I bought. Along with the pillows and the sham. I make it up every morning, only to ruin it every night by my incoherent tossing and turning that never wakes me up, but looks like warfare in the morning. I pay for the room this bed sits in – and damn it, it’s my bed! Determined, I moved over to the middle and laid flat with my legs reaching for the corners. I stretched until I couldn’t anymore and closed my eyes, feeling myself easily drift to sleep in my new cemented position.

Unlike any night in the last week, I didn’t wake up once in the middle of night to put my heart to sleep. It slept just fine on its own, without any assistance and it stayed that way, nestled in a Queen mattress from Ikea. When my alarm went off at 8 a.m., I groggily wondered if I was still claiming my bed back, as I so intently sought to do hours before. I was happily surprised to find that not only was I sprawled out across my entire bed, but I had one arm dangling off the edge, too.

Looks like I’m claiming my bed back. And my single status, too.

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The Best is Yet to Come

I finally caught that yellow chariot.

It whisked me away through Central Park, glittering past glowing street lamps and weaving through semi-windy roads. I sat alone, my purse laid by my side, listening to the cabbie mutter to himself. His stammering made me feel better about my tears at nearly two in the morning. He probably thought I was just another wounded drunk girl coming in from a Saturday night out where I spilled my beer and kissed a faceless boy at a bar.

But no, I was sober. And now, I was single. I mean, I am single.

It’s funny, I thought, once we reached Amsterdam and my heart released the anxiety that always comes from trusting a stranger to take you where you tell them to. A year ago, on this very day, I was crying in the bathtub, depressed over my birthday party where I didn’t get asked to dance, where I didn’t feel very pretty, where I was so sick of being single that I was an absolute mess. I hysterically cried and then made up my mind — I wasn’t going to feel this way anymore.

Am I right back where I started? Really Lindsay? I rolled my eyes at myself, glanced down at my silent Blackberry and felt the freshly Autumn air hit my cheeks. Here I was again, even with all this daily hard work for the past year, crying over some guy. At least it isn’t in that disgusting bathtub, huh? I thought and grinned. I also wasn’t an emotional wreck or crying because I hated being single. This time, they were movie-star tears that glistened through mascara eyelashes, and I wasn’t upset because I feared being alone but because I wanted to be.

That was the final straw, Linds. You really had no other choice but to walk away. You’d be selling yourself short and giving away yourself if you stayed, I reassured myself to gain enough courage to brave the face of the cabbie to pay him. My birthday had brought the next season, and with it, I was moving on to the next chapter. As much love as there is, as connected to my heart and my New York life as he was, Mr. Possibility didn’t turn back into Mr. Unavailable or grow into the only possibility, he just became impossible.

Maybe if you just gave him some more time or ignored him for a week or two, then he’d come around. Then he’d see you were worth it, the other side opposed as I turned the chunky silver key, allowing access into my safe haven, my home. I knew I could have stayed longer, I could have played the manipulation card as fiercely as he did – but there is a difference between being able to do something and wanting to do it. That was, after all, at the crux of our relationship: he may have wanted to give me what I needed but he couldn’t, and I could have stayed but that isn’t the type of love I want. It’s not what I deserve.

I deserve so much more.

Because I’m not that distraught girl anymore. I’m no longer afraid of being alone, but afraid of being alone in a relationship. There are worse things than being single, and unrequited love is one of them. There are worse things than having to go through the emotional warfare of a breakup, and settling for less, I can assure you, is much more painful. You’ve really come so far and you did the right thing, the rational voice came back with easy clarity. It hurts to essentially give up on Mr. Possibility but he needs to go through the 12-step program more than I do now. He has to love himself before he can ever love me, or anyone else, in any way that matters. I can’t love him enough to change him, and he can’t love me enough to change my mind.

So here ya are, Linds. You’re back to being single again and the blog is over, I thought as I looked out the window of my room, watching the lights flicker with the arrival of the morning. I couldn’t sleep, too much thinking going on. Too much aching for something I never quite had but know I’ll find one day. I’m different from I was a year ago. I’m much stronger, more settled. I’ve loved someone in New York and I’ve loved myself enough to walk away. If that isn’t progress, I don’t know what is, I sat up and felt my heart sink back into the bed. Sometimes the hard thing and the right thing are the same, and sadly, also the adult thing to do. Mr. Possibility isn’t a bad guy – he’s actually quite the opposite. He’s a wonderful man with so many possibilities but the past isn’t allowing him to have a future, and we’re in such different places that nothing between us makes sense anymore. It’s not worth fighting with someone you love, it’s better to love them enough to calm the fight by leaving.

And the fighting had been too much. We were starting to destroy what we had, the friendly foundation was turning into resentment. I couldn’t put my heart on hold or allow someone to love me with only half of their heart, and he couldn’t be there for me in a way that was constant and dependable. And so, on the corner of 12th and Third, I gave him one last opportunity to make amends, to step up to the plate, to prove his committment. But he passed and I turned the corner, only to look back and see him catch a cab in the opposite direction.

Well, looks like there’s no game of cat-and-mouse here, huh? I crumpled to the side of a building, wishing I hadn’t worn heels and covered my face, preparing for the flood. My friend M braced my back and promised me he was only the beginning of New York love, not the end. But the devastation didn’t come. Instead, I felt just a little bit of fear and longing, but mostly, I felt relief. Now I could be happy, he could find his happiness, and the happiness we had won’t be overshadowed by the disaster of the last month. After all, what I’ve wanted for him from the beginning was just to be happy, and now I see that I wasn’t helping him to happiness, I was just keeping him from really trying out those wings and learning to love himself as I have learned. I miss him, I will miss him but his brightest years are still ahead of him, just as mine are. We just won’t be sharing them together.

So does this blog end with the end of Mr. Possibility and I? Have I really completed the 12 steps because I found enough security in myself to not have to lean on a man for support? To not stay in a dead-end relationship because I couldn’t stand the thought of being single while all my Southern friends got married? How do you end something that’s been part of your life for the past year? How do you put that into words?

You don’t. So I’m not.

I won’t write every single day anymore, but I’m still going to write. Confessions of a Love Addict isn’t ending, it’s just changing. It’s going back to Step 1 to repair myself through the five-moods of a grief over impossibility. To learn how to put back together the pieces I lost of myself in the relationship, even if this time, they aren’t as scattered or jagged.

I wanted to blog for 365 days and I have – so now it’s not about meeting my own deadline. Now, it’s just about writing as I feel, sharing what I want, and starting the journey all over again. Really, the process of accepting and loving who you are is never-ending. Because just like the New York skyline is always changing, so are people, and so is time. Stages come and go, love grows and then it hurts. Friends go their different ways, luck comes around ever now-and-then. Sometimes you get what you want, but mostly you get what you need.

And I still need this blog. Because now, a whole new journey is about to unfold, and if the last year is any indication of the thrills ahead of me, I couldn’t be more excited. Especially since now I’ve traded that bathtub for a cab, those tears for a red dress, and that fear of being alone for the option of having something extraordinary. And that hatred for the word “single” into a thankfulness that through it all, I still have just what I’ve always needed:

Myself.

And of course, a bottle of champagne, some great friends, a heart that’s still beating and believing, and the faith that the best is yet to come. Stay tuned.

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Every Day a Post, Every Day a Lesson

In coffee shops, uptown a few blocks and here. On my bed, at my desk, on my friend’s phone. At my computer, on Mr. P’s laptop, in Penn Station waiting on a train. Sitting in the airport days before Christmas. In my living room, on the couch, at the kitchen table. In Bryant Park at night, at Columbia University, sitting cross-legged on the cold hardwood floors.

Wrapped up in blankets as the snow came down, while looking out dirty windows at some cafe in Williamsburg as I watched Mr.P concentrate with his tongue out across from me. In a rush, with days to spare, when it was way too rainy to set foot outside. Lounging naked in front of my air conditioner, rushing in after a busy day to beat the clock, standing in the corner on one leg so I could have enough signal in the back of a Southern-themed bar on the Upper West Side.

For the last 364 days, I’ve published this blog from dozens of places.

The ideas and the fodder have been just as diverse. From conversations with friends and family to experiences I’ve had with Mr. P and all the others. While trying to sort through emotions, while watching people in love, people falling apart, people being messy and complicated, as people often are. In dark instances where the world seemed too big, in bright, sunny days that gave me Louie Armstrong memories and made me feel like the world was actually quite small. During times I couldn’t understand and through days where I felt like I had it all figured out. While feeling my heart expand to welcome a possible love in and then while feeling it shrink when feelings weren’t mutual. Through months of feeling lost and uncertain, questioning everything I ever knew, and throughout the hours where everything felt so right that it was scary. When inspired by people I meet or books I read, or places I’ve been or things I’ve seen, but also when nothing at all made me want to write other than knowing I’d regret it at 12:01 a.m.

And now, as I write this, knowing that tomorrow will come and go, that the final post that I’ve yet to write will go live and then the day will pass, I can’t decide if I feel sad or thoroughly impressed with myself. To be honest, it’s probably a bit of both.

My intentions changed as the blog continued, as I progressed and I noticed loyal readers like Larry who comments nearly every day, and girls who remind me of myself, like Katie, Christina and Suzie. Or some beautiful soul who lives where it rains all the time, drinking coffee and giving superb, heartfelt advice. And then there’s the ladies from Tel Aviv and Ms. Lexamantis from South Africa. Or Jenny from Philly who is quite tweety, and Moose Michaels who inspired one of my most well-trafficked blogs. And Dear Ex-Girlfriend who provides cheeky, sarcastic advice from a real dude’s point of view. Or my San Fran gal who is talented and ever-so-kind, even sending me a real-life Valentine. And Kacey, Marlee and Stephanie who update Facebook regularly with cute pictures that remind me of my life in New York. And Lovephool from London and Cat from this city, and Divorcing Mr. Wrong who’s red dress I’d love to borrow. I couldn’t even begin to explain how many more there are, too.

This blog has been my personal journey, but it’s also been the journey of so many people. Most of which, I’ll never meet. But somehow, there is something about being open and honest, allowing my raw emotions and candid thoughts to have an open forum and space for people to relate…that has made LoveAddictNYC.com what it is. It’s the first domain name I’ve ever bought, and it was worth every penny.

I’ve grown so much over the past year, through each of those 12 steps, through all of the changes that have made my current life what it is, and I’m so thankful that others could find comfort in what I wrote. I can now promise without any doubt whatsoever that anything you’ve felt, anything you’ve wondered, anything that’s caused you tremendous pain or any worry you thought was ridiculous about love or about how you look or about being a 20-something…someone else has had too. And someone will again.

Nothing I’ve said on these pages is original or unique, they are just my struggles and my achievements, my analysis of the wonder and the bewilderment that love often brings. They don’t give insight into a true addict’s nature, just into the obsessive and scary dangers of being someone who tries for love, who tries to be their own greatest fan, who tries to be all that they can, and sometimes fails. Without those moments of crazy, we could never have those visions of clarity.

Thank you all for being there with me, for your honesty and your advice. For sharing my work with others, for helping me land my dream job (yes, this blog was part of it!), for sending me Tweets and emails, liking me on Facebook and liking me in real life. For being my friend, even though we may be oceans away. For helping me learn a lesson with ever post I wrote. This journey may be coming to a close in a matter of hours, but you will all forever be part of my journey.

And tomorrow, come back for your final daily visit at 2 p.m. EST.

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With Loving Eyes

I stood wearing my only pair of expensive heels, a silky scarf from Urban I snagged during a fabulous sale for $10, a lacy black dress belted at the waist and my Longchamp dangling from my wrist. The ring I picked for the day was actual ruby, the necklace a diamond from Mr. P back when we were happy, and I was hanging out by his side as he chatted with a chairman.

We were in the VIP section of an Oktoberfest, wearing fancy bracelets that gave us free beer and grub. We even had a slightly fancier port-a-potty than everyone else. Girls in skimpy German outfits (even in the chilly weather, God bless ’em – they’re practicing for Halloween) served us bite-sized German-themed appetizers and we were part of an interesting, powerful group – ambassadors, diplomats, prestigious journalists, a dude from Beard Wars, and I even met a song writer.

Mr. P was going on about something with his friend and I started to drift away in my thoughts. I was still slightly hungover from my birthday party the night before but beer seemed to make the headache nearly existent. From the fun times had last night, I had nearly lost my voice, so even if I wanted to be part of their conversation, I sounded like a frog. I let him do his thing while I did mine; still thinking and analyzing our relationship. Or really, our lack of anything that looks like a relationship. I mean, we didn’t even last my birthday without having some sort of a tiff. I know it’s about as unhealthy as the amount of carbs I consumed but resisting is always easier when it’s something we really don’t want, in terms of food and especially in terms of love.

His hand was wrapped around my belt and I became distracted by a family within sight. The father was handsome and tall with glasses, his 3-year-old son looked about the same. The mother was shorter and tanner, their daughter an adorable little blond. The kids were dressed up in traditional German clothes, suspenders and braids and all. They were running around and giggling, making funny noises and genuinely having a good time. There was no alcohol involved, they didn’t need it to loosen up because they were simply that happy.

As the children played together, the wife walked over and I caught a glimpse of the husband’s eyes when he looked at her. And what I saw was purely love.

I obviously do not know anything about who they are or what language they speak or if those feelings are true or not – but his eyes said a thousand words I could never write to give justice to. He showed the same admiration (rightfully so) to his children – scoping them up and tickling them, kissing the side of their rosy cheeks. It all seemed so intimate and innocent, natural and inviting.

Here I was, among the distinguished and more intrigued by the ordinary. By the gentle, calming and warm feeling that comes from seeing people who really love each other. If given the choice, I’d trade the fancy clothes and by-invitation-only invites to have simple clothes and an open invite into someone’s heart who actually wanted to love me in return.

I didn’t watch them very long, maybe a minute or two, and Mr. P grabbed my attention, looking me in the eyes as he kissed my forehead. I smiled cautiously and attempted not to show my disappointment. This was fun, it really was, but is it what I want? Can he give me what I want? Does he have the ability to feel about me how I want him to? Could I picture any of this with him?

Could those eyes that I’ve looked in, searching for a solution, for a sign, for an indication, for anything, ever give me what it is I really need? Could he ever look at me with those loving eyes?

Or is it time for me to look elsewhere?