Tag Archives: NYC

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Making It is Living It

Somehow, no matter how old I get or how diligently the city attempts to jade me – the simplest pleasures of life still outweigh the bad. Like yesterday morning when I took one step out of my brownstone and felt the soft snowflakes land on my face, and for the first time in a very long time, I remembered how carefree I used to feel.

The part of North Carolina I’m from was rarely blessed with snow days, and I can remember attempting to fall asleep as quickly as possible, and waking up incredibly early – just to see if maybe, just maybe, the weatherman was right. And of course, to determine if I was free from school for a day and could spend an afternoon sledding down the bumpy hill in our backyard, followed by my mother’s hot cocoa and my father’s chicken noodle soup.

It wasn’t until college that I really experienced what a blizzard could be like and if I’m honest, going to school at Appalachian State was probably a brilliant idea, for many reasons, but one huge one: to prepare me for cold winters in New York. Though it was surprising to have any classes cancelled because you knew what you were getting into when you signed your tuition check, but when we did – my friends and I tucked ourselves away in our apartments, watching America’s Next Top Model marathons, sipping on mimosas, and strategically putting off any homework. One of these monumential snows, Mr. Idea and I were snowed in, and though it sounds like I’m an old man exaggerating – we literally had to walk a mile to the nearest grocery store so we could eat for the week. He let me borrow his thick socks and pants that were way too big on me, so I wouldn’t freeze to death, and in return, I agreed to make his favorite cake. See, give-and-take, right?

But in Manhattan, having a get-out-of-work for free day doesn’t happen very often. To be a New Yorker, you must adapt the Postal Service mentality too – rain or shine, sleet or snow, we will arrive at the office at nine, frozen and already dying to go, yet making our boss the dough! With my high-heeled boots (yes, even in this weather), layered sweater dress, tights, gloves, scarf, and earmuffs – I walked a little slower to the train to enjoy the snow. I felt the incredible desire to spread my arms wide, raise my face to meet the cloudy sky, stick out my tongue, and let the flakes fall against me. I considered it for a moment, but then remembered my age, and decided I could just happily smile before going underground.

As I watched the people hurrying to escape the snow and ice, I thought about how I’ve spend the majority of my life reaching for and rushing toward something. I have never been complacent, stationary, or satisfied with the idea of just “being.” In a way – I have to figure, while I’ve lived, I have also been waiting for the life I wanted to actually start. Between sledding and studying for finals -I somehow managed to stop experiencing the freedom life offers and started focusing on tomorrow, more than today. In such a short amount of time, my life, who I am, what I want, and how I perceive my future has completely changed. Sure, I’m the same lady at heart, but I have to wonder – did I ever really enjoy those moments of peace? Of rest? When the snow gave me every excuse to do nothing, and now the same snow doesn’t give me any leeway? There has always been an end-goal, a plan, an unattainable person, title, or place I wanted to make available to me. There has always been a belief that once I reached this certain thing – whatever it may be – that’s when I could breathe. That would be when I made it.

And yet, as a 20-something who is now working as an editor, propelling her career, residing in the city she’s always loved – have I actually stopped pursuing the next big thing? Perhaps I’ve let finding Mr. Charming fall to the wayside (currently, anyways), but aren’t I still going and going, without a true destination in sight?

Do I feel like I’ve made it? Or maybe a better question is – what does “making it” even mean?

Since moving to New York, actually landing a job, and figuring the rest out as a I go – I haven’t remained still. There have been afternoons where I admired the city and all of its beauty; evenings wrapped around Mr. Possibility; nights spent pouring out blogs posts because I just can’t stop writing (even if I wanted to); – but there have also be all-nighters spent reading about how I can be a better editor, a stronger writer, and a profitable blogger. Though I’m very happy and proud of the things I’ve been able to accomplish in a remarkably short amount of time – there is always more that I want. And I don’t necessarily think it’s a bad quality to have – I would much rather seek more and therefore give and receive more, than to never help anyone (including myself). But if the constant pursuit for who I hope to be becomes more powerful than who I am right now – then I’m missing what will probably be one of the most brilliant decades of my life.

If I don’t stop to smell the roses – or play in the snow- am I fearing that success or love won’t come, and therefore keeping myself from believing that everything is really, truly, on the right track?

One of my dearest friends, L, when I get upset about a disappointing dude, a setback in my career, or when everything I thought was steady, crumbles, she tells me: “Linds, you just fake it until you make it.” This is her kind way of letting me know that sometimes, even when we don’t feel like we’re doing the right thing or heading in the right direction, if we have faith that all is well and going according to a divine plan, one day, we’ll stumble across what we we’re looking for. Or across something we never thought we wanted, but turns out to be perfect for us.

What if we don’t ever actually feel like we can stop pushing for something more or reach the decision to do absolutely nothing? Maybe “making it” is an illusion to keep us shooting for those things, those people, those addresses, those vacations or those faces of children we’ve yet to meet. Maybe to make it, we must realize and accept, we never really will.

And if we can just rest assured that if we keep going, if we don’t surrender when the days are long and discouraging, if we don’t stop being our own biggest fan – then we can also realize that in the middle of our going and pushing, hustling and bustling – it really is okay to raise our pretty face up high, close our eyes, and embrace the serenity of the now.

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Good Enough for Who?

Sometimes, I can be a little much – for a friend, for a man, or even for my mom. I’m outrageously impatient, incurably stubborn, and intoxicatingly optimistic. When I pick a new project, go after a job, or a date – I won’t give up unless I absolutely have to or I am turned away.  I can go weeks without washing my dishes, cleaning out my fish tank, and if you ring me, I probably won’t pick up the phone…and it’ll take me a while to return your call. I get lost in thought mid-conversation, I’m not always understanding, and at times, I’d rather be alone than with the company of anyone else.

I’m far from perfect and I don’t always do my very best to be a better person, but overall – I think I’m more than an average human being. I have qualities I believe to be attractive, admirable, and honest. Though my 5’4”-ness would never allow me to be a model (nor would my problemsome acne from time-to-time), I find myself to be blessed with beauty, both inside and out.

And even though I realize what I have to offer and that I am a person of goodness, kindness, talent, and passion – for a very long time, I always wondered what was wrong with me, that no man (or at least the ones I wanted) found me worthy of love?

I mean, it had to be me, right?

We’re advised to never compare ourselves to others, but I think part of human nature is to size ourselves up to those we are a tad bit jealous of. To fight the envy, we try and determine ways we have a one-up on pre-determined competition. And though I find myself seeking to have perfect skin, a perfect body, a perfect sexy disposition and attitude – the thing I desire the most that other women have…is a man. Or rather, a man who loves them.

It isn’t that I put myself above anyone else – but there are these girls, these women – who are just not that great of people. They do not have things going for them. They are not full of charisma and grace. They are not kind to others, nor do they feel the desire to help the unfortunate. They are not intelligent and they don’t demand excellence on themselves or those in their life. They are the type of ladies that my group of friends can’t stand, who we shy away from at the bar because they’re spilling their drink everywhere with their boobs popping out.

And yet, for whatever reason, these are the same females who have a man who adores them. A man who is successful in every aspect of his existence. Who is full of charm and is dependable beyond his means. Who without reasonable doubt, should be the standard of a man who is attracted to someone who is not ridiculous, but commendable.

Why do the girls we hate tend to be the ones who date the men we want the most? How are they worthy and I’m not?

After a particularly devastating breakup, I discovered the man I thought would be my next love, was Facebook official with a girl…I couldn’t stand. During the duration of our courtship, he consistently made fun of her for being a “groupie” of his friends, joked at her lack of common sense, and one night, because she was so intoxicated, she had to sleep on his couch, while he and I shared his bed. She was open (and proud) that college was merely a way for her to get her Mrs Degree, and she had no outside interests other than consuming large amounts of alcohol and finding a boyfriend. She was, in all shapes and forms, the complete opposite of me.

So when he fell in love with this chick – and for the record, is still dating – I was stunned. I couldn’t believe or understand why he would go from one extreme to the other, and even more – why he would find her valuable as a partner, and not me.

Perhaps the trouble with unrequited love, other than the fact that’s one-sided, is the rejected party always feels the need to blame themselves. Surely, if this man who we find to be the answer to our “wish-list” in a partner just doesn’t seem to feel like we’re his match – it has to do with us, right? If somehow we just changed who we are, if we weren’t so intimidating, if we weren’t so damn independent – maybe, we’d be what he wanted. We’d be the girl who got the guy – instead of the she we despise.

Instead of pleading with the relationship gods or cursing them all together – I finally concluded that his choice to stray away from me and into the incredibly open arms (and legs) of this gal wasn’t because of a flaw in me, but rather, a flaw in the could-be relationship. I was blinded by romantic illusions and even though I saw him as this ideal boyfriend, he obviously wasn’t. Because if he couldn’t fall for me, support me, and decide to be with me for who I was – it simply wasn’t meant to be. And perhaps, he and the chick are, just like one day I’ll be meant for someone more up to my speed and up to the challenge that I am.

It took me a very long time (years, if I’m honest) to reach the point where I was happy for my ex and his new girlfriend. I’ve never added her back on Facebook, but seeing pictures of them together or reading the sweet exchanges on his wall doesn’t bother me anymore. After a while, I had to sincerely refrain from stalking her via web once I reached an unhealthy level of journalistic research about someone I didn’t even really care for. Maybe a turning point was when I slightly considered signing up for Spokeo to find hidden information – and yes, I realize this makes me grade-A crazy. She is still not a person I would choose as a friend – but what’s more is I finally realized he is no longer someone I would pick as a mate.

Time has a funny way of changing things and if I’ve learned anything from the tears and the cheers to true love – it’s that the best thing about life is that it always changes. Even when there seems to be no possible way for anything to go worse, something or someone comes along to give you hope. When you’re convinced fireworks are impossible to ignite again, your heart opens up to a possibility. And when you’re feeling like your love, your company, your presence is undesirable or not good enough – a strike of confidence compels you towards something much greater: to the point where you know, without a doubt, that what really defines your worth is not a man, jealousy, or other women – but rather, yourself. And nothing, no one, no defeat, no rejection – can ever make you lose your value…unless you let it.

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Can I Hear Me Now?

I can remember a time in middle school where all I did was talk about the boy I had a crush on. I’d scribble his face all over my notebooks, pair my name with his last , and in permanent ink (because that’s how I wanted our “love” to be) write Lindsay & Mr. So-and-So forever and ever, and ever. I’d spend hours obsessing over the tiny, insignificant details, and wrap myself in the long, white, curly chord of our home phone, discussing what I thought were signs of fate with my BFFs, until and after bedtime.

Did I say middle school? Maybe I meant high school. Or college. Perhaps post-graduation? Isn’t it funny how from the time we become intrigued by love, the way we approach it doesn’t seem to change too awful much, even though we’ve become “grown-ups”?

Women are often criticized for freaking out or for being overly-emotional or taking things too seriously or reading into signals that technically weren’t fired off. Maybe so – but I think we do this to protect ourselves, prepare ourselves for the worse, and probably because we just care that much. I don’t think men necessarily care any less, yet for whatever reason (I’d like to blame how boys are raised to be more independent than women, but I digress) -they don’t let their ‘what-if’ monsters out to play very often.

It wasn’t until embarking on this journey and deciding once-and-for-all that thoughts of what men think, what men want, what men need, what men desire, will no longer lead my life, that my compulsions lessened. To overcome the urge to get fixated on something a man did, I instead, switched to focusing on myself and what I deserve. And this change, so far, has worked well for me.

So well, that I’m not sure what my friends think. Ever since I revealed Mr. Possibility went fishing in the sea of she-fishes, appropriately had a mini meltdown, followed by finally letting myself get upset – I’ve stopped talking about what happened. And really, I’ve ceased discussing him, too. Not only my friends, but some of my followers and readers have emailed me to ask: “What are you going to do about Mr. Possibility? Is he out of the picture?”

If I’m going to continue to be honest, I must admit, that no, Mr. Possibility is still somewhat a possibility. I can’t say for what type of relationship or if for any relationship whatsoever, but he hasn’t disappeared out of my life and I haven’t sent him to the Great Land of Assholes. (Though, a few ex-boyfriends are not-so happily camping there).  We are, in fact, talking on a daily basis and sometimes I give him complete hell, but I’m not writing him off just yet.

A few nights ago before I went to bed (which means morning for him), we decided to video chat instead of Gchatting or texting for an unreasonable amount of hours. We tried with Skype, which only showed my camera the first time, and then only his audio the second try. Hoping the third time’s a charm, we attempted again – but a message popped up on my end saying “Connection isn’t strong enough to video. Please turn off video to secure audio.”

My first thought, at 11:30 at night, while still typing to Mr. Possibility, was “Wait, if the connection is tempoarirly unstable, we’re supposed to close our eyes and listen? We should cease looking ahead, and take a step back to really to hear what the other end is saying?”

Well, Skype, I never thought you’d be that insightful. And neither did Mr. Possibility – when we managed to get Gmail’s video to work, he saw me scribbling in my precious black notebook that holds all of my ideas for this blog, and asked: “Did our videoing tries really inspire something? Can’t wait to read this one!”

With his return to the states still weeks away, I knew that placing all of my attention and using all of my minutes trying to battle what I feel, what I now expect, what I desire, what I think I should stand for, and what I deserve, would be wasteful. It would cause me to bombard my friends with questions they don’t want to answer repeatably (as they always have to with me), wreck my evenings, hold me back at my job, and even worse – keep me from continuing on the path I so badly wanted to travel. I know I can’t turn a blind eye forever and I should take the words he says with a grain of salt – but until there is an actual person standing in front of me, I don’t have to address everything right away.

And so, when I realized what we were developing became fuzzy on both receivers, I knew it was time for me to rid of the dial tone. I mentally clicked “end”, and let my overwhelming thoughts go. I didn’t need an operator to tell me this number can’t be reached, and to try my call again, because really, I’m not ready to call it again. Our connection, or rather our trust that we were building was interrupted, and so I typed in a new number: my own. And thus, instead of hitting re-dial or hearing a busy signal on the other end, I took my life, my emotions, my obsessions, into my own hands and I started listening. Instead of worrying if I could hear (or see) Mr. Possibility, I asked: Can I hear me now?

I stopped thinking about what it would be like to visit him, picturing the first few moments when we finally saw each other again, and hoping he’d do something so incredible he’d make into the blog for something good, instead of something unsettling. In replace of these notions and hopes I had – I put more energy into developing my sense of self, my career, my friendships, and my overall quality of life.

While I may have encountered a hiccup with Mr. Possibility, it isn’t the first one I’ve had with a man and more than likely, won’t be the last. But today, in this moment, I can’t think of any stronger signal with higher bars and a fiercely charged battery than the one I have with myself. And while that link may at times shake and stagger, it’ll never be so weak that I have to disconnect.

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The Non-Negotiables

I make incredible demands on myself.

Some may call me a perfectionist, others may coin the term “over-achiever”, and I can’t even begin to count the amount of times someone has told me they envy my bravery. But to me, none of these titles really fit who I am because I’ve never thought twice about pushing myself to the extreme or shooting for my dreams – no matter how unattainable they may seem. To me, the most terrifying risk is not giving the things that matter the most, my everything. I’d rather fail a thousand times than to never try once. My expectations are undeniably high for what I hope to achieve and where I want to go in life.

And the same level of elevated standards applies in my relationships, too.

In the past, as I would go on and on to my friends about a date gone awry, a relationship that fizzled quicker than it boiled, and how for whatever reason, it was impossible for me to find someone who wanted to stay on the same page as me – most of them, either out of frustration, wisdom, or from what they thought was the right thing to say, advised: “Well maybe you shouldn’t expect so much.”

Is going into a dating situation or even the start of an official relationship without any expectations the best solution? They say if we don’t really anticipate much, we’ll be happy and pleasantly surprised with anything we get…right?

Well, I don’t know about you – but I can’t seem to wrap my head around this idea. If we don’t have standards, if we don’t insist upon certain qualities or things that are absolutely non-negotiable, wouldn’t we only attract men who are completely wrong for us? Or even worse, end up with someone who isn’t right for us, but could be perfect for someone else? Or vice versa? Wouldn’t we miss out on someone who we don’t feel the need to change?

I believe there is this thin line between having unrealistic images and hopes for what a relationship or person will be, and demanding what you will and will not settle for. That regardless of how wonderful someone looks on paper or in person, if they don’t meet what we know we need to be fulfilled and happy, then entertaining a love affair is wasteful of our energy, heart, and time. Sure, men are people too, but so are we – and we have personal standards that we shouldn’t (and probably can’t) shake.

So yes, I have expectations, and no, I’m not willing to lower them just to be deemed someone’s girlfriend, have someone give me a Valentine’s Day card, or find my match that I’ve always been told I can’t live without. (Though, I’m pretty positive I can).

My ten non-negotiables are actually quite simple, in my opinion, anyways:

Ya gotta be employed

And legally, for the record. You could be a millionaire or make what I make, as long as you have a job and you’re not sleeping on your mother’s couch or in your childhood bedroom. If I’m going to be an adult, I want to date one, too.

Ya gotta be taller than me

I’ve only dated guys over six-foot, but I’m not opposed to seeing if a 5’10 man would fit my fancy. The only thing is I love high heels and always will; so if I can’t wear my highest ones and be at least a little shorter than you, I’m not interested. May be superficial, but absolutely true.

Ya gotta be self-sufficient

As in, it is not my responsibility to transform you. That’s up to you, bud. I don’t want to fix you, I don’t want to mend your every worry, your every self-defeating prophecy, or your every case of blue balls. I also don’t want to control every conversation or lead you through discussions – you should have opinions and charisma inside of you already, that are not because of me. Life is full of bumps and I’ll sit in the passenger seat, but you’re in the driver’s.

Ya gotta want to have sex (and it has to work)

Think all men are sex-crazed maniacs? They really aren’t, and I’ve dealt with the ones who never want to do the deed, who can’t seem to make it rise to the occasion, and who just don’t have a clue what they’re doing. At our age, we should know better. And if we don’t, we should make an effort to learn.

Ya gotta be honest

Being charming and funny are also recommended, but above all other things – you have to be genuine. A big part of my job is searching and revealing the truth, so I value it. Even if it hurts me, even if it isn’t pretty, even if it changes my mind about you – just tell me. I’d rather know than to be fooled or oblivious. And you should remember the one person you should never get on the bad side of…is a journalist.

Ya gotta have your own world

I’m not one of those ladies who wants to be the center of her man’s universe. Sure, I like to be doted on, admired, and reminded that I’m beautiful (who doesn’t?) – but I’m also very independent. Even when I’m married, I’m going to need some nights with the girls and nights just by myself. You gotta have buddies and interests and hobbies that have nothing to do with me, please.

Ya gotta have energy

I’m a fast walker, a fast talker, and always a gal on the go. While I enjoy a lazy  Sunday afternoon and will gladly sit through sports with you (as long as you’ll return the favor by going to a show), I mostly want to be doing something. And whoever I’m with, should challenge me mentally along the way. So if you’re going to date me, you’re going to have to keep up with me – this may mean you’ll need to have Red Bull within reach.

Ya gotta let yourself go

I don’t think I’m God’s gift to men – and I know you’re not God’s gift to women. But, we could be sent from the heavens to meet one another. So please, don’t take yourself too seriously. You don’t have to be the best dancer and you don’t have to sing on key – but if you can’t have fun in our living room or at a concert – I’m not going to crave having fun in other parts of the house.

Ya gotta be open-minded

Yes, I want you to have your own opinions, but I also hope you are tolerant of those things you don’t believe in, don’t like, and of those who are different from you. Brownie points if you’re addicted to community service and volunteering as much as I am.

Ya gotta like NYC, the kiddies, and the puppies

Sure – I’m not at the point where I’m ready for children, but I can’t be with someone who doesn’t want them…ever. Also, I can’t rationalize picking a mate who hates the city I adore. As for the puppies – who doesn’t love them? I mean really?

Maybe I’m being too stubborn and overly ruthless – though those qualities have served me well in my career – but when it comes to finding love, I choose to believe that I’m worthy of the best. And when or if I meet Mr. Right, he’ll know that he has someone who is more than precious – but irreplaceable, because I hold myself, him, and our love to great expectations.

And that will never be open to negotiation.

PS: I’m curious to what your non-negotiable list. Comment below or email me and I’ll tweet them!

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It Just Wasn’t There: Mr. Millionaire

When I moved to New York on a rainy March afternoon, my flight was delayed by two hours, I got a run in my panty hose, and I arrived with nothing to my name, except bags and a friend’s couch on loan. Even once I moved uptown to my humbly priced and furnished apartment and accepted my job – my life in the city of dreamers was far from dreamy.

I’ve never, even in my worse of days, regretted moving to Manhattan, but for the first three or four months, I was lonely, broke, and living off visions of what I hoped my New York life would be like one day. And so, when I spent an entire week without having a drink, meeting anyone new, or chatting with a girlfriend – I gave in and joined an online dating site. OkCupid, to be exact.

I’m still not sure what I think about digital dating and it is something I’ll explore at a later date in this blog, but at the time, I honestly used it as a way to meet people. If the only thing I had to do on the weekends was to go out with BlueEyes28, then at least I was doing something other than renting Blockbuster Express movies. I wasn’t very open on my profile, I didn’t post many photos, and because I wasn’t technically “looking for love” (was a tad creeped out by the idea of cyber romance, to be frank) – I didn’t want the dudes to know that.

Come to find out, sometimes there are worse things than having no friends: awful dates with strange men. One dude who claimed he was 29, turned out to be 36, another asked me when I was ready to have children within the first twenty minutes, a very odd one cried when he talked about his late cat, and another who said he was six-feet-tall, was barely my height. So when Mr. Millionaire shot an arrow towards me on OkCupid, I didn’t have the highest of hopes.

So instead of meeting him right away, I decided to invite him to Gchat. I figured if I could determine how he responded to my interrogations, maybe he would be an enjoyable date, as opposed to a flat-out terrifying one. Surprisingly, he was very easy to talk to. And though they were just typed sentences, we seemed to click.  I wasn’t sure how much we had in common, but when he asked if I’d go to an incredibly well-rated restaurant with him, I happily agreed. I mean, I was still living off Ramen – so how could I decline an invitation like that?

I usually attempt to be fashionably late to dates, just to keep them waiting, but somehow I arrived earlier than him, gave the name, and sat down to for some much-needed water. In the ten minutes it took him to join me at the table, I admired the scene, the smells, and the glamarous people who put my H&M dress and Carlos Santana shoes to shame. The entry-level editorial assistant in me wondered, “What am I doing here? The menu doesn’t even have prices on it!”

Before I could get too down on myself, Mr. Millionaire, in his 6’5″ stature walked in the door and I gave him my best “Oh, you look different than your pictures” fake smile. He started rambling about the traffic and how he just told his driver that he’d walk a block since it was taking so long, and he hoped my commute wasn’t bad. I started to tell him the subway and walking was just fine, but refrained and settled on a nod. When the waitress arrived, he went ahead and ordered us appetizers and cocktails, without my opinion, and then turned to start quizzing me. As I went into first-date protection mode, I studied his face, his movements, and clothes and decided this German man, was in fact, wealthy. I don’t know how scientific or accurate this is, but sometimes, you can just look at someone and know they have money.

He wasn’t an unattractive man and he had a very confident air about him. Once he seemed pleased with my responses, I became brave enough to ask him what he did for a living, and the rest of the standardized getting-to-know you questions. Had he not ordered us what I was sure was a bottle of wine well over $100, I probably would have spewed it across the room when he oh-so-casually stated:

“Oh, I own my own investment company. We have offices downtown in the Wall Street area. Currently, I’m living alone two buildings down from the Empire State in a two-bedroom on the 34th floor. It wasn’t my first pick, but it’s nice. I also am the head of a charity organization that’s really important to me.”

At this point, I considered telling him that I live on the border of Harlem, in a very, very small studio that isn’t air conditioned, and I was currently mostly friendless. But before I could say anything, he looked at me and matter-of-factly said, “You have very beautiful eyes and I’m enjoying your company – you seem like you have a lot of ambition and passion. Would you want to get drinks after this?”

Even though I wasn’t sure if I was fully attracted to him, what I thought about our vastly different lifestyles, and his nearly-bald head – I did what any intrigued young woman would do. I replied, “Well, of course!”

He didn’t attempt to kiss me at the end of our date, but did ask me if I’d like to come over two days later, to see his view, and maybe watch a movie. Knowing full and well what that usually turns into, I considered passing on his offer, but he was leaning into the cab, as I had always dreamed, and I did want to see what a real-life New York apartment looked like, so…I simply replied “Ok” and kissed his cheek, before the cabbie drove away.

I decided that if I’m going to be lonely in a city of millions – I should at least entertain the company of Mr. Millionaire. What harm could it really do?

If dating and relationships are meant to teach you not only about your wants and needs, but about yourself, then Mr. Millionaire showed me how very little I actually need, compared to what I thought I wanted. His apartment is unmistakably beautiful: he shipped all his furniture from Germany, commissioned artwork that featured portraits of the city, and he (or rather, his maid) kept the place immaculate. As for the view, I can’t give it justice in words as well as this photo can:

But even though he had this incredible residence and kissed me outside on his balcony for our “first kiss” as the sun set against the Manhattan skyline – something was off. As much as I tried, I just didn’t feel that indescribable connection that we all lust after and can never really find, unless we actually stop looking for it.  He wasn’t a bad guy by any means – his success, ambition, and humbleness impressed me, and he always did what he said he was going to do. It was just…it didn’t work. Maybe because there was a 10-year age difference or we literally lived in completely different worlds in the same city – but there were things about him that drove me crazy.

When we ordered takeout, he insisted on putting everything on plates and setting the table just so. When I gushed over the fact he had an actual washer and dryer in his own apartment, he admitted he sent his laundry out to be done for him. When we did watch that movie and I went to his fully-equipped kitchen to get some water – I realized he didn’t have any food, to which he casually said he only orders takeout, goes out, and hates to cook. He read my articles, critisized them, and though he said I had talent, he was more interested in the sex pieces I freelanced on the side. He didn’t seem to understand what publishing was about, nor did he really care too much. And when the World Cup rolled around, he said in passing he’d be staying in South Africa until it was over. Oh, because anyone can just pick up and do that.

Perhaps the most telling sign that I needed to stop seeing Mr. Millionaire, regardless of the many wonderous restaurants and events he took me to (and was planning to take me to) – was when he started to go past first base and my reaction was to run to the bathroom to keep myself from crying because it felt…so wrong. I used every excuse to let him know I needed to leave and instead of flirting with him from inside the cab, I sobbed in it the whole way home. Not due to him or his actions, but because I knew I was keeping him around for the wrong reasons.

While I never thought New York would be like Sex & the City (introduce me to one writer who writes one column a week and lives in the West Village and I may change my mind) – I did have this romantic idea about what my life would be like. And with Mr. Millionaire, I got to experience that. I was fancy and could order anything I wanted without looking at the menu, and I was lucky enough to go about town with an extremely gregarious gentleman.

But what I realized was designer clothes, apartments, views, and men can bring you a lot of joy – but they will never be enough for love. I really did want to fall head over $800-heels with Mr. Millionaire, yet not because of who he was, but for the idea of the life I could live with him. A life that didn’t include me worrying about money, traveling, or living arrangements. Sure, it would have been easy – but would it have been worth it?

As for me and my city, I’d rather make my own fortune than marry into it, eat Chinese food out of the container, naked in bed instead of sitting properly at an imported table, and be with someone, who regardless of how much money they make or what the view is like out their window – I can’t deny the magic between us. Nor would I ever think to pull away when he goes for a home-run.

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