Tag Archives: NYC

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Men Are People Too

Perhaps this isn’t breaking news to the rest of the world, but yesterday, I had an ephinany that caught me off guard (in a good way): Men are people too. Not just meant to be boyfriends, lovers, husbands, dads, businessmen, bosses, uncles, or other male-oriented titles – but just people. Like you and like me.

I promise I’m not crazy (well, at least not yet), but I’ve always viewed men as my counterpart, as these illusional characters that weave in my life, capture my heart, and ultimately leave or have the ability to crush my spirits. They are these creatures who I fall in love with, can’t stand, or believe could turn into my Prince Charming. They’ve been useful for buying dinners, teaching me how to kiss, and entertaining me with their “maleness” – but unlike the gals who are “one of the guys” – I’ve been the lady who can never seem to have a male friend.

Probably because I can’t seem to treat a man as casually as I treat a woman – and possibly, because I integrate them verbally and internally.

Much like when conducting an interview, when I meet a new male prospect, I usually determine if I’m interested or not within the first five minutes. If I’m honest – I’m actually very businesslike when I’m intrigued by a man and I’ve developed quite a habit of screening someone before I even really know more than his name and a few basic facts.

Usually, as I’m half-way listening, partly observing, and conniving just a tad – I go through a series of questions in my head: “Alright, so if I wore my super, super tall high heels, would he still be taller than me?” “Can I get close enough to see if he smells bad?” “Is he speaking intelligently? Is he holding a conversation?” “Am I really already bored?” “Is he making crude, inappropriate jokes that are racist or sexist?”  “Does he have long fingernails? Ew, gross.” “Is he interested in me or just focusing on himself?” “Is he shy? I totally can’t stand timidness in a man.” “Does he always tilt his head to the side like that when he thinks he’s being funny?” “Is he actually funny or is he trying entirely too hard?” “Am I coming across that way to him? How does he view me, anyways?”

…and the rambling thoughts goes on and on.

I don’t know if I can blame my career or my Virgo birthday as the source of this analytical approach, but I’ve done it from the time I started dating. While it may not be the best way to go about getting to know someone, I’ve been pretty good at trusting my gut – and if right from the bat, I don’t see a spark of fascination, I’ve thought it best to not waste my (or their) time. At this point, I really don’t need (or want) to lower my standards for another Mr. Temporary, Mr. Rebound, or Mr. Smother just for the mere fact I’d like someone to go on fancy dates with. Truth be told, finding a date is never really a difficult task. It’s actually being attracted enough to agree to a second take that’s an obstacle because often times, I’m fully-in or totally-out before the appetizer even arrives.

As I continue on this journey, I’m seeing myself develop more and more confidence. While I have my off days (or weekends) -overall, I’ve not only admitted those parts of my personality and mindset that are negative and change them, but also realize what it is that I want out of a relationship…and what I don’t. More so, I’ve learned to stop taking what people say to heart and to decide for myself what I think and how I view my own interactions. I mean, after being told you’re too picky, not picky enough; that you’re too old to meet a “sweetheart” and too young to get married; that you’re far too independent for your own good, and then too dependent on the likes of a man – at some point, you just gotta start tuning out the outside voices and listen to your gut.

And while I’d say my instincts more often than not steer me in the right direction, in my overly premature and dissecting way of deciding my opinion of a man, I could have missed out on some could-be loves. But maybe more importantly, I could have walked right past some dudes who would make wonderful friends, because instead of viewing them as humans, as potential platonic companions, I was only interested in what they could offer me romantically. And if I didn’t like what they brought to the table, I wrote them off and quickly moved onto the next eligible candidate.

But if I take off my emotional hat and put on my realistic one- when it comes to finding someone who I want to spend the rest of my life with – or maybe just a few dates – don’t I want to be with a dude who I view as a friend? Sure, passion and mystery and intrigue and all of those butterfly-inducing qualities are high in importance for me – but at the core of my desires, and when I picture my future, don’t I want someone who I can just talk to? Who will get me? Who I feel comfortable enough to be myself around?

Someone who makes mistakes, who may not say the right thing at the right time but is his own person, someone who may not be the next Dane Cook, but is charming, someone who challenges me, but isn’t impossible – someone who, like me, isn’t perfect – but human?

Love addict tendencies, like romanticizing every single man who walks past me on the street or who I’m introduced to by mutual friends, may be enjoyable in the moment (fun to pretend at times, right?) – but aren’t suitable for long term anything. Where it be friendship or relationships. I may size up my prey and determine if they’re worthy of the fight, but does that mean second impressions can never change my mind?

If I stopped treating men for just what I think they can give me: love, sex, reaching the top shelf, opening tight jars, and checking off a box on my life’s to-do list, and instead took every casual encounter at a bar, on the morning commute, or at the deli around the block at face value – maybe I’d be able to take some pressure off.

And perhaps if I took a step back and instead of wondering what it’s like to be his lover, I’ll imagine what it’s like to just be his friend.

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This is My Stop

After living in the city for a while, there are certain tricks you seem to master when it comes to public transportation. As an avid train rider (buses kind of scare me), I’ve learned exactly which part of the track to wait at, so when I get off at my stop, I’ll be the closest to the exit. I’ve grown accustomed to standing, without holding the rails, unless I absolutely have to. If I’m lucky, I always try to sneak a seat at the edge of the bench for more room and to make it easier to weave through a crowd of people to leave.

And, like every New Yorker you’ll see passing time before their ride arrives, I stare down the tracks, waiting impatiently for the train. Somehow, we’re all convinced that if we keep glaring down the dark passageway as we pace in our little areas or bravely lean up against something we probably shouldn’t – not only a train, but our train, will appear faster. Some people, who are far less afraid of falling than I am, basically project themselves to the very edge, just hoping to see a glimpse of the headlights. I’m not sure why this is necessary but no matter how long between swiping my Metro and stepping off the platform, I spend the majority of the time just gazing down the tracks.

Admitting the nature of my wrongs – I must confess that though I’m meant to be a leading lady, I’ve mostly been a lady in waiting. A woman who though she had a good head on her shoulders, her feet planted confidently in the ground, and all of the hope in the world bursting inside of her – she still felt like she was waiting for the pieces to fall together. I was glaring down at my own darkness and emptiness, unsure of when the next great thing or life-altering adventure would come pick me up and take me to my final stop.

Really, I was waiting for my love train to arrive.

This attitude made me an active observer of my life, instead of a participant. Though I was alive, I was not living because I felt like something was missing. And that if only I could catch the sight of the one thing I thought would fulfill all of my desolation, then I’d see the light at the end of the tunnel. That even if I couldn’t actually see the man, if I could rest assured that he was in fact coming, I wouldn’t have to keep waiting for him to get here. I could sit down, relax, and know that within at least an hour, he’d be by my side, and I wouldn’t have to fear falling in love, or to the ground, because he’d be there, no matter what.

But now, as a woman who is less afraid to stand on the brink of tomorrow – I realize there is no need to wait. Haven’t I been more than capable of finding, boarding, riding, and exiting all of the many transitions I’ve experienced? Haven’t I enjoyed the company of myself and content from the buzzing streets of Manhattan? Haven’t I found joy in the laughter of my friends, the surge of inspiration that comes from simply seeing my own byline, or the bravery that blooms from taking chances you know you’d regret if you never did? And even though it is scary and it makes vulnerability necessary, haven’t I been secure enough to open myself up to possibilities and my own desires, regardless of the outcome?

Haven’t I been using my $100+ a month subway pass to ride the love train for a while now? I mean, don’t I love my life? And aren’t I learning to love myself? Haven’t I been at my own stop in my own life?  I’ve never needed a man to show me how to get myself from point A to point B – so why would I put on hold all of those things I want to do, places I want to see, and opportunities I want to take, for fear that if I do, I’ll miss the next train to happily ever after?

I don’t want to feel like I’m waiting for my ducks to be in a row, for a ring to be on my finger, for security to be in my heart because I can trust it with someone else – but instead, I want to celebrate the freedom I have to just be me. To simply, selfishly, live my life.

I want to go. I want to see the world. I want to move and run and travel and do. I want to speak Italian fluently. I want to have enough money to give it away. I want to volunteer for months. I want to learn to meditate. I want to go to a restaurant and not look at the prices before anything else. I want to take a cooking class. I want to take dance lessons. I want to have a foreign affair. I want to order an entire meal in another language. I want a puppy. I want French toast.  I want to go to JFK and ask where the next flight is going and hop on it. I want to own pretty things. I want my name to be recognizable to the women who think they are not good enough, pretty enough, or interesting enough to have a man. I want them to know they don’t need one. I want them to realize, from me, there is no need to worry, no need to hurry, but to just trust the process. I want them to trust themselves. I want the city to beat me up a couple times, just so I can come back and prove my honor. I want to fulfill all of those things on my bucket list. I want to move from this damn apartment. I want to go to some smoky jazz club and drink champagne. I want to stand on the top of a mountain hundreds of thousands of miles away. I want so much more than I ever thought I wanted.

I want more than simply what the presence, the arrival, of a man can give me. And I know now that I don’t need to anticipate him or prepare for him to come into my life. I can and what’s more, I want, to do so many things…utterly on my own.

Because we all know, somewhere in the deepest corners and hidden crevices of our hearts, that our train will eventually come. Even when it is 3 in the morning and we’ve been waiting for thirty minutes, and our patience is growing weary – when we are busy focusing on other things and least expect it, we see the lights reflecting against the tracks, and feel the relief come over us.

And sometimes, that train happens to be a local one, when we need the express. Or it is going uptown, instead of downtown. Or maybe it is even out of service and passes our stop completely, and we glare at it as it disappears into the night. Nevertheless, we remember, that when in doubt, when we’re exhausted of the lingering, if we need to or if we just want to, we can forget about the next arrival, go above ground, throw our hand in the air, hail a cab, and go wherever we want.

P.S. If you’ve linked to Confessions of a Love Addict, let Lindsay know for the “Support” page. Email her.

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The Jungle of Having Single Sex

When my mother decided it was time to have the “talk” about where babies come from – she steered away from an actual discussion completely. Instead, she handed me a book, told me to read it, and should I have any questions, she’d be happy to answer them. So, I laid on the grass in the middle of a Carolina summer as a rather inquisitive 10 year old, read every last word on every last page, and the only confusion I had was quite simple.

“Mom, he puts it there?” I asked. “Yes, sweetie,” she replied. “But why would anyone want to do that?” I doubted, and she reassured me, “It is a natural thing. You’ll see.”

And so, I did.

Being a single gal in the city, as your versions of Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte will tell you, also means being a woman with needs. And as much as we’d like to cross our legs, pat our lips, and say with intent we don’t think about such naughty things – the truth of the matter is sometimes we really want to have mind-blowing, no questions-asked or excuses-made…sex. Perhaps girls just wanna have fun, but sometimes, we just wanna have sex, too.

But for many women, myself included, there may not be such a thing as “no strings attached.” Try as we may (with the encouragement of our good friends tequila and vodka) to be nonchalant sexual vixens, there’s something about exposing ourselves emotionally and physically that makes us leech onto the partner watching. There are some Samantha’s out there who have the ability to be more casual about the whole she-bang, but even the Sammie’s get their heart (or pride) damaged a bit from time-to-time.

I’m not sure if it’s due to the journey, me growing up, or just the reality of an “adult” relationship – but Mr. Possibility is the first man who I’ve been able to sleep with and not let my emotions get the best of me. Admittedly, there are definitely some feelings there – or I would have never cared about  his explorations overseas – but when we made the move from platonic to sexual, instead of thinking “Oh my God, if I never hear from him again, my number just went up for nothing! What have I done? Does he actually really care about me or was it just sex?” – I realized that regardless if anything ever came to be with us, I enjoyed an experience. And if he never called me back, I’d promptly write him off as a dick (no pun intended), move on with my life, and have at least a great New York sex story to tell my friends.

Now, I’m not suggesting we all run around our respective cities (countries or small towns) and spread our legs to any man who is intrigued – but why do we always hold ourselves back from encounters because we’re afraid of a walk of shame that may never lead to a walk in the park? If we’re friends with someone, if we know someone well enough, if we trust them, and we see potential for something more – shouldn’t we see if the connection is in every area? Or maybe if we don’t even see possibility in romance, but the chance for a raving romp, why don’t we allow ourselves to act upon it? Why can’t we decide not only what we want in a relationship, celebrate our singleness and sexuality, but also give ourselves enough credit to demand incredible sex (instead of lack luster). Maybe even more importantly –  why can’t we excuse ourselves for having desires that are totally normal and dare I say it, healthy.

There seems to be this thin line between taking up for ourselves, choosing our independence, and our dignity, and giving ourselves enough freedom and forgiveness to discover those sides we keep hidden away – for fear it won’t look good or we’re feel awful in the post-orgasm haze. I mean, in an earlier post, I talked about how my mild make out session with Mr. Unavailable made me feel a tad bit dirty and entirely guilty for something that’s not even really…bad.

Am I, or was I, placing a double standard on myself? I had wants and I fulfilled them, so why should that be something to be ashamed of? Do we think that men are the only ones who are brave enough to navigate the jungle of having single sex?

Yesterday, I went on a photo shoot for my magazine at a new modern, luxury bowling alley in the city (yeah, believe it) – and each room represented a different part of New York. Some of the cover shots were in the “Times Square” room which featured neon-lights that read “Pussycat” and a red curtain. The idea was to have the business owner straddling the two lanes, holding two bowling balls, with the lights lit behind him.

To get the lighting accurate, the photographer asked me to pose in the frame until she got it right. Of course, because it said “pussycat” and with my last name, she asked me to act like an animal and be sexy, just for fun. So in my red sweater dress, I posed, clawed, and made seductive faces, and we both giggled as she went through the raw footage. As I was watching the slideshow of photos, I realized: sometimes it just feels good to be sexy. To own, to define, to take pride in the fact that you’re a sexual creature.

I’m not sure where I stand on friends-with-benefits, no-strings attached relationships, or the notion that women (and some men) can be careless about sex without getting their feelings hurt. And if Mr. Possibility would have turned his back on me or if I felt like I was used for sex, I know I would have felt cheap and disposable. I may never be a seductress who can prance on the top of bars or flutter from one bed to another without blinking an eye – but I’m also not ashamed of my desires to be pleasured. Part of love, after all, is making love.

Men may be typically labeled bachelors and players, while women are called sluts and fluseys when sex is a hobby for them outside of a relationship or marriage – and both sexes may be judged for their decisions to come and to go. But it isn’t about what other people think or what’s acceptable or unacceptable.

It’s about what we think. And we get to decide how to associate sex and self-image as individuals. Sex is act-by-act, and each time we knock boots, it’s a case-by-case situation – no generalizations apply. The reasons for guilt or the negative tags tied to doing-the-deed without careful consideration, are usually not from the outside world (because they don’t know about our adventures unless we tell them). Those feelings are based off the pressure and the stigmas we place on ourselves. So on the journey of learning to love who we are – why don’t we give ourselves some more liberty?

Because sometimes, even if we get hurt or we lose a little confidence, if we trust ourselves, our gut, and our instincts (not a guy, not the world), then we know that no matter what we do, we can be certain we did what was best for us at that particular moment.

And the rest of it – be damned.

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A Toast to My Ladies

Much like when I moved to New York, when I went away to college – I didn’t really know anyone. Sure, I stayed in-state, so I knew of a handful of classmates who attended the same university, but no one who was in my core group of friends. I was probably more afraid of traveling two hours away from home than I was about moving 12 hours to the city.

As an overachiever, I landed myself on the Leadership & Service floor, where I was surrounded by others who went above-and-beyond in college (or those who just knew it was a nice dorm to stay in and somehow were accepted). The 40 or so of us called ourselves “L3” (for the residence hall name and floor number) and traveled in packs…everywhere. To the gym, to the parties, to the quad, and to the classes we all had together – and within those dozens, out of luck (and a bit of fate) – I met the two women who would define, shape, and share my college tenure.

A, was my first roommate. I’m an only child (technically I have a half-brother, but I don’t really know him), so going away for school was the first time I ever had to share my space. Fortunately, A was quite easy to live with, we shared the same sleeping/eating routines, and well – we became the very best of friends right from the get-go. My first memory of her is linking arms, skipping down the main strip in our college town, and giggling about how we were going to our first fraternity party. It wouldn’t be our last time frolicking about campus like we ruled the world–she’d go on to be an ambassador for our school, while I’d be high-up in the school newspaper and eventually, join a sorority, and attend more Greek parties than I’d like to admit.

Four rooms down from A and I, lived L – a girl who when I initially saw her, was instantly jealous. To this day, I still think she is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on. Her skin is flawless, her body has always been in tip-top shape (even when she doesn’t try), and she knows how to dress. Truth be told, before meeting L – I didn’t even wear “real bras”, but rather, sports bras because I was rather uncomfortable with my bigger beauties. While they’ve shrunk since then (I lost the freshman 15 instead of gaining it), I’ve remained a loyal customer at Victoria’s Secret ever since, thanks to L. Together, we went through some of the most difficult periods anyone can experience: my father’s illness, the passing of her mother, countless boyfriends (and lovers), and maintaining a long-distance friendship when we’d both go other places.

These women, while vastly different, gave me most of what I needed in the three-and-a-half years I attended college. When they met me, I was overly indulged in my love-addiction-ness, and they both said: “Linds, why are you so worried about this? We’re so young; we have all the time in the world. Ya know, I don’t even know if I want to get married!” A and L are very independent, like me, and had such large dreams for themselves, such high ambitions for where’d they be and what they wanted to do that relationships were completely off of their mind. This was a far-fetched idea for someone like me, who lived, breathed, and obsessed about love.

At the time, I was dumbfounded that anyone could ever truly not have the desire to get married (I’ve since changed my mind), but what’s more ironic is that A and L had more boyfriends and longer relationships than I did in college. They didn’t freak out too badly about them, but if you count up my time flying solo and their time – mine is much higher.

And now, L is in the army and engaged (I’ll be the MOH!), and A is on a four-month all-around-the-world vacation with the man I’m convinced she’ll marry. As for me, I’m single. Scratch that – happily single.

Isn’t it funny how the tables turn?

When senior year rolled around and I couldn’t stop talking about moving to New York, breaking up with Mr. Idea, and starting my writing career – they were in love with their boyfriends and wondering when they’d finally get that ring. When A came to visit me for fashion week in September, we even spent a few hours on Diamond Way, where I took notes about what size, style, and cut she’d like. And when L was given one phone call during boot camp, we spent the majority of the time discussing whether or not the “feeling” that her boyfriend would propose over Christmas meant anything. Well, since he’s her fiancée now, her gut was psychic. (Isn’t it always?)

Don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy for both of them and I actually like the guys they’ve picked as life partners – which if you know either of my friendships with these ladies, is quite the miracle. Us girls are pickier about the men our friends date, then we are about the ones we partner up with, right?

But with A and L being currently unreachable by text or phone call, I’ve realized how true it is that like life and love, friendships are in stages and cycles, too. Instead of being the one who is overly concerned with the man in her life, I’ve now become the bouncing board for my friends who are. Instead of crying and getting all sorts of upset about the Guy-of-Friday, I’m trying to help my friends get into the dating scene. And maybe even stranger, I’m growing closer and closer to other gals (the single ones), and further away from A and L.

Like any relationship that is meant to be – I’m sure when we actually get to spend some time together again, it will be like no time passed at all and our banter will flow the same, but there will be a major difference. And that’s me.

Sometimes I worry about the fact that this journey is literally changing me. The way I approach things, the way I respond, the way I think, and perhaps even the way I feel towards certain areas of my life, primarily love, continues to transform. I can’t help but wonder, what if those who have known me forever, start to wonder who the hell they’re talking to and don’t even recognize the Lindsay they once knew?

I’d like to think that even with my growth and maturity, I’m still the hopeful woman who believes there is a Mr. Right out there for me – it’s just now, he isn’t my primary concern. While I may not be able to relate to having the feeling of ‘just knowing’ or really crave it, I’m thrilled for those who have. And when L (and soon, A, I’m sure) transcends down to ‘I do’ with a man – I trust she knows ‘I am’ here for her, just as much as he is, if not more.

So, here’s to my ladies: to L and to A and my new friends (on and offline), regardless if you’re single or taken, married, widowed, or engaged, old or young, bitter or hopeful, addicted or uninterested in love – let’s stand by each other, hand and hand or click by click, through thick and thin, the princes and the frogs – and know that regardless of where this crazy journey takes us or where we end up, that we have one constant that never changes: the power of friendship. Let’s accept each other for where we are in our lives, where we’re going, and what we’re doing – even if we’ve never experienced or chosen it for ourselves. After all, we are each other’s soulmates more so than any man could be, anyways.

And with this toast, I hope L and A see that instead of sailing around the dance floor in a big white dress in front of a fleet of bachelorettes, I’d rather dance on tables during fleet week with some lonely sailors.

I hope they’ll understand. And something tells me…they will.

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I Am Ms. Right

Somewhere in this world, and perhaps in this city, lives a man.

He is a living, breathing, actual person with a history that I don’t know. He was born somewhere and he may or may not have moved away from his hometown. He has a freckle in an odd place that’s hidden away under his clothes. He has an ex-girlfriend who broke his heart, a certain way he loves to be kissed, and he may care less if the Jets won or loss. He has a food that he can’t get enough of, a vegetable he isn’t the biggest fan of, and a scar that has a story. He has buddies he’s known since elementary school and a teacher who made an impact that lasted past the classroom. He knows every single word to a few songs, has read a book or two that he couldn’t put down, and he has a place he dreams of going, but never has. He may have an affinity for Southern-raised women who are writers with blue eyes and big city dreams, who also have the independence and ambition to make them a reality.

I haven’t met this man. Or if I have, I don’t know it yet. But this person, with all of his incredible and messy qualities, is the man I have faith I will meet, and possibly marry one day. I don’t believe in the idea of a soulmate who makes your “half” a whole, but I do trust there is a single person for everyone, who is suitable (and preferable) for life-long commitment.

Before this journey, the fact that my person, my hubby-to-be, existed, and I had no control over when I’d meet him – really bothered me. I would watch all of my friends, either on Facebook or in real life – getting engaged, talking about how they met their match, and waltzing down the aisle, and all I could think was: “Why not me?! Why don’t I deserve to meet my guy? Where the hell is he?”

And so, to combat these desperate thoughts that made me feel unworthy and unattractive, I immersed myself in romantic illusions about him – and at any given moment, I prepared for our paths to cross.

Somehow, fantasies of an elusive Mr. Right: what he’ll look like, how he’ll kiss me, how we’ll meet, how we’ll both ‘just know’, and how it will all play into a divinity I’ve yet to experience – are easier to dream about then to focus on what really deserves attention: myself.

And that’s a self-defeating approach I’ve seemed to master. I’ve had a reoccurring dream about being married to someone named Brian Ward, who I’ve yet to meet – but if you’re out with me, and a dude says his name is Brian, my head whips around quicker than it does when I see a sample sale near my office. I’ve filled nearly two notebooks full of “Letters to My Husband” that have chronicled my life since junior year in college, and I only stopped writing in it when I started this blog. As ridiculous as it may sound, I went to a psychic (who has been scarily accurate thus far) and she told me to put a rose quartz in the most right-hand corner of my room along with a list of all the qualities I looked for in my future husband, to bring him near me, faster.

Yeah, you guessed it, I followed instructions. The little package even made the move to New York, only to be packed away when I decided I had enough of this love-addiction mess. Until I realized that my expectations of this man, who while I’m sure will be charming, will most likely not be a prince, and will really have no need to rescue me from anything. So what was I doing putting all of this energy into him? Especially when I haven’t even, technically, met him?

While I was picturing him, getting lost in the endless wondering of when (or if) I would meet him or pondering if I could catch a glimpse of him on the next train or bump into him at the next cocktail hour – I had forgotten that a relationship with myself is really the one I needed to be working on.

Really, I knew had a choice: I could get lost in this fantasy character I’ve established in my mind, with dark wavy hair, blue eyes, and perfect, succulent lips who makes more money than I can dream of (but is insanely humble and talented) – or I could first accept myself, and then accept him, for whoever he is. This doesn’t mean I settled for less than I deserved or lowered my standards, but I realized that instead of writing him letters and wishing on a “magical” pink-colored stone, I could just go about my life and let whatever is meant to happen, happen.

I still have a ways to go on this journey, but I hadn’t realized how much progress I made until a handsome stranger locked eyes with me on the subway yesterday and I smiled back, before getting off at my stop – and it occured to me: I haven’t thought about running into Mr. Right in such a long time.

And that was it. I did it. I finally let go of anticipating our encounter or wishing on stars to meet him.

And today, I’m a living, breathing person. I have dozens of stories that he doesn’t know. I’ve been lucky to love some wonderful men, and I’ve learned from the ones who have done me wrong. There are foods that I would never give up, for any diet, and I admittedly have memorized most Backstreet Boy songs. I have a scar on my left wrist that’ll forever remind me of the car accident that changed my view on charity. I’m full of endless hope and can be inspired by even the slightest of sightings, conversations, or words. I’m short, but my personality isn’t.

Regardless of when he stumbles into my life or what he is really like or what color his eyes are, I am just as important of a character, of a person, as he is. And finally, he isn’t my top concern, my highest priority, or the thing I worry the most about. I don’t dress to impress him, imagine all of the ways I could meet him during the activities before me each morning, or curse the universe for delaying our impending marriage.

Instead, my look, my style, is my own. I look forward to the moments of my day where I’ll do something that’s fulfilling and helps others. And I thank the heavens above for giving me the chance and the drive to devote my passion, my enthusiasm to the most important, most beautiful, and most life-altering relationship I’ll ever experience: the love I have for me, or what I’d like to call myself…Ms. Right.