Tag Archives: NYC

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Skating Around Love

Since I started this blog, nearly a month and a half ago, I’ve made a lot of progress. I have learned how to not only recognize but to alter negative habits into good ones. I’ve learned how to realistically and lovingly talk to myself, and more so, accept myself for who I am –even the messy parts.

I’ve also become a lot stronger and my word choice when talking to myself (promise I’m not crazy), has become more encouraging than self-defeating. Instead of being jealous of couples, I’ve learned to be happy for them and to smile at the sight of love. Instead of thinking with a never-ever attitude, I’ve started to use a more one-day-at-a-time mentality.

But, like any good addict who is a teensy-bit obsessed, I have vices that come up. Even when you think you’re doing a good job of swaying your feelings and thoughts to be healthier –something pops up and throws you off of your pretty little recovering high horse.

For me, all it took was seeing the ice skating rink at Rockefeller Center yesterday.


Since I had a meeting near the Rock yesterday, my friend Mr. Unavailable and I met for a quick lunch. As I was waiting for him to come down from his office, I turned around and out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the skaters.

Now, for those of you who may not know me personally (although if you read this blog, you know a lot) – I’ve always been in love with New York. And for me, everything right, beautiful, and worthy in this world is on this tiny, but boisterous island. Sights in New York bring me more joy than any man ever has come close to bringing.

Because of this 15-year-city-crush, I’ve developed quite a few romantic notions about what my love life would be like once I moved here. So far, all of them have been proven dramatically wrong, but of course, I’m learning to keep my hopes and my head held high.

But no amount of self-encouraging and doting could compare to the weight in my heart and the lump in my throat when I saw Rockefeller Center. In an instant, all of these ideas I’ve built up in my head about the skating rink came flooding back:

Skating (or rather attempting to) with an attractive man with our cheeks rosy from the cold, the movement, and the flirty anticipation. Starting to stumble and being caught by him as we laugh at how ridiculous we both look. And that moment when he reaches out for my hand and we have that look, the look that says “this could be something.”

And with those thoughts, other things about the winter season and the city started coming to mind: It’s going to start snowing soon and when I see that first snowfall, I’ll want to be kissed. I’ll want to experience it with someone…right? And who will be there? Probably no one.

Christmas isn’t far away and I always feel extra lonely when it’s the holiday season and everyone is getting special/personalized gifts from their loves and I get the same zip-up hoodie from my grandma that I’ve unwrapped for years. And the dreaded dinner where everyone is in pairs and I sit alone, the awkward one without any cute story to tell, cheek to kiss, or secret glance to share.

And just look at those skaters….that was supposed to be me this year. Wasn’t 2010 supposed to be the year I got everything I ever wanted?

In the midst of this, Mr. Unavailable came up, stood next to me and asked, “Whacha lookin’ at?” Of course, I smiled and replied, “Just always dreamt of it and here it is.” With enough struggles of his own, I didn’t include the rest of my ridiculousness as he (as a Queens native) showed me around the area to get a good look, and in quiet reflection, I dreamt about everything I have had planned for this silly little rink.

After our lunch and my meeting, I thought about how much I freaked out in that moment looking at Rockefeller and wondered why it bothered me so much to see something I’ve loved and looked forward to seeing in person for a decade. I mean, I even have a Christmas decoration that’s of skaters at Rockefeller Center! Frankly, the more I thought about it, the more I became really disappointed in myself and extremely frustrated.

Why does it bother me? Why does it matter? Why is it, that even after all this work, I just can’t let go? Why does seeing such a beautiful site irk me so badly? Why does it literally make my heart race and cause tears to well up in my eyes…seconds before I meet an attractive man (yeah, he’s unavailable, but he’s still cute)?

Does the fact that it gets to me, mean I’m not actually progressing, but just skating around my issues? Skating around my desire for love, pretending it doesn’t exist? Am I really approaching this as I should and need to? Am I doing something wrong…or am I just human?

So having these romantic notions –good or bad? I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing, but I hate that it hurts to think about them, especially with all the work I’m putting into not hurting. Am I always going to have these notions? Of course. But I don’t want them to be painful or disruptive to my day, my confidence, or my life. Will I stop wanting these things? Probably not, but I hope I can accept not having them.

I think maybe it’s time to take myself out on another date…far away from those skaters. I’m not sure what I’ll do when I see the Christmas tree all lit up. Although, Mr. Unavailable did mention an ‘in’ he had….we’ll see.

Click here for photo credit.

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Museum of Lost Love

I’m an avid museum-goer. When I interned in the city nearly three years ago, I made it my mission to go to every famous museum Manhattan had to offer. And now that I live here, I sincerely need to go more often than I do.

There is something incredibly fascinating about seeing items that once belonged to people hundreds of years ago. Just by looking at artifacts, you can envision how daily life was, what fashion was popular, and what roles were defined by men and by women. You can witness first-hand talented artists and individuals who not only existed in their time, but have the gift to transcend centuries.

And maybe because I’m a writer (or I think just way too much), I always attempt to think of the story behind those portrayed in paintings or sculptures. Did the sculptor love this woman who he shaped so beautifully? Did the artist who painted this happy family hear them fight and scream behind closed doors? Do the Egyptians really mean something different than what we’ve all determined they meant in their inscriptions?

As I walked through the Met on Saturday, I thought about how as humans, not only do we remember the stories behind items (and others try to guess), but we place so many parts of our stuff and our hearts behind glass. And once a relationship ends, parts of our lives that were once alive and vivacious become not only dead-to-us, but completely forbidden.

When a relationship ends, why do we put parts of ourselves away in a Museum of Lost Love?

For instance, when my most recent ex and I broke up, Mr. Idea (which I’ll get into more detail about in a post to come), I all-but deleted Dave Matthews Band from my music collection. Because we both shared a love for DMB, we spent a lot of our relationship listening to them, and of course, our song is by them as well. When we broke up, it was much too painful to listen to anything DMB for a while, and when someone else would mention them, my stomach would churn. Of course, this is normal for someone dealing with heartbreak – but I could list all sorts of remnants from other relationships that cause me pain, too.

So when does that end?

We can’t spend all of our lives avoiding music, restaurants, places, foods, smells, or clothes that remind us of someone we once loved. We can’t cringe at the thought of a name or meeting someone who looks a lot like a boyfriend three-years-removed. At some point, there has to be a time when we completely let go and start putting in all the things we love back into our lives.

And the same goes with our hearts.

Sure, everyone we love remains with us. And hopefully, if the love was returned, they keep that feeling with them too. But, to be able to meet the person we’re meant to be with or to completely fall in love with ourselves, like we need to, we have to have all pieces together.

When the Mr’s stop being Unavailable, Flings or Ideas, and turn into Mr. Right – he doesn’t need to be led around rooms in our souls that are off-limits because a man before him touched them. He shouldn’t get half-a-heart because someone else has the rest.

But even before Mr. Right – there has to be a point where we accept all of the pain we’ve endured, the disappointments we’ve dealt with, and the love we’ve experienced, and lost. We have to come to a point where we accept that what is over, is over for a reason – and what is before us is so much more important, more exciting, and more brilliant, than what’s behind us.

There is no need for a museum to preserve and to highlight what happened, even if we enjoy the stories of long ago. Those stories will never be forgotten or deleted, but their endings will remain the same, and shouldn’t be rewritten.

It is only when we break through that glass, no matter how painful or dangerous that may be, that we can turn the page to a new chapter. And if we just let ourselves continue to the next plot twist, we will see that we never needed to create that “Love Lost Museum” in the first place.

That really, our relationship residue isn’t meant to be overly examined by ourselves and others –but to just be exactly what it was in the time that it happened. Our hearts don’t belong in a museum to never be touched again for fear they will be ruined, but they need to be out there in the open, ready for whatever, and whomever, lays before us.

No admission should be necessary, but you can request a suggested donation of dinner-and-a-movie, if you’d like.

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My Date with Freedom

New York is in its most amazing prime: fall.

The leaves are changing, the weather is ideal for a light weight everything, and each sight you see is just absolutely gorgeous. To celebrate the majesty of the season, I decided to take myself on a date. If I am falling in love with little ol’ me, part of the romance is treating myself to a day with me, myself, and I.

After a three-mile run, I dressed up in a tight black sweater dress and high-heeled brown boots with my leopard print pashmina, and headed to the subway. For days, some little voice inside my head had been telling me to go to the Met; so, for once, I listened.

When the train arrived at 86th street, I headed through the park, around the reservoir to look at the changing colors and the beauty of the sun reflecting against the water while the wind tousled my hair. Every single direction I looked, I was captivated by how perfectly peaceful the city can be -even with so many people constantly surrounding you.

I walked slowly and freely, observing and taking in everything around me. I turned off my iPod, I put up my phone, and I embraced the simplicity and the stillness of just being alone. I didn’t have to talk to anyone, discuss what to do next, or where to go: I only had to speak to myself. When I wanted to stop and stare, I stopped. When I was bored, I continued. When my feet hurt, I sat down. When I wanted a water, I got some. And of course, I took pictures of the skyline.

As I walked through the park, I saw beautiful babies in strollers and toddlers playing catch with their dads. I saw couples holding hands and stealing a kiss. I watched tourists figure out their next move, and New Yorkers push their way through them. I heard languages of every kind and sirens in every direction. I brushed by friends giggling at a share secret and artists bargaining for a fair price for their original design. I witnessed a homeless man begging for a dime and runners brisk by me without missing a beat. The park’s energy was vivid and real, unforgiving, and relentless. It was superbly New York.

Once I reached the Met, I carefully wiggled my way between crowds, made my donation, and explored the vicinity. I walked through centuries of artists, rooms from long ago, and sculptures that once lived on four different continents. I smiled at strangers, half-way examined my map, and continued through each room thinking of all the people who have seen, touched, and been part of every single piece in the museum. I admired a couple vigorously discussing a piece of art before turning to each other and smiling, and the gentleman kissed his wife’s head.

And of course, as I crossed into the medieval room, I found a knight-in-shining armor. I tilted my head at him and decided that since I was on a date with myself, it wouldn’t be polite to dream of the man who once was in that suit. And then again, I thought I wouldn’t want to because it looks very stiff and painful –not quite something I’d like to snuggle up to.

Once I reached the top floor, I realized how tired my feet were getting, and that the sun was just beginning to set. I looked through the window and watched the trees dance in the breeze, and for a moment the world paused. New York felt like home just as it always has, but the peace of it started to settle in my soul. And when I feel good in my soul, I always want to have some lovely red wine to sit well in my tummy.

So off I went, back through the park, crossing landmarks and even more strangers. I walked passed bridges and lovers, pennies on the ground, pigeons hopping along, and faces of every shape and kind. I didn’t touch up my makeup and I didn’t feel cold or lonely -just confident. I walked until I was on the West side near my train and found a cute Italian restaurant that looked to the east.

I asked for a table for one outside and a kind Italian man brought me a menu and a gracious smile. I ordered a tall glass of wine, a tomato and goat-cheese salad with bread, and ate every single bite while I read an old book I’d been meaning to read for weeks. I listened to the wind and the conversations around me. I observed the people walking by: families and friends, women with babies, women in heels. Men with collared shirts and running clothes, children laughing and playing in the streets. Elderly couples bickering at each other, women drinking Starbucks, and smoking cigarettes. The city was embracing its people and as an observer, I took full advantage of the presentation. The diversity is beautiful.

The date ended with a walk back to my apartment, just about ten blocks, and I thought of how truly blessed I am to live here. To live in the one place I’ve always, always wanted to live. And for the first time, I realized how lucky I am to be single.

Before the cute little girls in pink jackets who will call me “Mommy”. Before the man who will come up behind me and wrap his arms around me and whisper in my ear. Before the ten pounds that will most likely come with age. Before the canes and the wrinkles. Before the bills and the heavy decisions. Before I no longer can call this city my home address. Before I must consider another person with every single choice I make, road I take, or direction I go. Before there are loads of laundry and dishes to wash that aren’t mine. Before there are soccer games and retirement plans and houses to keep up. Before there are in-laws and anniversaries, birthdays, and graduations. Before I am part of a ‘we’. Before I am a mother. Before I am a wife. Before I am menopausal. Before…the rest of my life, I have one of the most precious gifts anyone can ever have, and many have fought for: freedom.

The freedom to just be. To just go. To walk or to run. To stop or to play. To wonder or to discover. To believe or to question. To cry or to smile. To wake up and travel or sleep in and to stay. To hope or to disdain. To achieve or to succumb. To be…

…me.

It was the best date of my life. And I know, with my whole heart without any doubt or insecurity, that I’ll call the next day. And me, will still be there waiting.

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And Then, I Surrendered

You would think with yesterday’s post – I would have attempted to be a little more upbeat about my appearance.

Maybe it’s the grime in New York or my hormones are all screwy or I’m PMSing, but for some reason my face keeps breaking out awful. Even worse than it has ever been in the past. I figure, I’m 22 years old, when does this preteen/teen zit-face crap stop? I mean, seriously? I go to an interview or attend a networking event and I have such a lovely red pimple on my cheek? So professional.

Ughhhh.

So of course, I wear makeup. And I’ve gotten really good at picking makeup that doesn’t look cakey, but of course, with a zit, you put more on (even though you’re not supposed to) to cover it up. End result? I feel like I’m unattractive. And thus – my confidence goes down.

I woke up Friday morning with a new sucker on the left side of my cheek. And just by the feel of it and how it is starting to sprout, I know it’s going to be a big one. Years of getting them teaches you how to prepare for them. So, already, just by looking in the mirror when I get up, I feel awful. And then, I get mad at myself for feeling this way when I know I’m trying not to with this journey.

I put on my makeup, go through the motions, and already feel oily and gross –but I put on a cute outfit and just go for it. By lunchtime, I’ve seen myself in the bathroom mirror several times (thank you, Starbucks) – and each time I find a different flaw. I quickly combat my thoughts with positive reinforcements, but it fails to make me feel prettier.

I go out to H&M to buy a new jacket (the cold weather finally got me), where I was bumped into excessively and got further annoyed. After I paid, I made my way to Guy & Gallard for their soup and half-sandwich deal that I love so much. While I was paying, this rather attractive man started chattin’ it up with the very-obnoxious girl in front of me. She had tanning-bed written all over her and she was leaving nothing up to mystery…if you know what I mean. And he was intrigued? I then felt more unattractive and stomped out of the store, nearly spilling my soup in my carry-out bag.

As I walked down the street, I noticed that no man took note of me. That’s a lie – no man I would remotely be interested in took note of me. I started to wonder, why don’t I turn heads? Is it because I wear makeup? Because I’m not hanging out? It is 50-degree weather, why would I bare-it-all? Is it because of this massive oncoming zit? Guys like natural, we all know, but what if you don’t like how you look naturally?

Again, I say: ugghhhh.

I walk up the four flights of stairs up to my office, literally stomping as hard as I can – because I can and no one is around to notice the temper-tantrum I’m throwing for myself. I even half-way punch a wall on the way up (because I can’t really punch) and then get petty with my co-worker J via IM when I sit down to eat.

And then, as I’m yelling at myself, putting myself down – I stopped.

I stopped analyzing and dissecting myself. I stopped looking at the mirror and searching for reasons to pick out flaws. I stopped getting angry because some man didn’t look at me. I stopped making myself believe that I was not worthy of attention because of a zit.

I simply said, “Lindsay, this is you. It isn’t changing. You are beautiful and if you wear makeup, you wear it. Your hair gets blown in the wind, so be it. If you get a pimple, you do. It won’t be forever. If a guy can’t take you or find you attractive when you’re having a rough breakout or it is cold outside, then screw him. You deserve much more than that. So stop it. Go rock out in your heels in the street and accept yourself, your zits, and your insecurities. You got this.”

And just like that, with that boost of momentum, I listened. The negativity slowed down, I touched up my makeup. I breathed. I carried on…

…all the way to the Flat Iron district to a double sushi-date with drinks. And I laughed, I smiled. I gave myself encouragement and I told those me-hating thoughts exactly where they could go.

Yes, ladies (and gentlemen, if you’re reading) – I surrendered.

Guess there is a first time for everything. Onto Step 4? Hmm. Let’s see.

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These Streets Will Make You Feel Brand New

A not-so-long time ago, a brown haired, blue-eyed little girl saw New York City for the first time. She came out of the tunnel that brought her from Pennsylvania to this new land, stepped out onto the glittering pavement and stopped.

First, she told her mom how much it smelled and then with a two-front-teeth missing smile, spun around in the streets, and said “I’m going to live here one day!”

And so she did.

Now, 15 years later, that same starry-eyed young woman still feels the urge to dance in the streets and thank her lucky stars that they aligned so she can have a New York, NY address.

There are moments when I’m doing everyday, ordinary things, and I feel such an immense amount of love and thankfulness in my soul that I literally swell.

My New York story is one that’s like many other hopeful artists who grace the streets with only high-heeled bootstraps and raw ambition to be their guide. I’m not alone –there are endless writers, musicians, models, actresses, dancers, and performers who move to Gotham knowing that all they ever wanted will reveal itself before their eyes. The universe, surely, will move and shift to make fate play its magic cards.

This city has been a large portion of my focus, who I am (and who I will be), and what gives me encouragement for so long. I sincerely cannot imagine my life without it –especially now that I’ve had a taste of how much it feels like home.

And if this blog, this experience, this journey and multi-step program is about being honest with myself –I’ve got to be open about everything that New York means to me.

I didn’t move here in a relationship. I didn’t move here tied down to anyone or anything or any flame. I didn’t move here with hesitation or thoughts of failure. I didn’t move here thinking returning to NC was an option.

But I did move here to build my career. To work for a magazine. To be a voice for women everywhere. To learn the street personally. To meet friends I will have for the rest of my life. To explore everything that the city embodies.

And to fall magically, perfectly, idealistically, and incredibly in love.

Not a big surprise, I know – but I’ve been trying to tell myself that I moved here only for my career. But that’s a lie. And this journey is teaching me to stop lying to myself. To stop ignoring how I feel or how I react or the thoughts and language I use to speak to myself.

I’ve dreamt of working for a magazine since I got my first column job at 15 with The Clay County Progress (titled ‘TLC: Thoughts, Lessons, and Creations from a Teen”). And of course, I’ve known I wanted to live in New York. Thus, I knew that if Manhattan was my place, my very first one true love – my very last love must be here. Right?

As I’ve admitted earlier, I thought I would move to NYC and instantly find Mr. Right. I never listened to anyone when they said dating would be hard (or rather impossible in this city) or that it would take time. I just believed it would be simple and right there just waiting for 5’3”-me to step on solid ground.

Obviously, that hasn’t happened and I’m not losing hope of it. But I’m also not focusing on it. I’m trying so hard not to make “finding love” or “meeting the right man” at the top of my priority list or the greatest source of my disappointment or sadness. I’m believing in myself (and in my higher power) and surrendering away the thoughts that hold me back.

And I think telling myself that part of New York’s draw is the fact that I hope to find love (it’s by far, not the biggest attraction for me), and the NYC-happiness recipe wouldn’t taste correctly without that desire.

I still have moments when I cry. I still have moments when I’m down or get discouraged or feel ugly or not worthy. I still have moments where I’m jealous or I reach out and seek attention for the sake of the flattery. I still have moments where things that should be inspiring, are painful.

Like when my friend R, full of excitement for seeing the city for the first time (as I remember all too fondly) showed me a picture from The Wish Tree at the MoMA. It’s a place where you can place your most coveted wish on a tree with hundreds of other wishes of people who pass by. The wishes make the tree grow and give it the nourishment it needs to keep spreading its limbs. It’s truly a beautiful idea.

R had taken a picture of a wish that said:


“I wish I could fall in love like I moved to New York to do.”

Maybe that should have made me feel less alone or supported or that there are other people who feel the same way I do. Maybe it should have given me some hope. But, it made my heart sink. It sunk so hardly and so deeply that I about lost my breath. It reminded me of part of the reason I moved to New York – a reason I had been avoiding admitting. It reminded me of the dozens of images and dreams I have stored away in my head (and clipped out of magazines stored under my bed) of what romance I want to experience on this island.

It is hard. It’s not always funny or empowering or hopeful. There are these moments where even the city who always make you feel brand new – can’t take away the longing. Or even a blog that I love to write so much.

But, if I can move to a New York and find a job and an apartment in three weeks, and still maintain a constant glow for the city – I bet I’m capable of just about anything.

And one day, I’ll make the shoe fit on my single self (without someone’s help), and I’ll have that contentment I keep wishing to find. But sorry, Prince Charming – I’m won’t lose a shoe at some enchanted castle tucked away behind Fifth Avenue –so you’ll have to find me in another way.