Tag Archives: Relationships

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She Will Be Loved

When Maroon 5’s “She Will Be Loved” first started spamming the radio, I was dating Mr. Faithful, my high school boyfriend. I loved the words and I soaked them all in, paying special attention to the “beauty queen of only 17” which was true at the time, and of course, “drove for miles and miles and ended up at your door,” which I dreamed of in many fantastic romantic clichés.

I imagined then that Mr. Faithful was the end-all-be-all for me, the love of all loves, the last man (and only man) I’d ever invite into my bed and into my heart. I instantly sent the song to him and he played it for me a few times while we drove the rolling country roads, and even when we made love in the way only a 17 and 18 year old can. Sweetly, naively and awkwardly.

I hadn’t thought about him or those premature stages of teenage love affairs in a long time, but on my way to a date recently, that song came on my Pandora. And suddenly, it all came flooding back:

Back to when I got drunk off cheap wine coolers and sweet hand-written words on notebook paper. Back to when I could spend hours cuddling in his backyard on a trampoline, talking about the future like we knew what was coming and where we were headed. Back to when flowers were picked from gardens and corsages were given at prom and graduation. Back to when dating a football player seemed so sexy and so important, back to when I watched the lights bounce off of the lake, dreaming about when I’d see lights bounce off of buildings in the Big Apple I’d only visited once.

Back to when I was unaware of what those lyrics really meant, or what they would mean, or how intensely I would feel everything in the years to come. How fleeting and innocent young love is, and yet, how final the end would feel in a few years. How much that girl who always knew there was a life ahead of her beyond the mountains, just waiting.

How that girl had no idea that this girl was always somewhere inside of her, waiting to fly, waiting to leap, waiting for that big opportunity, that big love to happen. How that girl had no idea just how much this girl would be loved…

…She would be loved by men who crossed oceans and took redeyes to arrive on the doorstep of her Harlem apartment with tulips, chocolate cake and a flood of kisses. She would be loved by men who made her homemade Valentine’s Day cards using the old-school paint program and drop off an orchid off at her office – along with a coffee, just like she liked it. She would be loved by men who walked a mile in 6-inch snow to the closest grocery store to buy the staples, including her favorite orange juice, with extra pulp.

She would be loved by men who left notes hidden inside picture frames that hung on her wall in her second New York apartment, and long after the relationship ended and the flame died down, they would ask her to open that picture and find words of encouragement buried inside of it, unknowingly, for years. She would be loved by men who make her homemade gnocchi and ask her to dance in the kitchen, barefoot and underage-tipsy, kissing the top of her head and whispering things in her ear she would never reveal to anyone, not even this blog. She would be loved by so many men that would see her sad smile, who would stand outside in the rain with her, who would care for her even when she preferred someone else.

And somewhere in between all of those men, that girl would also learn to love her own broken smile. And she’d learn how to heal it. She would watch the storm coming in as she ran miles and miles in Central Park and she’d let the rain fall, washing away her mascara, the sweat and her frustrations. She would love someone when they didn’t love her back. She would learn to love herself, even when she didn’t quite like the person she was.

She would be loved by the men, sure, just as promised. But she would also be loved by strangers and friends, mentors and travel mates. By a white fluff that would capture her heart from a pet store in the West Village. By her parents, more and more, with every passing year.

That girl just didn’t know all the love that was coming her way. Not at 15, not at 20, and really, not even at 25. Because that girl has been loved… and will be again. In a way that this girl –that girl – can’t even begin to believe yet.

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You Never Know Where You’re Going to Land

In honor of Throwback Thursday, here’s something I originally wrote in an email to my mother on March 30th, 2010 – two weeks after I moved to New York City.

When I was a little girl, I used to get the biggest kick out of standing on the palm of my dad’s hand and jumping onto a Cookie Monster beanbag. I can’t remember it completely, just bits and pieces from old VHS tapes, but I used to get up as soon as I hit the beanbag, and run back to jump off again. Sometimes I stood with two feet, or just one little foot -but I always went back for more.

As I grew, I wanted to learn to ride a bicycle, so my dad went with me to the top of our gravel driveway, and off I would go. I can’t tell you how many times I fell or the number of band-aids I needed after going arm or knee first into gravel -but I never gave up. Even if it hurt, I jumped up again, and I went back for more.

Then I turned 15, and I could finally get the opportunity to drive. My dad bought a tiny, crappy red car to teach me the ropes on. Those who know me best will admit that even to this day, I’m not the best driver in the world, but when I was learning -I never let fear stand in my way. Even after I flipped my car a month after I got my license and bought my first car with my own savings -I still jumped behind the wheel.

If I look back on my life, from the time I was little to being a teenager and enduring the many disappointments college brings -one thing that has remained constant is my ability to endure. To jump. To move past fear or disappointments or outcome.

I have often taken the first step into an unknown direction and stepped into darkness, even if the light seemed more promising or secure. I’ve opted for the path I wanted instead of the road that was the easiest or the one without any shadows or scary corners.

And even if there was no net to catch me or if I didn’t know what the final solution will be -I still jump. Head first, without hesitation, all-signs-pointing-to-go, and dive.

Moving to New York was no different. If anything, it was the pinnacle of all of that hard work, and all of the risks I took before. It was the jump of all jumps -no bungee cord, no life support, no one that I have known forever to break my fall if I needed it.

Just me and the wings I decided to sprout.

I look around this tiny apartment I see and hear creaking floors, see a very old heater and stove I have yet to figure out how to work (I think you have to use matches, and that just scares me), antique furniture that came with the brownstone, and smell the scent of a truly old building that’s been kept up with. And within the little quarters and even in all of its history – I still see me.

The me that packed her bags, saved her pennies and dimes, said good-bye to the ones she loves the very most, and jumped on a plane. I see every long hour I logged at Books-a-Million, Glidewell’s, Aeropostale, The Appalachian, and every other job that helped me save enough money to move. I see the clothes I strategically picked out to be the most important to have until I’m finally able to send everything else. I see frozen moments in pictures I have all over my room –times of laughter, of growth, of lessons, of graduations, weddings, babies, and everything in between. I see the red dishes from college that have kept with me throughout the years, my first AOII cup, a Starbucks mug from someone I truly loved, a teapot that came with the apartment, and a red microwave that was only $20 on Craigslist.

It’s not that I’ve never seen these things before, but for the first time, I notice them. I value them more than I ever have before. Not only are they part of my history, but they are part of the new history of this apartment. One of many stories that this room has been able to hear and now to tell. Of the many revolving faces and experiences that come and go to New York and back to their hometown or to a new resting place in the city.

And I notice these things because for the first time, it really is just me jumping on my own. No beanbag below me. No dad or mom to rush with a band-aid if I happen to fall down (and I have in my cute Sarah Jessica Parker boots, by the way). No airbag if I back into a fence (which I’ve done) or into a car (which I’ve also done). This apartment is completely funded by me, with my heart and soul, with my savings. Every box or bag of food in my kitchen, I bought. Everything around me is mine, because of my diligence to get here.

I always knew I would grow up, and I thought I did my fair share of growing during college, but the last two weeks (and one day) have taught me miles of lessons that I could have never learned while in school. Worrying about groceries, transportation, rent, if it’s raining or how cold it’s going to be, how to fit everything you need for a full-day into one bag, and how to function in flats when you were born to walk in heels.

And it’s scary. It’s a leap of faith, a jump into the right direction –but it’s my turn. It’s my leap. My jump. And somehow, a sense of empowerment, of fulfillment, of complete independence and confidence in myself and my capabilities comes with this move.

Regardless of what capacity it is in –maybe just trying a new haircut or going out on a date with someone you didn’t see yourself with, or ending a relationship that’s not working, or moving away from home finally –you should jump.

Go for it. Be prepared for the worse, but laugh at fear in its face and know the universe has something else planned for you. If you follow your heart, stick to your guns, and know you can do anything you put your mind to –the jump will free you. Enlighten you. Give you strength and a new sense of self. Even if it’s in the form of seeing your silverware in a new light.

Jump high. Jump for the stars or for the building tops.

You never know where you’ll land.

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The Prize is in the Process

A year ago, I started to feel complacent.

More so than loneliness, more so than frustration and even more than confusion, feeling stagnant was a more complicated and infuriating feeling than anything else. If I’m not moving, than I’m not growing, if I’m not growing and experiencing new things and learning, than why was I paying such a premium to live here?

No one moves to New York to stay still and to remain silent. They move – or at the very least, I moved – to be challenged. I didn’t want – or expect – the city to take it easy on me. I wanted the hardships and the pains.

Without them, how could I ever enjoy my success when I made it?

Those thoughts are the very ones that plagued me last year. Nothing was exactly wrong, of course. I was gainfully employed by a reputable, well-known company. I had a roof over my head and more than enough to save for future roofs. I wasn’t lacking love – other than romantic – and even though my father’s health wasn’t exactly great, it was stable and more importantly, officially cancer-free.

But I wasn’t happy – not with anything and especially not with myself. I wanted more and I craved change. But day after day, and month after month, the little routine that I built for my little life chugged along, status quo and … boring as hell.

And then on January 1, 2014, per the instructions of my star-gazing, astrologically-gifted mother, I wrote down all of the things I wanted.

Per her recommendations, I got very specific: the title I wanted, the type of work environment I hoped for, the salary I dreamed of having. I wrote down the qualities I desired in a man: a kind, giving heart, a hard-working spirit, a family man with character and charm, and a person who kept me on my toes everywhere – in conversation, in adventures, in the bedroom. I scribbled about the apartment I often imagined in my head, many floors up or an old walk-up, laundry in the building and a dishwasher, a studio for one or the luxury of affording a decent two bedroom for two. The ability to walk to work every day, instead of fighting commuters on the train. I even wrote about my friends and family, their health and their happiness, and I vowed to become a better daughter and a better confidant, a gentler puppy mom, and a believer in the good, instead of a dweller of the bad.

It was quite the long list, but it was meant to really shake up things this year.

And ya know what? It worked.

Since March 1- I ran the New York City Half-Marathon, I was accepted into the NYC Marathon in November, I put in my notice at iVillage, traveled to Europe for 10 days with my brave mom and started a new exciting job at AMC Networks. And while the verdict is still out on the next Mr. that will feature these pages, I don’t quite mind the wait. Instead, dating feels just a little easier than it has for a very long time.

But that’s how it goes, doesn’t it?

When everything feels stale and you find yourself just holding out for the next big thing, it feels like your state of stationary will be endless. When you’re in the hard part of the process – with the tears and the angry writing and the fears and the motionlessness – you can’t see the other end.

You can’t see what a difference a year makes.

And you can’t begin to realize how important that process was to get you to where you’re going. How strong it made you, and how secure. How much you learned at one job – thanks to some very wonderful mentors – that fully prepared you for that promotion and raise you wanted. How your dad’s deteriorating health made you see the vulnerability of your parents for the first time, giving them mortality and bringing you all closer. How friends that held you accountable for your moods and your language turned you into a more generous, more understanding woman who thinks before she speaks (and types). How being single and enduring countless terrible dates, makes you so grateful for one that goes well, regardless if there is a second or a third or more. How through it all, you somehow kept your state of grace and somehow, your heart not only remained open and hopeful, but it grew even bigger than before.

Though I’m relishing a newfound confidence and all of the many changes that I’ve been blessed to find – and create! – I’ve learned an important lesson in the waiting period: The prize isn’t found here when things are easier and the sweetness of summer is within sight.

Instead, the prize is in the patience in the process it took to get here. The prize is what that process, what those trials, what those lessons, what those very long, stale days, made me into.

The prize is in me – and in knowing that no matter what comes and doesn’t, what remains the same and what changes, what happens and what is going to happen – I know I can not only get through it…

…but I can be patient in the process. Maybe I can even savor it.

 

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It’s Hard to Stay Single

I watched the smoke fade into the streetlamp, delicately – seductively – making it’s way from the lips of a stranger, only to disappear into the night. It was colder than I expected and I was weaker than I imagined, downing uncountable glasses of wine at this fine establishment in Paris.

Le Parigot? Le Pearle? Le something.

I couldn’t remember the name and they didn’t have it posted anywhere I could see from my window seat, covered up almost completely in my pashmina from Chinatown, waiting for the silence to be filled up with conversation. My mom examined her hands idly, while skirting eye-contact with me and drinking red wine (my favorite, her least).

I gave her a brave smile and tried to ignore the embarrassment swelling from the pit of my stomach so big that I felt suffocated. The bar was too small. The bartenders were looking at our table. I didn’t have anything to focus on but those cigarette-smoking French women standing outside, laughing about something I would never know about.

It’s okay to cry, honey, my mom whispered, reaching out to hold my fisted hand. It’s healthy, even.

In Paris, mom? In a lovely bar in an amazing city when I’m on an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime trip with my mother? I responded, bitterly. It’s okay to cry now? When I have so much to be thankful for and I should be so happy?

Well, aren’t you happy?  She asked cautiously – I’m sure she was waiting for me to explode.

The question was simple: happiness? And though I had asked myself the same thing many, many times before, I’m not sure I ever considered the answer as thoroughly as I did then, miles and miles away from my city, far, far away from the life I built. I felt foreign here, distanced from the stresses and the worries that I harbor in New York. I didn’t think about money or career, I didn’t focus on running or staying healthy, I didn’t care about who I was dating or if I was putting myself out there.

In Paris – and yes, in Rome, too – I was just existing.

I was savoring. I was in awe of everything I saw and nearly everyone I met. The food tasted richer, the wine was better, the views were incomparable. Every single second of every single day, I focused on what was happening right then – not what was next, not what it meant, not what it would be – but just what it was.

So why was I crying? I wondered, overwhelmed by a mix of exhaustion, alcohol and intrigue. How could I not be happy in this very moment?

I am happy, I started, slowly. I’m probably happier now than I’ve been in years. But no matter how far away I go or what I’m doing, it’s still there. It still finds a way to creep into my thoughts.

What does? she asked as she motioned for another half-bottle of wine. Mothers really do know best: when their 25-year-old daughters are sort of having a breakdown in a café, ask for more wine.

My fear of being alone, I said firmly.

We both let the words settle there in the very tiny space between us, listening to the other patrons speak in a language we didn’t know, listening to the sound of a bike bell speed down the road, listening to the heaviness of the words and how they sounded when spoken out loud.

But aren’t you more afraid of settling? she smiled at me.

It was that all-knowing grin – the one she only has when she knows she has said something right. When she has broken the barrier of my overindulging emotions and given me a realistic perspective that I (let’s face it: desperately) needed. The wine arrived and as she poured, she continued:

I’m proud of you for that Linds. It isn’t easy to stay single, just like it isn’t easy to find someone worth the work of a relationship. But even though you’ve been lonely and you’ve had some pretty bad dating experiences, and it’s been hard, you have still stuck up for yourself and held out for what you want. And in that, you’ve stood up for love.

I wasn’t crying anymore and I didn’t feel the need to for the remainder of the trip. In fact, the fear that follows me most everywhere started to feel less important, less ambient. It was one of the kindest things that someone has ever said to me – and something that surprised me with its truth:

It is hard to stay single.

It doesn’t seem like it when you’re dating and trying to locate at least one man who actually wants the same thing that you do. It doesn’t seem like it when you’re swiping left and right, replying to messages and trying not to analyze hidden meanings behind mostly meaningless text messages. It doesn’t seem like it when you haven’t had sex in months (and months), and it doesn’t seem like it when you’d give anything – everything! – just to have someone to come home to who loves you unconditionally (and isn’t a fury white pup). The frustration and the fatigue of being single can feel harder than being in a relationship – but in reality…

…being single is a choice. And staying single is difficult to do. Settling, however – that’s easy.

There are more than enough men who would be my boyfriend if I wanted one that badly – but I don’t want just any guy. I’m not looking for someone to pass time with. I’m not in the market for something so casual that it’s forgettable. I’m not in such a rush to be in love that I rush past my standards and forget about what being in love really means and truly requires.

So even if the fear of being alone feels heavy on certain days – and yes, even in Paris – I know that holding out is better than settling into something that ultimately, won’t be worth it.

And if I forget it from time-to-time – as I know I will – there is my mother who will never forget to remind me (just as I’m reminding all of you). As she said when we hugged good-bye, with tears in both of our eyes, after 10 non-stop days together traveling through Europe:

Don’t you settle. He’s a comin’. He’s on his way. I promise.

It might take him a while – but ya know what? I can wait.

 

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You Can Do Anything

I wondered if everyone who warned me about the dangers and lasting effects of forcing my wide little feet into heels every day had some merit in their concern as I hobbled back into my Harlem apartment in 2010. It smelled like marijuana and though I bought the cheap air fresheners from the Duane Reade around the block (a pharmacy I had never heard of), the scent was far too overpowering to ignore. The big box my mom sent me from North Carolina sat in my “kitchen”, or rather the furthest left portion of my 400-sq-feet room that amazingly cost $850 a month. I had spent the day going to interview to interview, scouring through every possible magazine masthead I could, emailing to meet up for coffee and praying to the job gods to give me their blessing. I had only lived in New York for two and a half weeks and most of my savings were gone thanks to a security deposit and first months rent. I started my hostessing gig in a week if I didn’t find employment before then. My parents couldn’t help. I was 150% on my own. I was terrified. And I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted the city to welcome me with the open arms I always thought it had somewhere buried underneath it’s tough exterior and soiled streets. But instead of falling apart, I repeated my mantra:

You can do it, Lindsay. You’re a Tigar. You can do anything.

Putting the dirty details of my existent and non-existent dating life on the internet was rather a bold decision, I told some girl I met through a new friend I didn’t know well enough yet. The girl was “obsessed” with my blog and I felt a little naked in front of her – considering she knew about my last one night stand the boy who broke my heart in college, and yet, I had no idea what she told me her name was 10 minutes ago. I should be thankful for my job, I reminded myself the next morning while writing a blog about taxes for small business owners. It was a challenging subject matter, and my salary (barely) covered my expenses, but I longed to do what I already did for free: write things that will help women feel less alone. I knew how to get from point A to point B, but the thought of keeping up a popular personal blog, working 9-6, dating, attempting to make friends and applying for a new job seemed daunting. I had done it before when I moved here a year ago, I reminded myself. My drive didn’t seem quite as high but I knew that passion could never really be put out. After all, I repeated:

You can do it, Lindsay. You’re a Tigar. You can do anything.

It was as if the city knocked the air out of me on the ride up Broadway to the Upper West Side. The cabbie had asked if I wanted to take the highway, but I said I preferred to pay a little more and watch New York wind down on that Sunday night. We had been broken up for six months then, but never stopped sleeping together. Even though I acted like I wasn’t seeing him drunkenly or haphazardly, dangling my heart in front of him as he pushed it away. As always. But then the last shoe dropped and something inside me woke up – was this really the love I wanted? Was this the type of relationship I would encourage my friends, my readers, the strangers in the street to have? It wasn’t – and I gave him the choice to make it better. Pick me and work on it, or get out of my life. He wouldn’t decide – per usual – so I made the choice for him. But as I cried silently and the driver ignored my sobs, I felt the fear building up. What if that’s as good as it gets? What if I don’t meet anyone? What if I can’t feel it again? To keep from sobbing from that pit in your heart few people ever touch, I sang my song:

You can do it, Lindsay. You’re a Tigar. You can do anything.

Your knee doesn’t really hurt, you’re just listening to the pain instead of focusing on the finish. Remember philosophy class? What you give your attention to grows – focus on something else to distract yourself. I decided to think about complicated things as I pasted mile 8 on the West Side Highway last Sunday. Only 5.1 more miles to go to complete the NYC Half-Marathon that I didn’t have time to train for with everything. With my dad’s 5th surgery in one year. With the uncertainty surrounding my future. With my dire need to get laid after quite the dry spell. With a trip to Europe so close I can see it, but can’t get excited about just get. Not until my dad is fine. Not until my finances are balanced and my taxes are paid. Not until I finish this race, with my ears freezing and my joints aching with every step. But if I can just keep moving, I know I’ll be home napping before I can think. I know what to tell myself:

You can do it, Lindsay. You’re a Tigar. You can do anything.

Just when you think the sunshine that always defined you was withered away into the clouds that just keep surrounding you, a little ray shines it’s way through. People always warned me that finding my way on my own would be hard. That dating wasn’t easy in this city. That careers are flaky and my industry is shaky at very best. That friendships would require work and diligence, patience and understanding. That loving yourself and believing in the good gets easier and harder as you get older, as you experience more things and question, well, everything. And at times, it all seems impossible. It seems stagnant and unreal. Scary. Like all that you worked so hard for, all that you wanted, all of those magical things that you imagined growing up would never come true. And sometimes, they don’t. Other times, they do. Most of the time, they work out just how they’re supposed to – without you realizing they ever came to be at all.

But of all the struggles and the dilemmas your adult life puts you through, of all of the trouble, and all of the unanswered questions left spiraling in your mind, if you can remember one simple truth that’s true for you, that’s true for me, that’s true for everyone:

You can do anything.

That is, my dear, if you never stopping believing that you can. That you already have. That you always will.