Tag Archives: Relationships

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Are We Talking Ourselves Out of Love?

After a recent encounter of the Canadian (and tall, successful, charming, sexy) kind, I found myself trying to decipher the enigma between the text messages on my phone late Monday night. My faithful friends, readily available to nod thoroughly through the major and minor obsessions, reassured me there wasn’t anything to figure out, that Mr. Maple Leaf was genuinely (perhaps profoundly!) into me. (Spoiler alert: yes, he’s “into me,” but doesn’t want a relationship, the same ole’ song of nearly every man I meet and actually like.)

So in a fit of irritation that flooded an entire Gchat box expanded full screen, I angrily declared – not so eloquently – that men completely, totally suck and that I’m over it. (There may have been a few obligatory curse words for effect and I might have let out an audible mini-scream, too.) After fully executing my adult, 20-something tantrum, I heaved and sighed, attempting to let go of my frustration, when I suddenly felt a wave of regret for what I typed. And for the amount of analysis I put into a guy that – let’s be honest – I’ve seen twice. I re-read my message to R and for whatever reason, I decided to read it out loud. I wanted to hear it outside of my head, away from the fog of obsession, what did it sound like? How did I sound? What language was I speaking about my (mostly non-existent, annoying) dating life?

Apparently, a rather negative, if not (admittedly) pretty annoying one.

My words were drenched in a lot of bad, cliche adjectives and sweeping statements about sour predictions of male intentions. I could hear my distaste and my anxiety, seeping through the sentences, falling out of my mouth and into the universe, in an angry, harsh cloud of smoke. I suddenly felt embarrassed by my compulsion, and especially by my exasperation. Had I really dropped so low that the only thing I could muster is a (incorrect) stereotype about the men of Manhattan (and Brooklyn and Queens…)? Have I adopted –and spread – the rumors that love is a dying idealism in the gray city streets that never sleep, but sleep with everybody? Have I become so disengaged by the dates I’ve had and the caliber of men I find, that not only am I bored, but I’m judgmental and difficult to please?

Who is that girl on Gchat? I surely thought I was better — and maybe older — than that. I thought I was past the phase where I cared about every little thing a guy did or said and I had moved on to the greener pastures, where my give a damn is broken, and my head is held higher than the jerks who aren’t crazy about me.

And if so – maybe that’s my problem. Maybe guys are, well, assholes because I keep saying they are.

My theory that a good one doesn’t come along very often (he doesn’t) and that most guys are in for a good time (but sometimes, so am I?) isn’t too far off base. And the more you fling yourself out into the world of eligibility, the more you get disappointed and frustrated by what’s actually eligible. I understand why my language is uninspired and desperate, but I’m also starting to understand that maybe I’m my own worst enemy. That I might just be the culprit in the dating blame game. I think it’s less in the water we’re drinking in this big ol’ place and more in the dialect we keep speaking in.

I think we’re all talking ourselves out of love.

Not directly of course — if you ask any of my single friends, they all hope for (and put themselves out there for) a chance at a genuine relationship. We all want to meet some guy that proves all of those other dates necessary, one to come along and bring clarity to the trials, one to hold our hand instead of grabbing our ass (except when we want him to, of course). But when we talk about relationships — with the couples or the singles, we all discuss how hard it is. How annoying and patronizing and demeaning it all feels. How we get our hopes up and our spirits high, shave our legs and put on lipstick to snag this imaginary person. How it feels like so much work except when it’s fun and when it’s fun, it feels like it only last so long before it all falls apart, and then we regret the whole thing. We talk about how much we want to give up and how badly it sucks, two (or three or five) years later, to still sleep in a massive bed, all by ourselves, night after night. It’s not a fairytale, we say, it’s a nightmare. And even if everyone tells us that dating should be fun and we should be positive – it stops being enjoyable once history continues o repeat itself.

So, even though I’m the queen of analyzing and obsession and reading in between lines that probably aren’t actually there to begin with, I want to challenge you – and myself – to stop talking about it.

Or at least, to change the way we talk about it. If we change our narrative to be positive, instead of defeating, then maybe we can change the ending. If we can take each date, each possible mate with a grain of salt (no matter how much we think we could like them), and focus on learning about a new person (not a new man) then maybe we’ll gain something more than another horror story to tell our friends at brunch. If we stop preoccupying ourselves with how f***ing long it’s taking to meet our next boyfriend (or husband), and instead think about how truly awesome it’ll feel when it happens, then we might have a little more hope, rather than hate for the process.

Because if I think about it, most of the guys that I’ve went out with haven’t been bad people, I just knew they weren’t a person for me. Or the chemistry was off. And though I don’t truly believe timing is the most important part of a relationship, sometimes, people just aren’t in the right place to give you what you need. And yes, of course, some men are profoundly assholes, no doubt about it.

But if I continue to damn my love life because it’s not shaping out in the way I thought or hoped it would, and thus damning the entire male population that I’m trying to date – then maybe I’m an asshole, too.

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And Sometimes, You Forget Your…

I considered two things Saturday night at 8:40 p.m., while walking down Broadway: I’ve either gone crazy or I’m actually brilliant. I poured myself out of bed, where I was nestled in a very over-sized t-shirt that draped past my knees, because I realized that I was out of wine on my “Lindsay night in.”

Big problem.

I left in the rush of courage you can only get after a few glasses of red-wine, and with the eager intent of getting to the liquor store before it closed. Though I was still a bit exhausted from the day I had — a dog walk 5K with Lucy (yes, I’m ridiculous) and a free concert in Central Park with Stevie Wonder, John Mayer and more (yes, I’m lucky) — I knew a proper and relaxing evening in required refreshments, and ideally, cheese. Lots of cheese.

I quickly threw on my raincoat and infinity scarf, whipped my hair up and put on flats, grabbed my keys and headed down the stairs. It wasn’t until I was half-way down the block, rushing because the big silver gates guarding the Cabernet come crashing down at 9 p.m., that I realized I forgot pants.

Yes, I’ve lived in New York almost four years, and I forgotten everything from my wallet to my phone, but never, have I ever, forgot to put on pants.

I stopped hastily and buttoned up my red jacket in a hurry, feeling well exposed in front of strangers. A homeless man asked me for some change, a little girl flew past me on her magical scooter and a group of 20-somethings clicked by in their sky-rocket heels, leaving me in the dust of their perfume and cheap nylon. An elderly woman pushed her way across the avenue, unaware of the speed around her, and a man walking his dog didn’t notice a thing, completely plugged into his iPhone’s illuminated screen.

And there I stood, 25, single, pantless, walking to spend $20 on a wine and Vermont Sharp Cheddar on a Saturday night.

I considered heading back to my apartment, but I knew I didn’t have much time to waste. The city never sleeps and it certainly doesn’t wait for you to get your act together to appease to your demands. (Or to put on pants when you forget them.) And so, after checking half a dozen times that my ahem, backend, was not on display, I carefully walked two blocks, holding together the bottom of my jacket, to pick up my goodies.

After texting a few friends that I thought I’d officially hit rock bottom, I plugged in The Princess Bride (my favorite movie of all time), poured some of that well-earned wine and prepared to bury my embarrassment in my down comforter. But thinking about my pantless dance on the Upper West Side, I couldn’t focus on a movie, and instead, I just had a nice, long, hard…

…laugh at myself.

The thing is, it shouldn’t be that surprising that I forgot to put on a piece of clothing. In fact, I’m frankly stunned it hasn’t happened before. From the way I walk to how I work and everything else I throw myself into, I move, really, really fast. I’m always in a hurry to get somewhere — to my job, to finish everything assigned to me, to get to happy hour, to leave happy hour, to write this blog, to publish that one, to be super-duper successful, to train for a half, to run the half, to go on a date, to meet someone, to fall in love, to do this, to do that, to go, go, go.

And with all this going, I often forget about the little things.

Like that even if my friends are spending nights in with men they love (and love them dearly back) on the weeknights, I get the freedom to do whatever I want, whenever I want, without having to consider anyone. Or that my Sundays are often spent lounging in the grass in Riverside Park, sipping coffee, reading The Times while Lucy runs in circles, chasing tennis balls she can’t actually pick up. Or that I can get lost in anything, an incredibly good book, a nice, hour-and-a-half run around the reservoir, the not-so-winding streets, without having to worry about the kids, or the playdates or a house that needs cleaning. Or my ability to spend what I want on what I want, without thinking about mouths to feed or a joint-rent to meet or a savings account that someone else sees. That while I may not know where I’ll go or who I’ll meet, when it will all come together or how it’ll work out, I know that I’ll waste it all, if I rush through it.

And if I keep up this pace, I might be considered a little batty, walking the streets of Manhattan without pants. Or maybe I feel liberated? Free from the reigns of too-tight skinny jeans or yoga pants that have yet to get stretched? The crisp, fall air gushing it’s way across the avenues, sweeping through my raincoat and long, long t-shirt with the old, old dirty black flats?

Nah, pantless in New York isn’t fabulous or flattering or life-altering or something that triggered some powerful message in my life. Instead, it was just kind of, really, fun. And sometimes, that’s better than anything else.

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My Year of Happy

On pennies thrown into fountains, birthday candles, Chinese lanterns, first stars and shooting ones, at 11:11, when my necklace clasp gets turned around, while holding my breath going through a tunnel and just about anything else I consider lucky, I’m always making wishes.

Or at least — one wish.

It’s always been to find love. To have that relationship that I’ve wanted since I knew what a relationship was. My wish used to be broad and simple, until my mom suggested being specific with my desires. “The universe needs some guidelines, dear,” she said. So I started getting detailed: this height, that laugh, those eyes, that job, this move in bed, those preferences, this amount of children one day, delivered to me within three months. Or next week. Or ya know, now.

I know you’re not supposed to reveal what you wish for, but I can’t imagine it’ll affect my outcome too terribly much, considering how often I’ve wished almost the same wish, with little – or rather – no result. For my birthday this year, I blew out two sets if candles, one with my family on a cake and the other on top of a mini margarita with the family I’ve found in New York.

And though I thought about it, considered it greatly, I didn’t wish for love.

I just wished for happiness.

I want to be happy more than I want to depend on finding some man, somewhere to make me happy. I want it to come from me. I want that peaceful, easy feeling that comes when you’ve really figured out what you want, who you are, where you want to go and how you like to spend your days, without having to factor another person into the equation. The simplest of wishes, sure, but one that I think is more important than bumping into someone at a bar, the train, a dating event, online – wherever – the boys may be hiding these days.

Though I had so many blessings last year, I spent the majority of 24 thinking about the fact I was turning 25. And all of those things that I wanted this past year to bring me, it didn’t really. It wasn’t a bad span of time and nothing truly terrible happened, it just felt like a year that was totally full of work. I got a puppy, which is equal parts stress and joy. My dad found out be had cancer and then was declared cancer free post-surgery. I’m finally up to running 10 solid miles, but it came with lots of training and pushing myself, my bones, my body. I went on Accutane for 7 of the months to clear my skin, and though it worked, it wasn’t without very dry patches and many nights in, alcohol free. Mr. P moved overseas for the whole year, which made the process of letting go a little easier, but I didn’t meet anyone who I felt even a little bit of luster with. I lost weight and feel much more beautiful than before, but it was not a simple change. Friendships have blossomed and some have fizzled, many of my friends have jumped the single boat for a sweet sail for two, and much of the rough waters, I’ve navigated alone.

And through it all, I did come out better and stronger, more myself than I’ve ever been, bolder and flirtier, hopeful and intrigued. But I haven’t exactly been happy. Healthy, fine, successful and fiery, sure. But happy? Not quite.

And so, I declare this my happy year.

No matter what comes or doesn’t come, who I meet or don’t, what mountains I climb or planes I board, what things that happen or don’t, I will remind myself to see the happy. To seek it. To really, honestly feel it. Because there will always be another wish to make or hope to have, but without the happy, I won’t appreciate any of it. Without the happy, there’s no use in trying anything at all. Without the happy, I won’t know what another kind of happy feels like when it arrives.

My Third Birthday

My Third Birthday

My Sixth Birthday

My Sixth Birthday

My 18th Birthday

My 18th Birthday

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My 19th Birthday

My 22nd Birthday (First in NYC!)

My 22nd Birthday (First in NYC!)

My 23rd Birthday

My 23rd Birthday

My 25th Birthday

My 25th Birthday

 

 

 

 

 

 

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You Know That Guy

All of my friends know him. And probably a little too well. They know his shape and the way he moves in his sleep, all of his best moves in bed. They know the way he likes his eggs and his go-to drink of choice. They could probably recite both his personal and professional resume, without having to dig way back into the memories they keep. Or the ones they’ve imagined so vividly, they almost seem so real, they’d go on record to defend them.

All of my friends know that guy… and so do you.

We all have one: that guy that was the hardest one (ever, ever) to get over. He’s the one who got under your skin when you were too young, too naive, too inexperienced to know any better. He’s the guy who introduced you to something at a pivotal point in your life. After a bad breakup, post-huge move to a brand new city, following the worst year you’ve experienced. He could be the first guy you slept with where you actually understood — and omg — felt a go-numb-in-your-toes orgasm. He’s the guy that treated you terribly, possibly cheated on you, left you hanging on the edge of possibility for months (or years), couldn’t meet any of your needs, couldn’t step up to the plate, called you up at midnight and randomly showed up at your door, so drunk he could barely stand. He’s the guy who knows you so well that he knows how to push every button, linger on each and every heart string and for lack of a better phrase, emotionally torture you. And tangle your lives together, long after you’ve separated.

That guy might not mean the harm he inflicts (though he could be rather manipulative at his core), but he always finds a way to stick around. He might actually love you in the silly, twisted, strange way that he can, but the love you deserve is bigger and frankly, easier than a chaotic relationship (and the on and off months of sex that follow). Without realizing it — because I bet it happened rather quickly — you’ll wonder how you lost yourself in this man. In all of the questions and the embraces and the fever-filled texts and emails and voicemails and mornings waking up naked, hating yourself a little more

But try as you might, with every ounce of dignity you have, you pull yourself out of it. You find the strength (and let go of the crushing fear) to walk away, promising yourself there must be a greater love out there for you, somewhere, somehow. You will refuse to settle. Or maybe that guy left you. Perhaps for someone else, maybe for another country. He could have pushed you to your limits, until the breaking point was simply non-negotiable. However it ended with that guy – it didn’t just end the second you deleted him off Facebook or blocked his email.

It kept going on. Because you let it. Because you wanted to feel something instead of nothing. Because the (select few) good times where everything felt right, where his arms held you tight, when you caved under his façade – are so much easier to remember than the times that he hurt you. Over and over again.

Over and over again, you’ll play through it all. Over and over again, you’ll cry and then you’ll stand up. You’ll say you won’t do anything and you’ll do everything you swore you would never do… again. You’ll give into the fear that perhaps there isn’t anything better out there, and he’ll play off your terror in a way so subtle you won’t detect it until someone points it out. That guy will haunt your romantic dreams long after he’s gone, long past the time when you were together, in a scary, confidence-busting way. And you’ll watch him do it. You’ll probably sleep with him. You might even find a day where you give up  that anyone will ever mean as much – or make you feel so much – than that guy. Because that guy has you addicted to the story. To the drama. To that fragile piece of silver lining that make you wonder that maybe, just maybe, it could all work out one day.

That guy is a pretty obvious one for me and two years since we “broke up” – his emails still sit in my inbox. His phone number appears in my voicemail. He’s still here on these pages and occasionally on my mind more than I’d like. I blame it on a lot of things, like that he’s my last point of reference in a relationship. That he was my first (and only) adult love. That we really had something special.

But really, he’s just that guy for me.

He’s just that one guy that we all have to get past. And even though I have a pretty fantastic life, there’s nothing like clinging to the past that can bring a girl down or make her lose her thunder. If you ask people who found a way to release that guy from their life, they’ll tell you about how they met someone else and it got better. Or how they finally were tired of the constant production. Or how they had to block everything, threaten until they were out of breath and ignore every tempting invitation. Or how they finally realized they were never going to get that guy to be anything close to what they wanted.

We all have that guy, in whatever shape or form, age or stage he comes (and ultimately leaves). And for me, the biggest breakthrough, the thing that’s helped more than anything else on moving on past that guy is reminding myself he’s not the last guy. And if I can move from North Carolina to New York, lose my first job to find the dream job, find a way to survive and thrive in a city that gets a kick off knocking you down, then I can let go of that guy. I can leave him in the dust, in the torn notes, the pages I’ve penned, the hours, the days, the years I’ve lost and in the empty promises that were never filled. In the love I wanted so badly to feel in return that remained rather unrequited, and simply, never enough.

Because that guy can do a lot of things, including breaking your heart so many times you lose count, but he can’t break your hope. Unless of course, you let him.

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You Can Be a Bitter Bitch

It came out after a bottle of white wine a few strongly mixed drinks.

I could tell that after she said it, she questioned if it was the right word choice or if she should have been so frank. Our conversations are based on the best fundamental I think two women could ever build a friendship on: utter, complete, sometimes-too-deep, honesty. But when you just had another sucky date with yet another definitely-not-for-you guy, it might not be the thing you want to hear.

“I’m so optimistic! And I’m putting myself out there! I’m doing all of the right things and it’s just not working! It’s so unfair,” I blurted out in a dark, loud bar in the Flat Iron district. With lazy eyes and a careful smile, she said the big B word that no girl – single or not – wants to hear.

“But Linds, you do realize you are a little bitter these days,” J said slowly, taking a quick sip of her Jack and diet.

Even though somewhere, deep down in this overly-idealistic, terribly romantic heart I know she’s right, the word hit me like a bag of bricks. I’ve spent my dating career (if you’d like to call it that) and the links on this blog trying to be exactly the opposite of bitter. I do everything I can to push my spirit high and let my freaky hopeful flag fly high and proud, putting all those naysayers to shame. I promised myself that no matter what the future held or how many men I’d have to date before I found my mate, I’d never believe that forever-and-ever wasn’t possible. Surely, if I trusted the universe and all of its powerful ways of tying two ends of fate together, then my reward would be a tall, handsome man with a loving heart and heavy savings account. Right?

But two years later — and especially after the last few months that have sincerely been void of any pleasurable success at all — I have been a bit down. And if I’m as honest with J and this blog as I am with myself, then I need to admit: I haven’t given up completely, but I’ve been doubting far more than I’ve been believing lately. I’ve thrown all expectations out the window and most of my dreams about what I think my next relationship will be have been all-but crushed by my utter lack of interest in anyone. I thought that maybe I was just a girl who knew exactly what she wanted – and wasn’t willing to settle or wait around (Mr. P taught me that valuable lesson) – and that I was more than a little picky, but what I really am is someone who is dating. And perhaps failing at it. And definitely kind of hating it.

And maybe getting a little bitter about it.

After one last round with J, the clock struck way-past-midnight and I grabbed a cab to take me up the west side highway all the way home. And like I’ve done too many times to count in my New York life, I rolled down the windows to feel the cooling summer air, ripe with smells I no longer can distinguish, and I cried. Even though I sincerely had nothing to cry about, and even though tears don’t even faze me much anymore, I let it all out. I cried for all the reasons I’m angry at myself for being angry about dating. I cried for the men who pissed me off and the ones who looked so right on paper, only to turn out so wrong. I cried for all the ways I’ve tried to be available, for all the times I’ve gone out on a Saturday night when I didn’t want to, for all the men I gave chances to that I shouldn’t have. I cried for all the things that everyone always tells you when you’re single and that no matter how good-intended they were, no phrase, no reassurance has ever made me feel any bit better.

But more than anything, I cried for the only reason that I’m so freakin’ frustrated. And that even though I swore I’d never become one, I’m somehow a bitter bitch about the whole damn thing. I might hate it, and as my grandmother would say, being bitter isn’t the most becoming look a lady can wear – but sometimes, it’s the only thing that fits.

There are many ways to write relationship advice and multiple ways to go about finding the right person. You can read this blog and do a Google search on anything at all, looking for the right way or trying to figure out the right time or how to do the right things that will get a man interested in you. You can put yourself out there and you can keep going out with guys until one turns out to be more than just a guy. You can have tantrums on Gchat, on the phone with a friend from home or while sitting next to your best friend in a bar downtown at 2 a.m. You can read self-help books, make an online profile and play by the rules or throw them out completely, and nothing – not one little thing – will change your annoyance. You’re still going to be annoyed after you have five first dates that amount to nothing. And you’re going to question yourself. And the type of men you select for yourself. And you might find yourself knocking down that shield of optimism and greeting negativity instead.

You might find yourself sitting pretty like me, trying your best to keep your head held high and your calendar somewhat open, even if your hope is a little lost. But if you do find yourself in my shoes, I think you should own it.

Let yourself let it all out and say all those things in your head that you fight, let those “what if’s” come out to play and let your imagination lay low. Get mad and get upset, reject a free drink from some guy you’re not interested in and peace out after one round with one guy you’d never want to see again. Say no to dates because you just can’t stomach another one, and instead, stay inside and try that absurdly hard recipe. Tell your friends and your family that you can’t take it anymore and be a little jealous of the ones who have seemed to find their perfect person. Roll your eyes at the couples walking slow in front of you on the way to work and come up with all the ways being single is actually awesome. (Because sometimes, it totally is.)

And then after you’re finished playing the role of a bitter bitch, stand up and take off that hard, scary, sad exterior, and even though it’s harder than anything you’ve ever had to do, try to believe again. Even if it’s just for one night, for one more date, for one more minute. Put that bitter bitch to bed and try to find yourself again. Just like you gotta believe he’s out there, you have to remember you’re out there too, happy and thankful that you went through all the men – and all the bitchy parts of yourself – to find one another.

Or at least, to find your way away from bitter and back to (somewhat, maybe, possibly, kind of) hopeful.