Tag Archives: Relationships

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Falling in Love on Fridays: The Most Important Love Story of My Life

This week’s Friday post comes from a dear college friend of mine, Michelle. She’s bubbly and brilliant, brave and intelligent. She’s one of those girls who takes chances and follows what she believes, without wavering. That’s part of why I love her story so much — she really did have to love herself first before she could find that special man. Though I haven’t met the lucky guy, I look forward to it — and to reading more posts on her new blog. Hope you fall in love with her story below and if you want to submit your own, read this.

The Most Important Love Story of My Life

Most people that know me would label my love life as…educational, at best. With quite a few relationships of varying degrees, I have wined, dined, and rolled my eyes with more than a few gentleman callers. Only a couple seem worth remembering for their lessons and values–most served their purposes depending on the time of my life. There have been times when I’ve been bored or feeling mischievous or desperate, but all of those feelings and emotions tend to blend together after time. There have been times of feeling broken-hearted–months of agonizing relationship faults and wondering what I did wrong, trying to love myself again since the man that had left me made me feel worthless. Times where I felt dumb and defeated, but swore I would forget the feelings any thoughtless man had given me, and rejoice in the love I had in myself.

This desire for self-love lasted for a very long time.

Long enough for me to forget butterflies from former flames, to be foggy of times that had felt so real, so important at the time. The romance I embarked upon with myself became the most important love story of my life–it is because I learned how to love myself, my faults, and my strength that I am the woman I am today. Two years of self discovery led me to something that was so much bigger, so much more wonderful than anything else I had ever imagined. Because I allowed myself to be in love with my own heart first, I am now in absolute, head-over-heels, crazy love with the most perfect man I have ever met. If it hadn’t have been for that time period of falling in love with myself, I would never have been ready for the kind of love he has brought into my life. If it weren’t for the terrible experiences, I would never be able to appreciate the man he is to me, and what our life together has become.After an intervention from my mother and sister, I decided that it was time I “put myself out there”. I absolutely despise that term–it’s not like I was ever closed off to the idea of being in a relationship, it’s just no one seemed that…great. My mom and sister insisted that I was closing myself off on purpose–I had been hurt, led astray, and infuriated with guys before, so I was shutting all future suitors out before they could get in. At first, I was annoyed by their assumptions–I had just gotten a new job that I liked, I was getting involved with community theater, and had a group of friends that I adored. I thought I was getting my life together, and that a guy would happen when it was supposed to–I shouldn’t have to go looking for it. It would just happen, right? But they pointed out that although my new job was great, it took up a great portion of my time. My group of friends, although wonderful and hilarious, allowed me to create a barrier against any strangers when going out–it is intimidating to approach one single girl in a group of rowdy folks to ask them for a number or a date. I huffed and puffed, and reactivated my Ok Cupid account.

I had used OkCupid when I lived in Washington, D.C., mostly to fill the void of loneliness I had moving from my college town to a huge city. I had some moderate success, but nothing really stuck, so I was hesitant to relying on it for true romance in my new city. With some new pictures and witty one-liners, I updated my profile and allowed the rest of the universe access to my vulnerable dating state. It was nerve wracking.

I messaged a few guys here and there, but was mostly underwhelmed by their responses. One night with a glass of wine and a rom-com in the DVD player, my sister insisted on looking at my profile, editing it, and finding some suitable gentlemen for me on the site. I reluctantly gave her control, and as she deleted and searched, I wondered if what I was looking for could be found on a site used primarily for booty calls. While browsing, she clicked on one fellow in particular–a Mr. “unnecessarybeef”. “He’s cute!” she exclaimed. I looked at his pictures. Cute, yes, but he looked like a jock with his marathon photos. “He won’t be into me, I hate sports,” I said, but my sister pushed on. “Just message him. What do you have to lose?” she responded, and while rolling my eyes, I looked at the rest of his profile.

In the section labeled “You should message me if:”, he had a long list of quirky, personal skills that he had, that he wished to share with another person. I found this endearing right away, but my eyes lit up at the sentence “You want to learn how to shoot a bow and arrow”. Seeing my gateway line, I sent him a message saying hello, and that I was dying to learn archery.

A couple days later, I got a sweet response saying that he would love to teach me. He also wrote that he didn’t know many other girls in their 20’s that had an interest in learning to shoot a bow, and inquired why I was interested. I knew I had to be honest. It was a compatibility test of sorts–could this guy deal with my nerdiness? I told him the truth: I loved the young adult book series The Hunger Games, thought Katniss was a bad ass, and wanted to learn her life-saving skill in the books. I clicked send and waited for the universe to decide what to do.

I got exactly the response I had been hoping for. “I love The Hunger Games, that is awesome,” he wrote, and I had a good feeling about this guy. We exchanged numbers and set up a date that week at a local bar downtown. He asked if we could each exchange a book that we loved when we met, and my good feeling turned into a feeling of “Oh my God, who is this prince?”.

When I walked to the bar and saw a fit, handsome, and well-dressed man awaiting me outside, my mouth dropped. I saw him before he saw me, so I don’t think he noticed, but I was in awe. His smile and greeting eased my nerves, and we went to the lower level of the bar where we chatted non-stop about anything and everything for two hours. He had brought me a Noam Chomsky book which made me realize he was as intelligent as he was adorable, and I brought my favorite collection of Augusten Burroughs essays so he would know I was funny and open-minded. I found out that he loathed sports but found a lot of joy in running, which was relieving. He didn’t kiss me good-night, but we made plans for a date the next night, and when I got in my car I called one of my best friends. When she asked how the date went, I told her I had just gone on the very last first date I’d ever have.

We’ve been inseparable since that meeting, and I couldn’t ask for a better partner. He challenges me to be the very best that I can, and supports me with his wisdom and heart. He makes me laugh so hard it makes my stomach hurt, and he has introduced me to so many new hobbies and skills (including shooting a bow and arrow, which I am awesome at). He helped me train and ran my first 5K with me, and together we’ve gone on adventure after adventure. I love how mature and put together he is, but also that he is incredibly goofy and passionate for life. I never want to know what a day without talking to him is like. He’s successful and kind, he loves to help others and make people laugh. He is my missing puzzle piece, and it is because of him, he has completed the love story I have with myself. He loves me so deeply, that it allows me to view myself the same way he views me.

Currently we are house hunting and chatting non-stop about our future–it’s exciting and fun and crazy and everything in-between. I am so happy these days, and it is because of so many things. A job that I love, a family that supports me, a community of friends that I wouldn’t know what to do without, and living in an amazing city that I never want to leave. But it’s him, my partner, that pulls it all together in my heart. I wish that everyone can experience this kind of love. I hope you all find it.

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How I Met Dr. Heart

At the start of the year — yes only a few weeks ago — I made a big commitment to myself (pardon my French, mom) to cut through the bullshit of dating.

I simply had enough of the game playing. The silly rules that everyone follows, yet everyone hates. Guys who are just in it for sex (pun intended). Ones who have deep-rooted issues they can’t overcome, ones who judge my intelligence because of my little white dog. Dudes who lie and those looking for merely a caretaker or a piece on the side instead of a partner. Men with no drive, those with an ego too big to fit in the restaurant, never mind the tiny table where we sat.

No, I wasn’t trying to rush through the fun dating process or the perks of being a single girl, but I found myself not only irritated at the whole concept, but incredibly frustrated, too. And for 2013, sure I was challenging myself to say yes more, but I was also learning how to detect the pending demise of a relationship before it even became anything that resembled a courtship.

So, when I received a generic message from a handsome guy online a few days after the New  Year, I snapped back a sassy response, not expecting to hear from him again . When he replied almost instantly, addressing my “You must send this same message to dozens of women, does it ever work out for you? ” snarky remark with a handful of questions about my interests and basic NYC stats (the job, the location, the place you come from) — I took a second glance at his profile.

I responded for a while before feeling like it was too much work and put down my phone. The next day though, this guy returned to ask me for a drink. A little surprised by his diligence, I replied with a simple “Where?” and when he gave me a blanked, not specific-response of “In the city somewhere”, I became real annoyed. Surely, I knew we’d meet in the city we both lived in for a date — I mean, c’mon.

I wrote him off as someone who didn’t put in much effort or care too much about impressing me, and left him hanging without a word. I even went as far to actually tell him as much (yes, really) the following day when he asked me if I was interested. 

But of course, because I’m me and can never be as much of a badass as I actually think I am, my guilt for being rude to this probably-kind stranger, got the best of me. I wrote to him a mini-apology, explaining my turn-offs and agreed to meet him for that drink…

…which ended up being a six-hour first date. And an eight-hour date the next day. Then three more dates that week. And now he’s sitting next to me studying for an exam he’ll take on Friday, as I write this blog about him.

About the exciting new person in my life: Dr. Heart.

Heart because he’ll one day be a cardiothoracic surgeon, and because it’s his heart that makes me so attracted to him (not his messaging skills, obviously). It’s one that reminds me of my own and one that’s quickly stolen my attention.

But I almost didn’t go out with him.

I’m thankful that I did and he’s glad to know that I’m actually rather sweet in person, instead of the blunt gal I portrayed in cyber space. While I was trying to avoid another heartache or a guy who just wasn’t worth my time, I also judged someone who truly is quite wonderful based merely on how they interact on a dating website flooded with many crazies and a few goodies.

If we keep searching for the perfect how-I-met-your-father story — we miss out on a different kind of tale. It’s one that’s not tall and possibly flawed in the right places, but just as perfect as an imperfect guy. It’s one that involves dog park dates, a man who isn’t ashamed to hold my hand and does what he says he’ll do when he says he’ll do it. It’s one about a guy who likes to call you instead of texting you and sees through all of your charm to find your spirit. It’s one about a girl who, despite her past and the odds against her, somehow, in just a week or so, let herself open her heart up to someone whose whole career is about fixing that precious organ.

Only in my life that probably reads a bit like a movie at times, would I, the Love Addict, meet someone like Dr. Heart. Maybe he’s just what I was looking and hoping for. Maybe the voice telling me to go out that Friday night was meant to lead me to him. Or perhaps it was the new moon or it’s just the beginning of something that could be really amazing, and as I always do, I’m putting the carriage before the horse.

But it feels right. And actually, really, really great. Even if I had to learn a valuable lesson about snap judgments and listening to that intuition to say yes. Because yes, there are still some pretty remarkable guys left out there — if you’re willing to look past that one little thing that might not be ideal to see all the things that are.

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When You Listen

It’s easy to ignore especially since it’s nearly impossible to detect unless you let yourself escape away with it. You can tune it out and pretend that you don’t hear the gentle, nudging — maybe even nagging — rhythm it beats. It’s simple enough to just go on about your day and all of the errands and tasks that define those 24-hours, trying so hard to focus on the car horns and the street signs, the dance of the traffic lights and the unfamiliar faces that pass.

But then it gets a little louder.

It gains momentum and tries different tactics to steal away your attention, oftentimes without you even realizing its sheer force and determination. You can’t adequately describe what exactly it is. Even with your best attempts, the words don’t come out the right way and your friends just can’t wrap their brain around this alluding, and perhaps deluding concept that you seem so fascinated by. You explain and you examine, you question and dissect your options, hoping that by some pro-con list or magical realization that you’ll find a way out. You’ll discover the easiest path to take you the easiest way, and you’ll never have to step up to the plate and battle that thing that’s ringing in your ears.

That thing that for whatever reason feels a lot like an intuition.

That feels eerily like a voice telling you to do something that you can’t really explain. It’s the same irritating, pesky feeling that makes you do things that make you uncomfortable and explore emotions that you’d rather hide away where they’re safe from any harm.

But then, if you’re anything like me, you start singing that song of urgency and you follow along the notes until it takes you to the very spot in the middle of Times Square that not only makes your skin crawl but puts you so far out of your warm-and-fuzzy-mode that you’d basically do anything if you could just run far, far away, back uptown to your apartment. With your dog.

So there I was, standing in a room of strangers at a trendy-ish bar in midtown, refraining from plugging my ears from the raging DJ’s awful taste, not knowing one single person, and yet, knowing I was meant to go to this party. It was a fundraiser for a new charity in New York and from the moment I saw the invite on Facebook, something — that silly something — told me that I had to go.

When I started bringing up the Friday-night event to my friends, it seemed like every last person I knew on this island couldn’t attend: “I’m sorry, I’m out-of-town!” “Oh, I’m not feeling good. I might be able to do it, I’ll get back to you.” “I’m going to stay in tonight and be lazy, have fun!” “It’s in Times Square? Sorry, just can’t handle it.” “I have plans with my boyfriend that I can’t break, miss you!”

Ugh. So, I flew solo, just as that intuition instructed.

Now, why am I supposed to be here? I wondered while making small talk with another small town girl from the South over a $5 glass of champagne. She was talking about dating in the city and seeking my “expert” advice while pointing out men that looked like celebrities. That one looks like Ross from FRIENDS! And that dude by the bar looks like Channing Tatum, doesn’t he? Maybe a little? She was quirky and sweet enough, but I knew it wasn’t her that I was supposed to meet.

Or was I supposed to meet anyone? I considered. Maybe my mission this evening was to join yet another non-profit — since I can’t seem to refuse to help anyone — and give just a bit more of my free time to another cause who needs me. But that’s not it, I told myself as I signed up to join the marketing committee, mentally calculating how in the world I was going to make this work with my already jam-packed schedule. 

I decided to give the party another hour while I mingled and moved about, desperately trying to find the source of this lingering voice that made me come to the party to begin with. But the minutes came and they ended, and I was still uncertain of why exactly I was drawn to this establishment, and I started to doubt my ability to distinguish between intuition and restlessness. As I started to make my way to the front, I started to lose the voice I had heard all week, and I decided that maybe, my imagination was just getting the best of me. Or was it my ever-hopeful heart?

After closing my tab and unchecking my coat, I glanced at my phone to see a number that only started texting me the day before. The number, those 10 unsaved digits that meant really nothing to me, wanted to buy me a drink on the Upper West Side. Tonight. Like in an hour.

Then suddenly the voice was back. It just had the time frame all off. And the actual location. But it returned with more clarity. It wasn’t screaming or demanding and it didn’t need any words, I already knew its directions: go. Just say yes. Without hesitation, I agreed. I listened.

And you know what happens when you listen? You get rewarded for following your heart and trusting in its timing and its patience. When you listen… you sometimes get lucky enough to meet someone who really, truly, for the first time in a very long time, could be… someone.

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A Heart Full of Love

While I was home for the holidays, pretending anything fried and delicious was also calorie-less while lounging on anything that would hold me for long periods of time – my pup, Lucy, was doing the same. A funny thing happens when a city dog from the Upper West Side meets the great wilderness that is a fenced-in back yard: freedom.

Lucy had fun playing with my family’s dog, Suzie, and my uncle’s dogs, Lincoln and Cooper. She ran out the doggy door. And back in. And out. And again and again, over and over. She ate whatever she could find, buried her toys in the dirt outside, rolled in the mud – anything and everything that was Southern and grimy – Lucy was game.

So you can imagine that when bedtime rubbed its sleepy eyes, I had one tired little gal that easily and deeply fell asleep. That is, except for her first night. You see – my apartment in New York is rather quiet. My window faces the buildings behind me and I almost always sleep with a fan to drown out the eerie sound of silence that makes my ears ring. Slumber in the city is very quiet, but in North Carolina – you can hear all sorts of sounds. The tree frogs sing their melodies late at night, the birds wake you up before you’re ready, the dogs have conversations from cul-de-sac to cul-de-sac and angry women shoo them to simmer down.

To Lucy – this was a lot to take in.

I spent a good hour trying to convince her to come out from underneath my childhood bed, luring her with treats and the sweetest (irritated) voice I could muster. But this stubborn tiny white dog was having none of it – she had tucked herself into a corner, ready to hide from anything and everything that was apparently out to get her. As I was attempting to wiggle an arm in to grab her, I hit my elbow on a big plastic box, concealed under a blanket that I used to snuggle with when I was four.

Curiosity always getting the best of me, I pulled out this unfamiliar Tupperware, giving up on my runaway pet. I peeled off the top and inside I found something that within minutes, brought me to tears.

Hundreds and hundreds of love letters.

You see – my ultra-romantic father who is even gushier than me (if you can believe it) – has written a note to my mom nearly every morning in the 27 years they’ve been married. I remember stumbling across them as a child: sometimes in front of the coffee pot, sticking out of the corner of her purse, on the dashboard of her car, taped to the side of her vanity where she sat to do her makeup. They didn’t say much, usually just loving sentiments or funny inside jokes that I don’t want to know the meaning of.

I hadn’t realized that my mom had kept every single last one of them. Or that she stowed them away in a sealed container, underneath my bed where I’m assuming she sometimes pulls them out to read again or continuously add to her already very large stockpile. As I sifted through the notes, careful not to rip them and making sure I didn’t read anything super-personal, I thought about what my dad must have been thinking when he penciled these.

Was he just trying to make sure my mom started her day off with something kind-hearted? Did he want to ensure that she always felt loved? That she always knew how treasured and valuable she is to him? Did he feel so much love toward her that he simply couldn’t hold it in anymore? Was his heart bursting with all that he felt from that day he laid eyes on her from across a crowded, smoky dance floor in the 80s?

These are answers that I’ll probably never know and questions I wouldn’t dare to ask – those letters and the meanings behind them are for my parents. And between them. They’re part of their long-winded, strong and compassionate love affair that has continually shown me what it really means to love unconditionally. Every date I go on, every man I think could possibly be someone to me, I compare the guy – intentionally and not – to my dad. Even if this man won’t write me a note every morning before I hop the train to work or make me a cup of coffee to wake up to – would he express his love in a different way I’d appreciate? Would he remember to tell me how he cares – not just on anniversaries and Hallmark holidays but all the time, every single day?

The verdict is still out – but those letters in that box taught me that what I’m really looking for in a man is one who has one hell of a heart. And a heart that’s full of love. Sure, there are other things – like ambition, loyalty, humor, height – that also rate pretty high on the attraction scale –but someone who isn’t afraid of his feelings and knows how to show them. That’s important, too.

And apparently, important to Lucy, as well. Because as soon as she heard me sniffle as I read those pages, she quickly came to my side to comfort my heart. The one that aches for another one… just like it.

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Falling in Love on Fridays

Whenever I meet a new couple or I speak to someone who gushes about their partner, I always ask about their how-we-met story. For whatever reason, the way two strangers turn into friends or into lovers or into friends and then lovers, fascinates me. Maybe it’s because I believe in fate or the power of the universe (thanks mom!), or it’s just my romantic disposition at its sappiest – but I love learning about how folks somehow, in some magical or terribly ordinary way, found their way to another person. To their person.

I’ve had a few meet-cutes of my own: I fell down in front of Mr. Possibility on a bus on the way back from JFK Labor Day weekend. I saw Mr. Idea working and found a mutual friend to introduce us because he looked so darn dashing in his green shirt. I used to pass by Mr. Faithful every day in high school until finally, I invited him to a BBQ by putting my number in his pocket. I interviewed Mr. Fire for an article in the college newspaper, and once the feature ran, he asked me out.

All of these meetings could have made for the start of happily-ever-after if the guys didn’t turn out to happily-after-never – but the way we stumbled into each other (sometimes, literally speaking), will always hold a special place in my memories of each of those relationships. Our stories of how we fell in love (or sweaty, amazing, passionate lust), are tales I tell here and ones I keep close to my heart, reminding me that if I can love once (and twice and three times…), I can always love again.

But the story of how I fell in love with myself – as I’ve depicted through hundreds and hundreds of blogs over the past two years – that story is just as beautiful and endearing. It’s been brutally honest to a point of pain and also full of light, hope and gentle peace. It’s had ups and downs, and I’ve fallen in and out of love with this city, with my life here, with the woman I’m becoming and the woman I want to be over, and over again. That’s what makes it a great story – from the meeting to the ending and everything that had to conspire in between to make those two points important.

And so – I want to know your stories.

Of how you fell in love with the man you’re dating or married to. Or the one you broke up with three years ago. Or the one you just can’t get over, but want to. I want to know the story of how you fell in love with yourself after the breakups, the makeups, the unemployment periods, the days you got the dream job, the moment you felt your best and sexiest, the periods of complete self-satisfaction. The stories of moving to a new place or falling back in love with an old one.

Every Friday, I’ll post a “Falling in Love on Friday” blog. You don’t have to be a writer to submit, but if you do have a blog, I’ll gladly link back. Pictures aren’t necessary, but always encouraged. Email me at confessions (dot) loveaddict (@) gmail (dot) com. I’ll try my best to respond to everyone.

Tell me your stories – and I promise to keep telling you mine…