Tag Archives: Relationships

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The Way I Heal

Months after I officially ended everything with Mr. Possibility, I still found myself responding to emails and text messages, analyzing the intention between the lines, and keeping myself awake long enough to wait for him to arrive at my door. Allowing him to stay in my life – and yes, in my bed – felt easier than ceasing contact.

But even as I held him at an arm’s distance, my heart was already much closer, so letting him hang around and inviting him into my life wasn’t a healthy tactic. Procrastination though, tasted better than swallowing the bittersweet prescription I knew was coming. After many failed attempts to make him want me how I wanted him to desire me, after biting my pillow so he wouldn’t hear me cry at night, after convincing myself that being around him would awaken something that never lived inside of him to begin with, after lying to my friends about where I was and avoiding my mother’s phone calls – I finally got the message loud and clear.

From him, on Gchat.

It was straightforward and blunt, without a hint of consideration or kindness, and worse, void of love. Or at least the kind of love I want and deserve. When I couldn’t make meaning out of emptiness, I signed off and deleted the evidence of the relationship. I finally totally severed communication and packed away anything that took me back to better days so I could finally face the day I was living. And though the art of getting over someone is something I’ve yet to master or totally understand, I set my mind to letting go and moving on, no matter how badly I wanted to reach for the phone, type an email or share a bed with a man I once was in love with.

While I can talk about most anything on this blog, sometimes revealing a bit too much — forgetting that the Internet is truly an irreversible medium — writing about Mr. Possibility and what really followed our dramatic demise has been incredibly difficult for me. The final post of a year of writing – where I valiantly headed out on my own, telling him to go where the sun didn’t shine and standing up for myself, was a true story. I felt empowered in that moment: ready to conquer heartache and eager to be alone.

But if I’m honest, as I always have been in this space – I wanted the chase.

I watched and helped him attempt to win back his previous ex (who is now one of my closest friends and the best dose of reality on the topic of Mr. P), and I listened to him mull over the past he regretted. I heard all of his past love stories and I wrote the one I thought we had, post after post, day after day, praying that I would be the girl who changed the unavailable man. And even in my grand departure, even in that yellow chariot that sounds entirely more fabulous than it really is, a part of my heart was still holding onto the hope that he’d come running. That in my silence, he would find that same ache I’ve had since practically the day I met him — that lingering longing to capture the attention of something that’s unattainable.

But he didn’t come to my rescue.

He didn’t shower me with hand-written letters to why I should give him another chance. There was no romantic gesture, no fight for my love. There wasn’t even much of an apology for the ways he had been cruel when we were together. He happily accepted my offers for companionship and was careful to remind me how amazing I am – but that he still wasn’t in the market for a relationship. A year-and-a-half later I’m in a totally new part of my life, and he’s still almost exactly where he was when I met him: uncertain for the future and unwilling to compromise for anyone else, but sexually inclined to see what this city has to offer.

I didn’t want to admit that I went back to him, thus causing myself more  disappointment than if I had ceased contact in September. I had been down this road before and I knew where it led, but I ventured on the path anyway, fooling myself into thinking the destination would be different.

And when it wasn’t – I was ashamed to confess that still, even after all this time, my heart still hurt. It felt weak and silly to be someone who writes about such topics for a living and can’t take her own advice. To be someone who is mainly open and candid about everything, but unable to reveal that underneath the clever themes and rhythmic sentences, there’s a woman who sings along to Adele and runs to Kelly Clarkson, who wears big sunglasses to cover the tears, concealer to hide the dark circles, and still has to block Mr. Possibility on every social media channel so I don’t draw conclusions from things I can’t confirm. Behind the blogger who dishes on everything, is a woman who had a hard time letting go of a relationship that was one-sided from day one.

But in every bad situation, there’s a turning point. In every dark room, there’s a light. In every corner, there’s a chance to change. And for me, it came two weeks after I stopped responding to anything from Mr. P – even his drunken phone calls and messages – and gave myself a break.

Because while we all experience pain, we process it differently. Because while we all want to not be bothered when the other person doesn’t seem to be upset, you can’t release the pain if you don’t let yourself feel it – or in my case, write it. Because while love is never quite equal, everyone we’ve loved – be it for three years or thirty – affects us in someway, positive or negative. Because while our friends buy us a drink at the start of the end, we buy them drinks at the end of the end, thanking them for their patience with our stupidity and our ability to obsess, even months after the fact. Because while we want to be brave and strong, resilient and uncompromising, there is nothing that dies slower or more painful than a dream – especially one that involves someone you really cared about. Because while the wrong person can seem like the right, the person who matters the most isn’t the one who got away or the one who stays, it’s the person you are after you walk away.

There is no race to finish the moving on process or a correct way to go about it. There is no way to skip the anger and the tears, the late-night words you want to take back or the bed that feels cold at first, but grows warmer. You don’t get better at breakups the more you have them, and you don’t have any better luck or built-up tolerance to letting go because you happen to write about your personal life.

This time isn’t about Mr. Possibility, or how he misses me or how he doesn’t. It’s not about the fact he didn’t turn out as I had hoped or that I didn’t kick him out of my life sooner than later. It’s not about who moves on first or last. It’s not about the relationship that was or the relationship that I wanted. It’s not about how I feel right now, how I felt six months ago or two weeks ago. It’s not about how I’ll feel tomorrow. It’s not about the fact that it hurt – or that at times, it still hurts.

It’s about the fact that I’m letting myself feel it. And by feeling it, but forgiving myself for my tardiness and my endless optimism in love, I become a better me than I was before. While it may make me feel incredibly silly, naive and immature to have a broken heart that lusts after the past – it’s really not about how I feel, it’s about how I heal. Or rather, that I am.

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Heart Off the Market

A few blocks from my work at a press dinner, I attempted to explain my blog to a new friend. As I casually classified these pages in the “dating, love and sex” category of the blogosphere, it occurred to me that it’s been a long time since I’ve written about any of those things.

To be a dating blogger, I haven’t written anything juicy or entertaining in quite some time. A new reader who stumbles across Confessions of a Love Addict — probably hoping to read something that’ll make them feel less like a crazy girl and more just-going-through-a-phase – wouldn’t find comfort in my recent posts.

Instead, they’d discover how six months later, I’m still partly nursing the wounds Mr. Possibility kindly left for me, some of which still feel as fresh as they were when the yellow chariot whisked me away from the location of our messy breakup, that still seems like a crime scene to me. They’d find beautiful love stories about a city that is quite wonderful, but not much about the men who roam in packs of bachelors, seeking something they’re not sure they want to find. They’d find stories from the past and hopes for the future, but nothing more than a scripted – or cryptic – sentence about the days I’m passing now.

They’d find nothing about dating because…I’m not dating.

For the first time (maybe ever) I have no desire to dive back into the field of eligibility and swim to find the next available man who will win my attention. My online dating profile still attracts messages but I don’t respond – often rolling my eyes at the notification as it pops up on my phone. I still get hit on by half-drunken men at bars, as well as sober dudes in hipster glasses who pass my way and stop to tell me I’m lovely. I smile in gratitude and continue on, happy for the compliment but uninterested in sitting through a dinner – or even a drink – with yet another stranger who could become a lover, but most likely will ultimately return back into the stranger I met on the street or at the bar.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not wearing black in depression over my lack of a dating life or bitter about the future. More than I believe in anything in this world, I believe in the capacity of the heart – my heart – to feel love. I don’t doubt that I’ll be romanced again one day, that I’ll feel all of those all-encompassing, thrill-inducing magical emotions that are so hard to digest at the time, and even harder to wash away post-relationship. I still catch myself imagining coming home to a lush apartment on the Upper West Side with my two children in tow, excitedly waiting the arrival of an adoring husband who will stop by the market to pick me up flowers on his way home from work. I will never lose my faith in love or my hope for all that it can really be one day, but I’m not aching for it.

There are simply just other things that occupy my mind right now. And things that I’d rather be doing than dating.

I’m happily keeping busy at work, continuously challenged by a job that loves me back as much as I love it. I’m trying – and failing – to save money for my trip to Puerto Rico, where I look forward to turning off every piece of technology and relishing in the quietness of a vast ocean. I’m running almost daily, finally wiggling back into the skinny jeans I rocked last summer. I’m signing up for adventures out of the city, looking into trapeze classes and reasons to explore New York more than I already have in the years I’ve lived here. I’m finding comfort in nights in by myself, watching television that’s bad for me and drinking wine that makes my heart better. I’m going to jazz concerts and singing karaoke, doing this and doing that – but wanting nothing to do with dating. Even if the lack of sex can be quite frustrating at times (but that’s for another post, another day.)

The truth is, if given the choice of running or drinks with another investment banker, I’d pick hanging out with the treadmill or Central Park West. If  my friends invited me to dinner and dancing, I’d much rather see them than joining a new man for a lavish four-courser by his work on a Friday night. Should there be an exhibit at the MET that I really want to see , I’d prefer the company of a gal- or just of myself – than another guy….who turns out to be just another guy.

Even if the perfect man, who says everything just as I want to hear it, who knows how to touch me, who has similar goals and is tall enough to make me stand on my tippy-toes and curl them at the same time – came waltzing into my life, I wouldn’t notice. And I wouldn’t be interested, either.

Because sometimes, you need a break from all the chaos. From the clashing of wine glasses and the first dates that feel like interviews (or worse —  second and third dates that feel like the first). From the process of getting to know someone without being convinced you’re interested or smitten with their attention. From applying lipstick when it doesn’t get kissed off, from pulling out the nicest heels for someone who doesn’t notice the shape of your legs. From the texting war, the waiting of the three-days and the anticipation of the very first kiss. From it all.

So for now, my heart’s off the market. It’s doing its own thing, keeping to itself and letting the rest fall into place, just as it should, just as it will anyway. This tough little heart will find its way somewhere one day — and maybe to someone too — but today, it’s just finding it’s place… in today.

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The New Yorker Test

Teetering in five-inch heels I got from a discount Dillard’s store in North Carolina, I waited patiently for my friend N on the corner of 50th and 9th, nervous about spending the evening with strangers. But when you’re fresh to the city you love and dying to make friends, you grin and bear it, and if you’re smart, garnish yourself with tawdry jewelry and a push-up bra since you’re hanging out with an ensemble of fabulously gay men.

As he always does, N greeted me with his gracious Southern smile, admired my womanly-curves and hooked my arm as he led the way. A few hours — and a pitcher of mojitos — later, I found myself far from nervous and close to falling madly in love my new-found posse of gorgeous men who will never want to have sex with me. After they grew bored of the first joint, we stumbled North to find our next place and the inevitable question was asked: how long have you been in New York?

Even through the haze of alcohol and cheesy-goodness, I knew this was the determining factor that I brought upon myself — because I had done something that wasn’t characteristically city like. Perhaps it was the brightly colored dress I was wearing or the way my speech becomes lazier as the night continues, making my North Carolina vernacular no longer disguisable. Or maybe it was the cheerful attitude that made me starry-eyed over the Empire State building, or rather, my willingness to admit my splendor for Manhattan instead of an empathetic defiance.

Three months, I replied cautiously, sure of the criticism that would follow, or worse, tips for success that I’ve heard countless times. Or warnings of how I may fail if the city rejects me – just what I want to hear when my savings account is dry. To my surprise though, this tall, dark-haired man with eyes lined with liquid ash didn’t do anything but nod knowingly and say, Ah, I remember that time. If you’re lucky, you’ll never lose that love for the city. I haven’t and it’s been ten years. So, I’m a New Yorker now.

Curious to why a decade determined your status as a Yankee, I asked about his time frame. He didn’t offer much of an explanation, other than that’s just the way it is, that if you can hang out in this place for that long, you must be dedicated or ready to move cross-country. Since he was the former, he considered himself part of the crowd that avoided the rolling crowds, who knew how to order a proper bagel, who could catch the train right on time and has permission to shed judgment on, well, anything that’s not New York.

If I go by his standards, I still have eight years until I’m officially a New Yorker. But I disagreed with him then, and I still do today — on the anniversary of the day I moved here.

What it means to be a New Yorker changes depending on who you talk to. One of my editors, E, says it’s when you walk down any given street and say I remember when that coffee shop used to be there, but now it’s down on fifth. If you can comment on the ever-changing storefronts that scatter the terrain — only a handful making their mark and staying put — then you’ve been here long enough to recall some sort of New York history. If the fact that I still mourn the first place I discovered large iced lattes for only $1.50 (I know!) and curse the laundry mat that there’s now, then I’m a New Yorker.

My friend B says it’s when you pass by the constant barrage of interestingly-dressed individuals (to put it politely), street performers and arguments without pausing because it seems normal. After you observe the city and its people for even a short while, you see how every character has its place and how we all create the brilliant tapestry that makes it such a one-of-a-kind destination. Everyone has a place here, and if you come prepared to make it here, you’re probably an artist of some sort, so those who are just trying to express themselves in their own way, don’t seem odd to you – they are actually, inspiring. If B’s theory is accurate, then I’ve been a New Yorker since day one.

J – a London native with an adorable accent – says it’s when you stop needing to look up directions because you can navigate the train system. Or more importantly, you know exactly where to stand so you always get off closest to the exit you need. While I’ve mastered the art of knowing where the doors open and close, and which cart is designed for my stop – I still have to Google how to get from point A to point B when I’m off the grid system and into the scary streets of the Villages and boroughs, where numbers stop and actual street names return. So, this way, I’m not a New Yorker.

Originally from Seaford, NY, but now a born-again North Carolinian who never lost her Northern ties, A says you’re a New Yorker when seeing a rat doesn’t faze you. Ironically enough, when I interned in New York, I didn’t see one rodent the entire three months I was here. And then, when I bought my Metrocard the day I moved here and caught my first train, a family of little monsters scurried on the tracks. It didn’t bother me then because I had been waiting to actually see one, instead, I smiled in delight that they actually existed. In this sense, I suppose I’m a New Yorker – a tad crazy and all.

If I want to be approved by the How I Met Your Mother crew, I’d have to steal a cab from someone else, cry on the subway and kill a cockroach with my bare hands. I admittedly have been that girl sobbing on the train – both sober and not, but I haven’t stolen a taxi from anyone (I’ve given mine up before, though) and I refuse to ever get that close to a cockroach – gross! So maybe I’m not worthy to be a New Yorker on television (though I’d really love to meet Jason Segel.)

Then there are others, like my friend R says you’ve made the official transition when you realize how fast you walk, or as N says, when you notice your own voice sounding different because the nasal tones have rubbed off on you. Since I pride myself on my pace — even in heels — and the fact that you wouldn’t know I was from North Carolina unless you asked (or I was tipsy), I get a few more points toward being a New Yorker by these standards.

But just like they each had those I’m part of the city, now epiphanies- which I like to call Louie Armstrong moments — I had my own not too long ago.

Next to my gym, there’s a Dunkin Donuts coffee that I always go to after my morning run. Not for a doughnut, but for my favorite iced coffee, ever. I consider it a treat for dragging myself out of bed on Saturday and Sunday, hangover or no hangover. When I walked in this particular afternoon, there was a long line that I patiently waited through, not one to give up on something as precious as the best coffee in the world. As I approached the counter, I saw my iced coffee waiting on me – complete with a dash of skim milk and three Splendas, just as I like it. I giggled at how predictable I was as the lady I always chat with after my runs asks about my weekend and slides over my made-to-order java. After I paid, I grabbed a straw to head out and the man behind the counter said sweetly, “Have a nice day…in New York.” He smiled his toothless grin and I returned the gesture, knowing full well that now, my day will be pretty great.

And that was it – I realized I was a regular.

When you first move to the city, you’re so enthralled with this story you’re creating: The girl who moved to New York to make it big! The girl who could make it in NYC, so she could make it anywhere! But after a while, not only does the story become your reality, you stop writing the pages because you realize it’s not just about you anymore. And you’re not just part of your own story – you’re a piece of everyone’s life around you, regardless if you call them friend, neighbor, co-worker, ex-boyfriend, editor or stranger.

To those at that Dunkin Donuts, I’m the girl who comes on the weekends for iced coffee, no matter the weather. To the woman I ride the elevator with in the mornings, I’m the young lady who kneels down to pet her dog, Domino. To my friends, I’m not the gal who moved to be a writer, I am a writer, but also someone they can talk to, someone who makes at least a small part of their life in New York better because I’m here.

My friend K says anyone who pays New York City taxes is a New Yorker – you don’t have to be here a certain amount a time or experience anything, because the beauty of this city is that it’s different for everyone. My version of New York, the story that I create and the chronicles that I’m part of, will never be the same for anyone but me. And though I may be a tad biased, I think it’s a love story…for anyone. Even the New Yorkers who have lived here their whole lives, especially if they stay on the island or its boroughs.

The pages, the characters, the chapters, the settings and the plot change depending on who you’re talking to –like with any love story. Some romances are short lived and feverish, others are those complicated tales that end up changing your life and your perspective. For others, it’s all about the passion and for most; it’s mainly about the timing. But it’s a love story, all the same.

And when you finally see how your story and all the stories around you connect in such a subtly powerful way, that’s when you’re a New Yorker. That’s when you know you’ve made it here. That how you know you’re home.

Happy Anniversary New York, I love you more than I ever have before!

My top 10 favorite pictures from this year in the city…

Overlooking the skyline from Mr. P's old place in Brooklyn.

August 2011 - So happy to be at my dream job!

Met a new amazing friend this year, A.

Admiring the skyline with two of the greatest girls in the world, M & A.

Goofing around at Lucky Shops after a lovely New York brunch.

No evil allowed at Thanksgiving in the city. But plenty of wine, obviously.

M moved into the Starter Apartment -but also into my heart. The city wouldn't be the same without her!

Happy New Year 2012! Not about kissing a guy at midnight - but about being with the gals!

No New York, of any decade, has ever been complete without friends.

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My Heart is Like a Skyline

I have a surprise for you, he whispered as he playfully kneaded my knee before returning both hands to the steering wheel.

What kind of surprise? I teased, careful not to distract him from staying on the road but finding it difficult to look anywhere other than his face. The moonlight — or maybe the city lights — were casting blue shadows across his cheek, making his eyes clearer and more prominent than ever. This was only the third or fourth time I had been in his car and other than riding in taxis on nights of drunken stupor, he was the only person I trusted enough to drive me in the congested streets of New York.

Just a surprise, don’t worry, he reassured and smiled. I could still see the dimples, even at this hour and in this light. I wondered how I made it here, traveling back from Queens after meeting a near-stranger’s family. Perhaps stranger isn’t the correct term, I would definitely call him a friend, but my heart knew that soon wouldn’t be the case. It was almost December, three months into our whatever-we-were-doing and I could feel myself trying to hold onto the platonic title desperately. I knew it was a worthless, wasted effort, but that’s never stopped me before.

There it is, he said with trickery in his voice. I looked at him, confused by what type of surprise could possibly be in this oddly-shaped box-like car. He nodded toward the right and I followed, only to gasp. There it was — my city. Every building twinkled as if it was winking at me: Look Lindsay, look where you live! He slowed down – as much as someone can on the expressway – and I tried to take it all in: the Chrysler, the Empire State, the jumbles of buildings that no one knows that names of, but everyone loves. Giddily, I looked over at him, only to find him smiling, thoroughly impressed that he was the first person to show me this view, to see my favorite place in the world, so close, yet far enough to seem as magical as it did when it was only a dream, not the address I put on the back of envelopes.

Stand up, he said while opening his sunroof. Stand up? That’s way too dangerous, these cars are going way too fast, I argued and turned my attention back to the skyline. Hurry Tigar, stand up! I’ll hold your legs and go slow. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you, he reassured and nudged my knee again. Still terrified that I may split in two, fall into the road, be pulled over by the NYPD or something worse I won’t let myself think about, I agreed by pursing my lips and shaking my head as I unbuckled my seat belt.

The November air wasn’t cold, but had just enough nip to wake me completely up as it smashed against my face. I felt his right arm wrap around my knees and I suddenly remembered he was also driving and said a little prayer that we both made it back to Manhattan alive. Then I remembered, Manhattan, and looked over at my home. Instantly, I outstretched my hand toward it, as if standing up and feeling the night itself could make it more reachable than inside a vehicle. I squinted to see as far as I could and though I’m sure I didn’t catch any glimpse at all, I imagined where in that big ol’ place was my little ‘ol place. The street we were heading, where the man securing my legs would wrap himself around my body in a tiny twin bed, and there, in that embrace that’s becoming far too familiar, I’d fall asleep easier than I ever have before. Easier than I have since.

Though I would never let anyone or anything change what New York means to me – it’s hold on my heart and the way it makes it race are incomparable to any other feeling – for a while, the skyline at night was something that made my stomach turn. That night, way before Mr. Possibility had become an actual possibility or my boyfriend, he showed me a view I’d always wanted to see, but never had. And maybe more so than the sight itself, he made me feel secure in a place that in many ways, was still so uncertain. In all the happy memories I have of our relationship, that simple night before lust became love, will always be one of my favorites.

And though I live in this boisterous city, part of the moving dots that make the skyline alive, I actually don’t see it all spread out before me very often. It’s rare to be so far removed from it that you get that view you send to others on postcards you buy in Times Square. So when I went out for sushi in Long Island City and we took photos in front of it, I felt that old pang and tried to erase thoughts of him. Or when a new pal dragged me out to Williamsburg, which brings out even deeper wounds and I saw the view of downtown, I choked down the tears by rambling about everything I knew about Brooklyn. And coming home from a trip to the mountains, where I laughed and played in the snow with one of my dearest friends in New York, I only glanced at the skyline for a moment, sure she’d see the disappointment in my eyes if she met them.

But Saturday night, something changed.

Though I tend to stay on my own island, I took three trains to help M move-in with A. Following many failed attempts to get IKEA to deliver furniture at the time they were paid to do so, we all finally gave in, drank Coronas and laid on the futon/makeshift bed and chatted. When the clock struck 12, I headed to the station, feeling equally energized and relaxed by the company of my best friends. A few steps and one Metro-swipe later, I found myself on the platform, hoping I didn’t get mugged in Queens, and cursing myself for having such an awful stereotype of a borough many fine folks live, including my favorite girls.

After finding the warmest place to protect me from the chilly winds on the above-ground platform, I turned to my right and there it was. My skyline at night. Cautiously, I walked to the other end of the platform, fighting the cold because I wanted to get as close to the view as I could. I noticed the color of the Empire State and wondered who had picked it. I saw the train tracks leading into town. I felt that same splendor I’ve always had when I see something – or someone – I love and there, in Sunnyside, Queens, a piece of my heart healed.

And for the first time since we broke up, this spectacular architectural composition meant nothing more and nothing less than something I love. It belonged to me again – not tarnished with sour thoughts or jagged pieces left to be put together. It wasn’t haunted by the lover I once I had or by the memories I shared with him, but it became free of anything other than that shine it’s always had, even if I tried to escape it.

And though I was freezing and desperately wanted the warm shelter of the train, I stood out on the platform peering at the skyline until it arrived. Just to feel my heart…feel. Just to savor the night and the city that’s always been mine – and only mine – to begin with. Just to realize that my heart is like the skyline – something I let shine for others to see, but at the end of the night, when the sun starts to rise and the wounds begin to heal, it opens up, bright and brilliant again, ready for another night, ready for all that’s yet to come.

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It’s Funny That Way

I’m alone in New York. It’s raining and cloudy and though it’s half-way through March, it’s chilly outside and my luggage is getting wet. I’m wondering if I’ll like the girl whose couch I’m crashing on. I’m hoping she’ll like me. I’m praying that cab driver — who took forever on my very first ride in NYC — dropped me off at the right place in Brooklyn. God knows I don’t know where the hell I am. She’s waving and smiling, helping me carry everything I own in three red pull-along suitcases up two flights of stairs. I’m trying to fall asleep on a futon, trying not to think about the tough road ahead of me, trying to get comfortable in a stranger’s home, trying to make all of my parts to stop worrying myself into a hot little frenzy that won’t let me be productive tomorrow. It’s finally starting. It’s finally, finally starting — I’m here. I’m finally here. I never thought I’d get here.

Life’s funny that way, I thought.

I work at a magazine. Sure, it’s something no one has ever heard of. It’s not really prestigious. I don’t know anything about its subject matter: small business. But, it’s a job! I’m an Editorial Assistant, I’m writing, I’m web-producing, I’m going to networking events, I’m working. I. Am. Working! I get paychecks and pay stubs, tax-free subway cards and people who count on me to arrive on time at 9 a.m., coffee in hand. I’m learning why coffee is so freaking fabulous. I’m discovering why it’s absolutely necessary for my daily existence. I’m meeting new people but it’s such a slow process. I feel really alone sometimes. I miss North Carolina when it’s quiet in that itty-bitty apartment in Harlem, where it’s too scary to go outside but too hot to stay inside, and I can’t afford an air conditioner because I’m an editorial assistant at a trade publication that’s not on newsstands and doesn’t pay very much. But I’m employed. I’m employable. I did it. I didn’t think I’d actually get a job in publishing — everyone said it was impossible.

Life’s funny that way.

Why am I still single? I’ve lived in this damn city for eight months and I’ve barely gone on any good dates – none worthy of commentary or thought, anyway. I haven’t even had sex. Ugh. That’s so pathetic to think about, so I won’t. It was my birthday yesterday and not a single guy bought me a drink or asked me to dance or inappropriately commented on getting in my “birthday” suit as I sorta-desperately wanted them too. It’s been such a long, long time since I’ve felt any connection, any spark, any anything with anyone and I’m starting to wonder if it’s impossible. I’ve never quite liked being single, though I’ve held that status far more times than I’ve been committed. I’m tired of this crying and this longing, this self-defeating attitude, this basing-my-every-breathing-moment-and-every-ounce-of-confidence on having a guy or not having a guy. I’m so exhausted and I’m not the only one, that I know for sure. I think I’ll write about this. I think I’ll start a blog. Yeah, a blog. I’ll put it on Facebook and see if anyone relates. Writing a blog won’t be that hard or take up too much time, right?

Life’s funny that way.

I’m starting to not mind being single – maybe the blog is actually working as I had hoped. I’m feeling stronger and brighter, put-together and put-in-line — this was an incredible idea, Lindsay. Good job. You even made it to the homepage of WordPress — look at you! Maybe this could be something you really get into? But then there’s that guy. Oh, the boy. Why do I always meet someone intriguing when I’m trying to avoid anything distracting? I didn’t like him when I met him. I couldn’t decide if I found him attractive or not, if he was my style or out of my league. Then I really liked him. Then I slept with him. Then I couldn’t get him out of my head – or out of my bed – and then I fell in love. He kinda did, too, in his own little sick, odd, twisted way. Everything tingled and twinged from the back of my neck to behind my knees, where everything feels shaky, yet so certain. Love boiled into my skin and turned me around-and-around, up-and-down, inside-out, sideways and moving forward with a hundred bolts of butterflies shooting from my stomach and clouding my eyes into a crystallized rose hue that I wanted to look through more than any other view in this lovely city. I was mesmerized and hypnotized, tricked into a beautiful little fool with every naive bone in my body. I let him consume me, my blog, my thoughts and my heart – day-by-day, against any criticism and any concern raised. And then I realized that maybe, this blog wasn’t working, after all.

Life’s funny that way.

I’m so heartbroken and embarrassed, I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m tossing and turning at night. I’m putting my heart to sleep. I’m sad that year of writing the blog is over. I’m reminded by his voice and his touch, his smell and his bittersweet memories on all of these streets. These streets are still my streets, my New York, my city, my life that I carved out for myself – but it feels like he’s written all over it. But what’s left of us? A handful of URLs that’ll forever live online? Promises that are tainted with emotional infidelity and a wandering eye that made me feel unnoticeable? Late night, drunken text messages to a phone number I’ve annoyingly memorized and remember when I need to send something cruel or pitiful, or for when he sends me flowers, again, for no reason, even after I ask him no to? Our love – or at least some version of it – is butchered in dozens of emails I shouldn’t have sent and he shouldn’t have responded to. I’m catching trains and deliberately missing them, haunting my phone and cursing it in the same hour, doing all that I can to move on. I’m wishing him the best, I’m wishing him that happiness he’s been searching for…I’m wishing he finds love. I guess. I’m hoping we can one day be friends, but then again, maybe I’m not. I’m in between the hardest part of letting go and the moment when my give-a-damn runs out. And damnit, I’m missing him – though I’d never admit it to any of my friends.

Life’s funny that way.

I have the dream job! The DREAM job! Someone is paying me to write about things I would (and have) write about for free. I go to bed early to make sure I make it to work on time, I still light up when I see my own byline. I’m pinching myself that it all came together after this summer. After I was laid off from the job I despised, left to wait for someone to pick me up from Dunkin’ Donuts where I sat with a suitcase and my desk packed into a grocery bag. After the summer where I watched my savings slowly disappear after a year-and-a-half of building them up. After a summer of free happy hours because they were free, and wondering which percent I’d eventually fall into. But then it happened – an edit test and three interviews later – the job I loved, loved me back. And now I feel alive, now I feel like I can do anything. Now I feel supported and considered, overly satisfied and eternally grateful that something so wonderful happened to me. I never thought I’d get exactly what I wanted before I hit the big 2-5, but I did.

Life’s funny that way.

I have the greatest friends in the world. For the first time, maybe ever, I’m thriving on being single, instead of hating it. I’m not dating for dinners, but dating if the man is worthy of someone as precious as me. I’m reminding to talk to myself like my greatest fan would, I’m reminding myself to eat healthier, I’m reminding myself of what I want so I don’t go back to the things I think I want. I’m running and running, trying to find the next adventure, trying to get a head-start on the next life lesson that’ll throw me a curve ball that I know I’ll never be ready for. Because I never am. I’m making lists of things and places, trips and dreams I want to accomplish. I’m feeling like I’m running out of time and that time is moving so fast that I can’t grasp it. I can’t hold onto a week before it slips away, I can’t check anything off my bucket list when the bucket feels like it’s close by. I’m wanting to travel and go to Spain. Or Australia or Ireland or Costa Rica. I’m wanting to just go – but then I’m wanting to stay and enjoy New York more than I am. I’m wondering why my friends are getting married or getting divorced and I’m still wondering when to get started down that track. So, I’m pushing myself to do more. To see more. To be more. To have more. To give more. To grow more. But then also to do less and rest; to see less and appreciate the present; to have less and make do with what I own; to take more and not be afraid to demand what I want. To grow less and stay put, at this age, at this moment, at this hour, in this apartment in this city, getting ready to sleep to go to the job I love, single and satisfied being in the company of me, myself and I. I’m never quite enough, yet always more than enough to handle. I always have exactly what I need but I want more, though I know, I probably need less. I just want to keep on going – and going – and going.

The most beautiful thing about life is that it always changes, my mom says. It’s funny that way.