Tag Archives: Relationships

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You Have a Beautiful Energy

Burning up because I foolishly wore a sweater dress without checking the weather, I attempted clever conversation with a boy. It wasn’t my first date since Mr. Possibility and I split ways, but I still felt like I was getting into the swing of things. First dates (and even second dates, for the matter) tend to feel like interviews to me: get as much information as you can without coming across as pushy.

Until now, that is.

Piggy-backing off some bits of advice from my friends who have mastered the infamous New York dating scene, I’ve taken a new approach. I still ask questions, but they aren’t big ones. I let the guys do the conversation, allow them to lead the chat and I just sit back to enjoy my glass of Merlot, while hopefully looking at something chiseled and pretty. I’ve stopped counting on them to cover my bill, so I order what I want, fully prepared to cash out at the end of the night. Of course, most men are still gentlemen and make sure to pay, but I somehow switched my attitude of seeing dates as free meal tickets to perceiving them as the art of getting to know someone.

And this someone sure did know how to talk. He even leaned over to touch my knee from time-to-time. He smiled a lot and he drank his beer quickly. I could tell he was somewhat nervous and that he had allergies, and I saw the red flags popping up all over the place. He still lived at home with the folks, most relationships have ended because women haven’t understood him and his last one ended almost as soon as it started. I take this all in quietly and engage him with follow-up sentences, witty remarks and encouraging glances. I’m not really interested in him as a mate, but as a person or a friend, he seems alright.

Then, at the tail end of a discussion he says: “You have a really beautiful energy about you.”

Though I was taken aback, I thanked him and grinned, quickly changing the subject to something that didn’t rely on my aura, and the date ended with a walk to the train. I didn’t think much of it or him, we didn’t speak again and I forgot that we hadn’t. Then, last night I went on a date with a new guy at my favorite little cafe around the corner from my apartment. He met my not-required-but-really-highly-suggested height requirement and lived close by, so we met spontaneously for a drink and some mac n’ cheese that wasn’t nearly as great as my family’s recipe. The conversation was decent but I found his voice a tad too loud for my liking and his beliefs far too conservative to mesh with my ideas, yet he did the same thing the other dude did, and caught me off guard. As we’re sitting at the corner table, he reached across the table, touched my hand and said, “You have such a great outlook on a life. It’s a really beautiful energy.”

Now, either there is a new dating book for men that I’ve yet to be sent a press release about or a line from a movie that I’m not familiar with or apparently, I have a really pretty energy? What does that even mean?

Being a writer who spews her personal life across the web, my first instinct was to ask my friends, readers and Facebook pals what they thought hearing the same comment on two consecutive dates with different guys, meant. No answer was the same — some said they thought it meant I made them feel comfortable, others said it wasn’t something that could be put in words, a few said it had to do with my bubbly personality and my niceness. Some of my friends agreed with them, sweetly letting me know how beautiful I am. I appreciated their comments and even pinged my good friend K as I wrote this blog, still trying to determine what “beautiful energy” means to a straight, single New York man.

I still haven’t put my finger on it and my thoughts are still a bit conflicted but I think it has almost everything to do with where I am right now in my life. I’ve finally mastered what I wanted to be a pro at, over a year ago when I started this blog: I’m not looking for love.

And so, when I’m out on dates I don’t feel any pressure. I don’t prep or primp for hours or arrive early so I can sit in an area that shows off my best angles. I don’t consider anyone boyfriend material really, because the idea of being in a relationship makes me feel incredibly suffocated. I don’t say what I think men want to hear and I don’t try to get them to ask me on a second date.  I dress in what makes me feel attractive, without worrying if it’s too tight or not snug enough. I don’t fidget or stumble over my words, I just let them come as they are, uninterested if they come across the wrong or the ideal way. I don’t try to make a guy seem better than what he is by turning what he says into something I want to hear, I just listen and heed the warning signs as they come. I don’t interrogate or pry, I let him state his peace and I move on, glad to share my own viewpoint. I don’t have any rules for my adventures, if I want to kiss on the first meeting I do, if I don’t, I don’t. If I want to see him again, I will, if he’s easily forgotten, I won’t.

I’m just myself, without any excuses or intentions. And you know, if that means I have a beautiful energy, then I’ve wasted a lot of time and energy trying to be anyone or anything other than me.

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An Extraordinarily, Ordinary Life

I always wanted to date someone who woke me up with a cup of coffee. I saw it as a nice gesture: knowing how I like my Joe and bringing it to the bedside each morning – plus my dad did it for my mom, so of course, I’ll think it’s sweet. And Mr. Idea did just that: every night we spent together, I’d rise to the smell of coffee brewing and I’d open my eyes in his tiny little studio to see him busily preparing it, smiling over at me from time-to-time to see if I was awake. On the good days, we’d sit outside and watch the sun come over the mountains, listen to Dave Matthews, talk about something or nothing, sip our coffee and welcome in the day. I became convinced that if he ever proposed, that’d be how he’d do it: right there on that patio furniture, as the light filled the open sky, with a cup of coffee in my hand.

I always wanted someone who would come up behind me in the kitchen and wrap their arms around me. Someone who would pick me up and spin me around for no reason, nuzzling my neck and making me laugh with their antics. Mr. Fire did that and a little more. My favorite memory of him is waking up on a Sunday morning after a night out of college boozing, to find him stumbling into his bedroom in his boxers, carrying a popcorn bowl. Still naked, I gave him a confused look and he plopped down to reveal the bowl was actually full of cereal and two spoons. We sat there Indian style with rays of sun tickling our back, laughing and sharing sugary goodness, sneaking in kisses between bites. When we’d cook together, he would find a way to touch me or wrap himself around me, and somehow it felt just like home.

I always wanted to be with someone who when I laid with them, it felt like our various pieces just fit together. I wanted to feel like our body parts were designed for each other, like we had been waiting for this other soul to come and be pressed against us. And Mr. Possibility felt that way. He was strapping and tall and is the only man I’ve been able to fall asleep with with him completely wrapped around me. We were sitting at some bar at some place when we first started to fall for each other and I noticed how similar our hands looked – almost identical. I showed him and he was amazed too. It would become something I’d always look at in bed or when he’d kiss my hand or rub his face against mine. His touch and his closeness always felt right and I could never imagine laying there, just like that, just that easily, with anyone but him.

Recently, as I’ve started getting used to waking up alone – I’ve curled myself into myself, looking out the window, thinking about all the men who I’ve shared a bed with. And my heart with. I’ve always been looking for these odd characteristics, or really these specific characters to fit into these ideas and fantasies I have about what love is supposed to be. I’ve always imagined how it would feel or how it would look, sometimes how it would taste, and especially how long it would last. These beliefs were just that – beliefs. I never saw them as dealbreakers or a “must” – they were just things I really hoped for, and when I thought I found them, I didn’t want to give it up.

But now, a few heart breaks and several life lessons later, I find myself wondering what it is that I really want. Sure, I still have those dreams of what love will look like: moving into an apartment with someone and fixing it up, walking around the city grocery shopping and creating a life with another person. I even see him with curly hair, though I’ve never quite dated someone with locks like that. I can see it in my head and I can illustrate what I think it’ll feel with – but I don’t want to. I don’t want to have these ideas or these lofty expectations. I don’t want to create my entire love life or relationship before I find it or before I meet him.

Sure some guys check boxes, but they are also the men who check out. Because I tried so hard to make them into my definition of perfect or ideal that I ignored who they really were. I saw the sweetness that I was expecting instead of being open and free to be happily surprised by the unexpected. They say you know more about what you want by dating and having relationships that simply don’t work out – but I can’t even tell you what I’m looking for right now. Honestly, I don’t really want much of anything except for one thing:

I want an ordinary life inside of an extraordinary existence.

I want a normal (however relative that it is) man who has his life together, just as I do, who is happy and satisfied but always wants to shoot for more. Someone who wants the home life and a family, as much as he wants to travel and see the world. Someone who is loyal and faithful, who wants to commit, but isn’t so serious that it scares the youth out of me. Someone who wants the finer things in life, just as I do, but is thankful for the little things that often bring the most happiness. Someone who doesn’t need fixing up or solving, but appreciates gentle encouraging and the kindness that I often extend to most anyone. Someone who has goals and dreams that have nothing to do with me, but they somehow seem sweeter if I’m around to witness them, too. Someone who leads this beautiful ordinary life, inside of an extraordinary existence he’s created for himself, just as I have.

I never thought I’d find that the thing I want the most out of a partner is just that – a partner. Not someone who rescues me or romances me. Not someone who says all the right things or brings me coffee in bed or knows how to hold me. Not someone who makes me laugh or is exactly the height that I want. Those things are wonderful and of course, I love them – but what I want the most is just someone who is…

..already a someone, without me.

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You’re Really Something Special

I’m from the Golden Star generation.

We’re the kids who grew up believing that even if you didn’t succeed, there was something to be said for trying. There was a first — but never a last, more just a group of people who didn’t win (thank you, Ricky Bobby). Our parents, the Baby Boomers, raised us to be as self-sufficient as we are dependent. A few have made their way with a few trials, a quarter are still searching and another quarter probably will never figure it out. And honestly, they really don’t care.

We aren’t necessarily dependent on our families for financial support or even emotional support — it’s not even that we’re that dependent on our clan in general. It’s more so, we’re used to our folks reminding us of a simple fact, over and over again, regardless of the outcome of the spelling bee or pageant, the slide into home run or the goal that was kicked in the opponent’s net. No matter what, under any circumstance, if we bombed the test or we soared – our Baby Boomer mom and dads never let us forget that we’re special.

When boys broke our hearts or the popular girls at school were mean to us, they remind us that our hearts will mend, we’ll meet someone new and those silly girls never end up never leaving town, but we will. We’re so special, so unique, so talented, so everything — that surely, everything we ever wanted would come our way.

But then we get that diploma, we pack up our bags and forget all that we knew to move away. As our special-self, we tackle the vast unknown that is a great, big, ‘ol city and we set our heights high. Why? Because we’re special. Because we have what it takes to make it anywhere, even here Blue Eyes, in the city that was made for dreamers, believers, bankers, artists, druggies, waiters who think they’re actors, and all of this-and-that that’s always in between. And if we’re lucky, like I have been — we do actually find a career path that makes us feel important. That makes us feel like we’re part of a team, that we’re getting paid to do something we thoroughly enjoy. And that feeling — well that feeling makes me feel special.

But even if we get the 9-6 duck-in-a-row, we start searching for something else to make us feel like we matter. And for the majority of us, that comes in the form of a sturdy, handsome and strong man who also happens to be kind, generous, selfless and hopefully, bilingual with a fat wallet. Or even if he’s not all of those things,  if he sees us as strong, beautiful, kind, generous and hopeful, if he reminds us of how important we are, of how irreplaceable we are — even if he kinda sucks — then we’re smitten. We suddenly feel what we’re been wanting to feel — special…to someone else. Or in someone else’s eyes.

Is that why they call it a special someone? Because we all look for someone who thinks we are special to make us feels special, so therefore they become special? Are relationships more about an ego boost than they are about love and partnership? As much as we’d like to think they aren’t self-serving, are they? When you breakup, is it the man that we miss or is it the constant emotional reinforcement that we’re pretty damn fabulous? And beautiful, even when we wake up with stinky breath and pimply skin?

Because when someone who once made you feel special, was once special in your eyes, isn’t there anymore — somehow you feel less important. I think I’ve used the words disposable, forgettable, unimportant in blogs past. But that’s not really the case. Having a relationship end doesn’t make me any of those things, it doesn’t take away my special-ness that many someones once loved. In fact, in an odd sort of way, it makes me more special.

Because I valued my own…value. I took matters into my own hands. I realized that what I wanted wasn’t possible, who I loved wasn’t an actual person, but an idea I had in my head, that having someone to remind me of what makes me shine isn’t nearly as beautiful as reminding myself. I decided that while I love my gold stars and my business card that goes along with the job of my dreams, and having a partner to fall in love with, the thing that makes me special isn’t how well I did in school or how I am in the office, or really how I am as someone’s girlfriend, it’s the fact that I’m just me.

And as adults, the person to hand out the certificate of merit is ourselves. Not our parents, not our teachers or coaches, our bosses or our supervisors. It’s not our very best friends (who are so special themselves) or the men that we hope will never stop seeing us as incredible, gorgeous creatures. The special-ness stops being told to us all the time by other people, so instead, we have to keep telling ourselves.

When we’re upset or sad feeling disconnected or forgotten about, it’s our own spirit, our own saving grace that comes in and whispers: “You’re still special, you’re still going places, you’re still going to find that love you want. Why? Because you’re really someone special. Because someone, someday will really notice that about you because first, you noticed it about yourself.”

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Can’t Have My New York

After brunch at 40 Carrots, M, A and I browsed the racks at Bloommies full of clothes  we can’t afford (but like to pretend we can), and chatted vigorously despite our hangovers. Deciding it was about time to get snow boots, we took a load off to try on Hunters, that unfortunately only came in one size and one color — neither of which suited any of our needs.

As M tried on a boot, I received a text message from Mr. P that felt like it made my heart stop.

Unable to really comprehend or to make sense of anything, I started gathering my things and wrapped my scarf loosely around my neck, when A looked up and noticed my panic. “What’s wrong?” she asked. I showed her the text message and said, “I have to get out of here.” M quickly stepped out of the temporary footwear and I pushed through Bloommies like I was someone important, completely careless to who I ran into. I felt like I was losing my breath and I needed to get to fresh air and out of a store that while I love it, doesn’t exactly give a warm and fuzzy feeling.

When we reached the cool outside, I exhaled for the first time and felt the tears splash down my cheeks, uncontrollably. I didn’t care who on Lexington Avenue gawked at me, the pain hurt so deeply that I knew trying to conceal it would only sting worse. A gave me her D&G sunglasses to hide the mascara residue and M quickly filled our conversation with laughter and always-insightful perspective. Walking to the subway on the way home, where we would all veg on pumpkin cheesecake and movies that have nothing to do with romance, I tried my best to not look around at everything we passed.

The Plaza, Central Park after the first snow of the season. Barney’s, Columbus Circle, the horse-and-buggies that are so old-fashioned and cliché that they’re beautiful. Tiffany’s. The last surviving multi-colored leaves and the feeling in the air that the holidays are near — all of these things make New York what it is at this time of the year. And for me, they remind me of all of the hope I used to feel toward Mr. P. Of when it seemed like he would actually change from Mr. Unavailable to a true possibility. I’m taken back to strolling while holding hands, to admiring his rosy cheeks that I could feel myself falling for, to how I thought New York was magical because it was New York, but also because I thought I was falling in love.

And you know, I did. I did have that first New York romance that’s every single bit complicated as it is dysfunctional. I stayed longer than I should have, I wore those rose-colored glasses when I would have been smarter to invest in a good pair of D&G’s that apparently, can conceal most anything from passerbys. I was loyal and true, and I let myself believe that someone who can’t love himself could ever love me in the way I deserve. I gave more than I had and when it wasn’t enough, I convinced myself that leaving would surely invoke passion in someone who is quite passionless.

There is no harm in believing, but there is harm in deceiving yourself. And I became the master of tricking myself to see a vision of Mr. P that doesn’t exist — so much that I allowed myself to go back to the scene of the crime, only to be disappointed, again. I played the part of a fool as brilliantly as a fool can be played, and in the end, I only found myself with swollen eyes, bundled up in a winter jacket next to the two best girls in Manhattan, feeling disposable, degraded and wondering how in the world I will be able to love someone with all of my heart ever again.

But then I reminded myself — sometimes you put those big girl panties on and deal, and sometimes you stupidly take them off to make more mistakes. Sometimes you make the wrong decision despite knowing that eventually you’ll just cry about it later. Sometimes you see the goodness in people to the point of self-destruction. Sometimes you love someone blindly, hoping that with love will come change, forgetting that it’s really only changing your outlook and standards that will bring you love. Sometimes you can do all of the right things, say the right words, be the right kind of person, love the rightful, selfless way — and still, the person you give so much to, will not give you the same in return. Being a compassionate and kind-hearted person will get you very far, but only if you’re surrounded by people who are the same.

Looking at me as I stared off into the anonymity of the MTA, M said, “You can’t let him ruin Bloommies for you, though!” A excitedly nodded in agreement and I smiled. She’s right — he can’t ruin Bloommies for me. Or Barney’s or Rockfeller Center. Not even Bryant Park where we had our first date, or Williamsburg where he lived in a tiny little room. He can’t ruin the splendor of Christmastime in New York or the magic I feel in my heart on these streets. He can’t ruin Central Park or Tiffany’s or put a dent in that magnetic skyline that’s always been destined to be my backyard.

He can take a lot of things from me and he has. And I have let him. My patience, my give-a-damn, my dignity, my pride and the pieces of my heart that were too warm and sincere for him to ever deserve. He can make me cry outside of Bloommies, on my birthday, in a sushi restaurant I’ll never go to again, in my hometown with my parents in the next room, at a bar in meatpacking and one in the Lower East Side.

But he can’t have my New York or define my happiness here. As a native, he’ll never understand it’s shine, and as a self-centered careless 30-something bachelor, he’ll never be able to appreciate my shine for all that it is.

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Making a Commitment to Me

It’s a lot easier to see a relationship clearly once you’re not in it anymore. That’s the way it is with anything — sometimes your friends understand you in ways you can’t, your family accepts you, even when perhaps, they shouldn’t, and no matter what you do right or wrong, those who love you, see you through your moments of crazy and of clarity. Even if the first is more common than the latter.

The period following a breakup is like that too: it partly makes you feel like you’re losing your mind and partly makes you feel like you’re finally getting your mind back. In this particular case, it feels like I’m getting my life back.

I was walking back from the gym on Wednesday evening after a very difficult workout, chatting with my friend L and my mom, and I remembered what it felt like before Mr. Possibility. When every decision I made was based on what I wanted and what I needed, not on what I thought would make him happy. I remembered what it felt like to run nearly every single day a week and the instant confidence boost I feel every time I go. I remembered what it was like to reconnect with friends and to make plans for the entire weekend that revolve around nothing else but a good time and giggles. I remembered what if was like to wake up when I wanted to, to not share my bed or my heart, and to just be…me.

I didn’t see how the relationship was affecting me when I was in it — those rare nights where everything felt right with Mr. P always seemed to outshine the rest of the days when everything was completely off. I didn’t realize how I pushed my friends aside or how I put my feelings and my desires on hold in an effort to be what he desired. I knew, but didn’t fully comprehend how little time I took to actually take care of myself or how much I really missed running, even with the aches and pains it brings me. Come to find out, the aches and pains a man who isn’t right gives you are actually quite more difficult to get over, and require a different kind of stretching.

When I returned to my apartment, I noticed how much cleaner I’ve kept my room, how it finally looks like someone lives here, instead of someone who just passed by because she’s in such a rush to get to her boyfriend’s apartment. I looked around at the space that no longer houses anything that really reminds me of Mr. P, and with a glass of wine and a delectable dinner I cooked just for me, I retreated to the living room to enjoy the company of myself. My roommates gradually joined and chatted, and even though I’ve lived here for five months, it was one of the first times I really connected to them.

I would never say I regret anything that happened with Mr. P or that my time with him was time wasted. I value what he taught me (even if I’m still trying to figure that out) and a part of me will always love him. But I couldn’t see how unhappy I really was until I had the strength to leave and rediscover the happiness I had forgotten about. The happiness that comes from just living my life, doing those things I love to do, and spending time with those I love. Regardless of the words I wrote on this blog or the advice I gave, when all was said and done, I was the girl who still let a man monopolize her life. I put him before myself and before my friends, and in the end, I’m not only rebuilding my mojo, but the bridges I let crumble.

For the first time ever, I think — I really don’t want a relationship. In the hysteria of our ending when I was upset and angry, I immaturely screamed at him: “Well you cured me, Mr. P! I don’t want anything to do with love!” Of course one day, I’m sure I will — but I don’t really long for companionship. I don’t envy the couples I see. I’ll go out on dates, but I’m not begging or working for them. I’m quite content on my own and I really don’t feel like I need a man to complete my life — it already feels complete.

I’m healing and I’m learning more about myself each and every single day. And until I get to the point where I know that I won’t lose myself in another relationship or in the arms of some guy, I really have no desire to be committed. Instead, I’m making a commitment to myself, one that involves running again, spending more time with my friends, doing things that I’ve put on hold, taking time to rest, working harder than I have before, traveling and falling in love with this city…

…as I try to fall in love with myself again, too.