Tag Archives: Relationships

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The Fixer Upper Syndrome

When I moved into my apartment, I was damned-and-determined to do everything on my own. For high school graduation, I was given a tool kit and it made it through college and the New York move, so I used all of its knick-knacks to hang up my decor. I hung a shelf with a balance, stood on my tippy-toes to get my curtains to hang correctly and carried a microwave in a box five blocks instead of taking a cab. Sure, I could have asked for help and it may have been easier – but I get satisfaction by doing it myself.

I think I may get the trait from my mother – she’s the type of woman who would rather struggle with something heavy and mow the lawn herself instead of swallowing her pride to ask my dad for help. He lets her go about things her own way and eventually when something is just a bit too much, she’ll reluctantly admit she needs him. I was raised to believe that nothing stands in the way of my success or my happiness and that anything worth doing is better done knowing you earned it yourself. There are no shortcuts for the rise to the top or for finding peace – you have to work hard, sweat hard, and learn how to accept failure to find your way.

It’s with that mentality that I approach most everything in my life.

I’ll ask my friends for advice until the keys on my laptop start sticking or I’m blue in the face, but when it comes to actually working it out – no advice they can give will make a difference until I make up my mind. I don’t blame anyone for my shortcomings except for myself, and any problems I have are my responsibility to fix, not anyone else’s. I’ve never expected a man to come into my life, erase all of my baggage, be my savior, lover, therapist, and burly protector. A man’s role is to be my partner, not the person who takes care of me – I’m more than capable of doing that alone.

But it’s not a two-way street with me. I seem to attract men who resemble art projects I had in elementary school. Their pieces are strung about everywhere, their edges are sharp and subtle all at once, and the trail of relationship destruction they leave stretches as far as I can see. They have troubled minds and wounded egos, they are going through some sort of midlife crisis where all hell has broke loose, no matter what age they are. They have issues and hangups, tend to get hangovers easily, yet drink easier. They are emotional and sometimes heartless, cold and selfish. They seem sad and lost, angry and resentful – all qualities that most intelligent women would run far, far away from as fast as their Manolo’s would take them.

Not me though.

I’ve diagnosed myself with Fixer Upper Syndrome. And I’m not sure if they’ve found a cure for it yet.  Maybe my real calling isn’t writing, but real estate – finding men when they’re value is rather low and then flipping them into bold, attractive and put-together studs who go at a higher price point. Probably not though – I’ve yet to change a man, no matter how much I’ve believed I could. No matter how much patience I have, no matter how great I am in bed, how understanding and kind, no matter how long I stick around to see if the finishing touches will stick instead of chip.

In the process of dating these defeated warriors though, I end up not doing anything productive. I become a happy, safe harbor for them to wallow in their sorrows deeper, knowing they have a pretty face with a reassuring smile to wake up to. But what about me? What do I get in return? Every man has surely added something and taught me a lesson I needed to learn to be a better person – but most of them have taken way more than they’ve given.

And yet I’ve stayed loyal and constant, an unwavering force that regardless of how much they reckon, I reckon it’s not too much. My enough-is-enough point is pushed way further than any of my friends. While they’re advising me to run for the hills and protect myself from the hurt that’s looming, I’m planted firmly in the ground, convicted in the belief that one day, this tortured soul will transform into my soulmate.

But do they ever? Have they ever? Has any woman stood by her man and he ultimately became the man she dreamed of? Or do we all want to be the special one who could withstand the ups and downs, no matter how much we had to swallow our own heart to survive the storm? What’s the sweet spot between being in a dysfunctional relationship that could be functional and choosing yourself because you frankly can’t give a damn anymore? Or would they have to change so much that they wouldn’t even be themselves, and you would have to sacrifice so much of what you want, that you wouldn’t be happy?

When you’re so incredibly self-sufficient and you yearn to date someone who is the same, why do you always attract and subsequently fall for the exact opposite? Do a go-getter and fixer-upper ever make it? Or do they become stranded in the middle, neither living up to their potential? Can you cause someone more trouble by staying with them than you could if you left them to their own devices, to build that backbone and that thick skin that you already have?

Maybe it’s true that while a lot of things make a happy relationship, like support and forgiveness, patience and kindness, hungry conversation and tenacious passion – sometimes, love simply isn’t enough. It’s easy to love someone when they strike a chord with you or match your heartstrings, but if they don’t love themselves, if they aren’t a whole person – there isn’t enough love to fix them. They’ve gotta fix themselves first.

Perhaps the only way to cure Fixer Upper Syndrome is to fix yourself by accepting that men aren’t supposed to be projects, they’re supposed to feel like the prize that surprises you instead of relying on you.

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Just Fine With Just Me

I’m rather fond of my name – particularly my middle name, Aurora. It means “the dawn” and my parents found it rather amusing that I would be “AuROARing Tigar”, but the idea to scribble it on my birth certificate came from my dad. He claimed to have an Aunt Aurora on his mother’s side but later discovered he didn’t. So, I’m named after an aunt I don’t really have.

Never bothered me though, I was more excited as a child that I had a royal name – Sleeping Beauty’s official title is Princess Aurora, and therefore she instantly became my favorite. I knew all the songs, had a dress that switched from pink to blue, and wanted more than anything for my prince to come.

Funny thing is – probably up until I moved to New York, I still roughly knew the songs, had pink and blue dresses and still badly wanted my banker-doctor-lawyer prince to find me. To rescue me even from the exhaustion of going on yet another date with another guy who I ultimately wouldn’t be interested in or would be and it would be unrequited. Though I was barely 21 wen I packed up and left the South, I had been on what I thought were enough dates and just wanted to wake up from the deep sleep of loneliness I felt like I was in.

If I’m being honest, I didn’t shake that feeling of wanting happily ever after until I really starting focusing on this blog and this journey. And then I started meeting women I admired – women who were older than me and wildly successful and….single. It didn’t seem to faze them, though – they were focused on other things. Things that brought them tremendous happiness, things that they created for themselves, thing that made up a lifestyle they loved.

And it didn’t involve men. They weren’t against men, but dudes certainly weren’t necessary either. There was no need to be rescued. Evil stepmothers could be tamed with distance and financial independence. If they wanted to live in a whole other world, they could get there by taxi or train, no need for a magical rug that would probably need to be dry cleaned, anyway. They weren’t held captive under the ocean or a castle, and if they were under any spells, it was merely the curse of being beautiful, successful and independent.

They weren’t princess and neither am I. Sure there are some modern-day fairytales (enter Kate Middleton) but those are very few and far between. Even Ms. Duchess didn’t need to be rescued, she just happened to fall in love with someone who happened to be a prince. And these women who I’ve developed strong friendships with, some have since gained a plus-one but they haven’t lost themselves in the process. They have given me the confidence and the knowledge to stop looking for someone charming to free me from singleness. To never depend on a man for anything and to count his presence as a blessing if he’s a good one, or his absence also a a blessing if he’s a bad one. To realize that really, the best kind of happily ever after we can find has absolutely nothing to do with a guy.

In fact the best happy I’ve felt has always come from accomplishing something on my own. By finally getting that dream job (yes indeed!), by severing any dependence from my parents, and living in a city I love.  No man made those things a reality, I did. And should a man never come into my picture or Mr. Possibility bite the dust like the others, I know I’d still have something quite powerful to depend on. Something unstoppable and relentless. Something that took a long time to find, something that took hard work to develop, and something that brings me peace in the places I need it the most. Something that regardless of what happens or where my life goes or who I marry or don’t marry, what job I find or what job I lose, will always remain a constant.

Something that I’ve always loved, even if at times I couldn’t find confidence in it. Something that’s most simply – me. And if I happen to live happily-ever-after alone, then I’ll spend my life helping others, having incredible sex with lovers who won’t offer me a diamond, building an empire, adopting babies like I’m Angelina sans-Brad, and realizing that I’m just fine with just me.

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A Great Love Story

I always considered myself lucky. I’m someone who was raised in an open, honest and understanding home by two parents who not only loved me, but loved each other dearly. I watched my dad surprise my mother with flowers and unexpected dinner dates and I stumbled across letters my mom left for my dad all over our house. They made each other coffee, stood by each other no matter what they were going through, and though it wasn’t always perfect, to me – they were (and are) the perfect couple.

I grew as the witness and the product of a great love story. Of one of those timeless tales we all read about or watch on the silver screen, but never believe they exist. But they do – in their own special way. He was captivated from afar, she resisted initially, but ultimately gave in. And while they only dated for a month before getting engaged and moving in together, within three months they were married, and happy they’ve remained for over 25 years.

And because of their love, because of what I’ve always looked up to – I’ve never expected anything less for myself. I’ve always thought that relationships were supposed to be like that – open, understanding, romantic, passionate and simple. Maybe simple isn’t the best word because life is far from that, but the love should be easy. Loving someone, being with someone, being committed and dedicated – those things should be the simplest part of life.

But while we all know the detriment of a torn family and the realities and commonality of divorce, what about those of us who never experienced such awful things? Are our standards different or our expectations far too high? Do we only see the happy side of marriage and ignore the difficulties that two people can’t always overcome? Divorce isn’t always the best option, but there is no doubt that sometimes it is inevitable if either party wants to actually be satisfied. If you can’t be joyous together, staying put for the sake of anything is an awful idea.

That’s not reason not to try though, right? Isn’t the risk of loving more important than never loving at all? In a time where marriage continues to be postponed later in life, commitment is delayed until demanded and relationships are limited to a sex date here or a six month stay there – where has all that love gone?

Where are all those great love stories? Do they happen anymore? Do guys really fall madly, completely, entirely, magically, profoundly in love? Do they still pursue women to the ends of the earth? Do they still see us and become so intrigued, they have to have us? Do people get married, stayed married and actually take it serious before the age of 35? Or is that just asking too much? Is it unrealistic to believe that someone could love me the way my father loved my mother?

Should I accept that love has changed in the past three decades? Most every relationship I’ve had has been messy and complicated, difficult to endure at times and almost always ending in some form of heartache. I’ve loved and it hasn’t been returned, I’ve stood by someone when I should have walked, and I haven’t always returned love to those who wanted it. I’ve accepted less than what I deserve, admitted it and yet still continued to be part of it. I haven’t felt the kind of love that my parents seem to have – and I’m getting closer and closer to the age my mother was when she met my father.

And the older I get, the more men I meet and date, relationships I enter, and boyfriends I wonder if I should be dating, I try to decide if I need to have a great love story to have a great love?

Do those of us who come from happy homes want the same thing so badly that we look for it in all the wrong places? Or do we try to imagine and create it out of nothing? Do we value romance and meet-cutes over what it takes to make a relationship stable and reliable? Or are we lost somewhere between the two extremes, trying to figure out what’s really settling and what’s just wanting more than what’s available?

And if it’s not available here, can we find it elsewhere? Or would we just happen to find another lost cause? Another lost love on the way to what we hope will be the great love?

 

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The Way it Goes

I could write about how happy I am, how much thankfulness I feel in the deepest part of my heart, how difficult it is for me to sit still for any amount of time out of pure excitement, or how long I’ve been waiting for a day like yesterday to arrive. Let me tell you – when I do write about it, when I do have the patience and the stillness in my fingers to write about it, it’ll be a killer blog. It’ll be one of those that I know the second I publish it that it’s going to get a lot of hits and tons of comments. I’ll feel it pour out of me swiftly and easily, the kind of writing that is more like therapy…than well, therapy.

But it isn’t time for that now. Now is the time to celebrate with my friends at a bar in meatpacking with my favorite shoes and a sexy number. It’s time to toast to having patience and believing in the very best, no matter what sets you back at first. Because if you really have a gift, if you really have faith in yourself and what you can do – there may be moments where you feel inadequate or even times when you fail, but because you’re you and you know how great of a thing that is to be – you’ll always find your way.

And sometimes, the way it goes is a way that surprises you. Unexpectedly and quite beautifully. But most importantly – perfectly.

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Damn Girl, You’re Lookin’ Good

Back in college, when I was wrestling with the idea of having sex outside of a relationship, a friend of mine asked me something so ordinary that it caught me off guard:

Do you find yourself sexy when you’re all alone?

It’s was an interesting concept, I thought at the time. I looked down at myself wearing a homecoming t-shirt from the year before with baggy sweatpants, my hair pulled up in a clip I’d never be caught dead wearing in New York. My makeup was smudged from the day’s wear and I had just downed at least two pieces of pizza (I won’t admit to anything higher than that). But had I needed to be sexy today?

What had I done anyway? I had gone to class wearing jeans and cute top with heels. I had met friends for lunch, had no intentions of seeing a man that evening or of taking off my clothes in any strip-pole-approved manner. It was just another day – one that ended in my dorm room, next to my friend with green eyes and flawless olive-color skin. She had back muscles – something I’m still figuring out how to develop even with my best gym efforts. I bet she always felt sexy, regardless if a guy was worshiping her or not, I thought as I looked at her. This surely wasn’t a fair question for me to answer – the me who is consistently pale and pimpley.

“I mean, I feel sexy when I dress myself up for a night out or where that little black dress I love,” I replied casually. She rolled her eyes at me in return: “No, silly – I mean when there is no intention of being with anyone or of having sex or of doing anything. Do you ever have a night in with yourself where you just feel sexy on your own?” she asked. I raised an eyebrow in return, silently questioning her. “Oh Linds, I don’t mean like that, I just mean the feeling of being sexy,” she said with exaggeration.

At that point – I hadn’t.

I only put on anything remotely sexy when I thought I would have a reason to take it off. I only splurged on lingerie when there was a special occasion or when I felt the need to up the ante with my partner at the time. I never lathered myself in lotion and expensive perfume just for the hell of it, or laid around in silk bathrobes or lace bras and panties. I didn’t walk around naked, only in my heels and look at myself in the mirror and think, “Damn girl! Look at you!”

I admitted that I don’t feel sexy alone and she made a suggestion: “When I want to feel sexy on my own, I order in a pizza and then I change into my sexiest lingerie and eat it alone on the couch with dim lighting and sensual music.” While that sounded nice, it wasn’t the way I wanted to romance myself.

And to really knock myself off my own feet, I’d have to figure out what was romantic to me. Over the course of the next few weeks when my roommate wasn’t home, I’d try different things. I’d walk around naked with stilettos. I’d eat a big bowl of pasta while wearing silk (and pray not to drip on it). I’d throw something over my lamp to make it sultry and I’d curl up my hair so it flowed around my face. I laid on my bed seductively, attempting to find a position that made me feel like a supermodel. I tried all sorts of things until none of them worked, I lost interest and forgot the conversation.

Maybe my friend had found her inner-sexy at 19, but it took me a little more time. It wasn’t until I moved, when I came home after a day of worked, followed by dinner with a dear friend and poured myself a glass of wine that it clicked. I was standing in a black skirt from work, a black lace push-up bra, my only pair of designer shoes still on, my hair naturally wavy with Merlot resting in my hand and I caught a glimpse of myself. My other hand was turning on the computer, my lips were pieced and my eyes were unusually blue for being indoors and I felt beautiful.

I finally felt sexy.

And it wasn’t that I was doing anything particularly sexy – there were no candles, no soothing music, no anything spectacular. But that was the beauty of it. That was what made it sexy. I realized that without trying, without making a big deal of it, without testing out positions or deciding if silk or stockings gave me more pin-up qualities that I was sexy. I was sexy all on my own, without doing anything at all.

So I don’t really try to romance myself anymore. I wear the right bra with the right shirt, sometimes it is lace and sometimes its not. I buy skirts that fit me, some that hug my hips more than others. I lay however I wish on my bed and I don’t think twice. And I continue to find these moments where I catch a passing reflection of myself on the street or in the privacy of my apartment that I see my inner sex goddess and that Southern drawl comes out all on its own with and it thinks: “Damn girl, you’re lookin’ good!”