Tag Archives: Relationships

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If We Were Just Friends

After a slew of difficult conversations with her newlywed husband, one of my dearest friends L called me in a panic last night. Her voice was stuffy and brittle and though I’ve only seen her face-to-face once in the past year, I could imagine her scrunched face and droopy eyes. I’ve always thought her to be one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known, but she’s no chameleon – whatever she’s feeling, she wears it.

Hearing her strain to explain her frustration, I played the part of the level-headed friend who is there for her bestie when she needs her. I can’t say I approve of her husband – they met right when I moved to New York and married less than a year later. She seemed happy while they were dating and always gushing over him. When I finally was introduced to him, he was pleasant and attractive enough. Though he isn’t my type, he seemed as if he adored her and without any reservations from her end, I had no choice but to wish them well.

While the relationship is solid, life around it is affecting them. They did a lot of things at once – they said their “I do’s”, moved across the state, both started looking for jobs, and signed the lease on their first apartment. With all of these changes, it’s normal that their marriage is under stress and because of that, they’re having to figure out how to communicate with one another. You’d think the whole “talking” to your partner thing would be the easiest of all – we all have friendships where we blabber beyond end without thinking twice. Conversation comes casually and naturally and it’s something we take for granted – we’ve always been able to talk to everyone in our lives, so why are men so difficult to talk to?

It’s not they are – it’s that everything seems emotionally-connected to the relationship that any words they say (or don’t say) mean more than anything else. Like one afternoon your boyfriend is super talkative and flirty, affectionately touching you and saying the sorts of things you only hear in rom-coms and then that night, he’s a little moody and sensitive, requesting a bit of space and some time apart. Or you mistakenly set your alarm for early in the morning and it goes off, waking up your partner when it’s their only morning to sleep in the entire week. Annoyed and a little drowsy, they snap at you and roll over, breaking that peaceful nook that is impossible to replace with any “boyfriend pillow” regardless of what wonky promises infomercial make. Or after spending countless nights together, the need for a night alone outweighs that pretty little nook.

I’m not an expert at this – Mr. P can definitely testify to that. He has a tendency to slide open his other girlfriend, his Blackberry, when he can’t sleep. Having read dozens of articles about how that light is particularly harmful to your eyes when you’re trying to fall asleep, it not only keeps me awake, but I know it’s not going to make his arrival in dreamland any sooner. Instead of saying this maturely or making a joke out of it, cranky-me huffs-and-puffs and makes a silly comment, only causing him to sigh heavily – obviously annoyed. These sorts of things – like asking for room so the heart can grow fonder or a guy’s need to veg – I’ve learned how to handle better and more effectively by adopting one single phrase into my vocabulary:

What would I do if we were just friends?

Say the same situation happened while having a girl’s night with my friends. We’re all sharing a Queen or a blowup mattress and one of us can’t sleep so she pulls out her phone to Facebook or check Gmail (though it takes forever to load) – what would I say to her? I’d probably toss a pillow at her and giggle, say something about the guy she flirted with that night and tell her to play a little harder to get. She’d probably throw some playful profanity my way and shut down the phone and fall asleep. And if we woke up to the sound of someone’s alarm clock going off randomly, it wouldn’t cause an argument if we were disgruntled, it’d just be something we’d laugh about over coffee and pancakes at the diner in the morning.

These sorts of irritations and miscommunications happen all the time – but they only seem to matter when they involve someone we’re in love with. But maybe if we approached our partner as a friend, not as this loverboy who holds our band-aided heart in his hands, we’d avoid a lot of arguments. We’d be a little more understanding, lighthearted and relaxed about our relationships. We’d forgive each other easier, treat one another how we would a best friend, and stop thinking that because your guy is a guy, his reactions mean more. As far as I can tell from my own relationships, the best thing you could ever give a man is breathing room. And to you know, treat him like a dude or how you would your own friend.

Because if your boyfriend isn’t someone you’d pick as a friend if you weren’t sleeping with them or in love – then you have no business being with them to begin with. And if you can’t give your guy a break or learn how to listen more than you jump to conclusions – then maybe you’re not ready to be a girlfriend or wife. Those seem like alluring titles when you really want someone to call you yours, but once you have them – you’ve gotta remember that they take a lot of work. And that same patience you’d give your freaking-out-friend on a Sunday evening.

In fact – that same patience times a hundred. Or so.

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You Shall Not Pass

I’m not someone who avoids change. I wouldn’t say I embrace it fully, but the thought of my life changing isn’t one that’s terrifying. Instead, it’s exciting. I accept and anticipate the fact that a year from now, my life may look entirely different. I may want different things, I may be still with Mr. P, with someone else, or single. I may be at a completely new company, freelancing full-time, living overseas, or in an opposite industry. I could be ten pounds lighter or heavier, I could be fluent in another language, I could be in love, I could be nursing a heartbreak, I could be…anything.

Our youth is good for encouraging spontaneity and the pursuit of change. Before I’m sanctioned into a marriage, busy with children, or at a point where money is more for saving and planning than for passing this month’s rent check and blowing dollars on brunch. Before my life as a Mrs or mommy begins, I get the chance to really take chances. To take the detour instead of the hard way, to date someone just for the hell of it, not with the intention of forever-and-ever-and-always. To leave New York if I wish or to stay. It’s a beautiful thing really – knowing that in any moment, with one phone call, with one glance, with one chance, with one experience,  with one connection, with one single something, life as I know it – could be transformed. I could look back at this moment, wearing Mr. P’s tshirt, eating leftover spaghetti while listening to a mix between his attempt at learning German via Rosetta Stone and some John Legend, and it all may seem like a distant memory, a universe that I’m not longer apart of, but a vision I’ll never forget.

My mother (and my friend K) always spew off the cliche promise, “This too shall pass” when I’m worrying that the now that’s not working seems unbearable. When I’m frustrated or feeling like there will never be anything better than this awful experience I’m part of, this seemingly hopeless existence I’m existing in – I remember that time passes, people change, and life will look different before I know it. The world will turn and so will my attitude, in a passing, fleeting moment that I won’t remember in a few years.

But while things will change and so will I – the me that I am at my core, won’t pass. Just as some graffiti artist said in surprisingly legible handwriting…

Life changes and we’re allowed to make mistakes that make us into better people. We’re allowed to stay put longer than we should, move this way or that, love this person and then stop, be who we want to be and then be someone new. But that heart that feels so fragile, that soul that continues to thirst for more, and that mind that won’t stop spinning both in the good times and the bad – those all stay the same. Sure, they’ll get tougher and stronger, learn how to endure and decide when enough is enough (or when a little more is better) – but they don’t pass us by.

Maybe that’s the trick of it all. If time tells us that it’s coming with or without permission or notice and we’re just all an object of the universe, meant to be manipulated and stand trial in front of the heavens – then our only responsibility is to keep ourselves in tact. To let life change, let people come and go, let everything around us crumble and fall, be built again, love and lose – but to not pass ourselves by.

 

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Crazy Little Freaks

There’s this girl you see on the street – she’s dressed from head-to-toe in black with a gold belt and designer shoes and bag. She pulls her blonde hair back sleekly and tightly and her eyes are hidden away from sunglasses far too large for her face. She walks with an extra kick in her step displaying a certain confidence to the world. She looks like business and watches those around her with scrutiny – even from far away, she appears to be someone I’d let lead if we shared a sidewalk.

She walks through the park swiftly and takes a seat next to a man on a bench, crossing her legs away from him and looking in the opposite direction. From M and I’s view atop the hill looking down at them sneakily under our own sunglasses that are too big for our faces, it’s obvious there is some tension between the two. They start by sharing headphones and after a while, she muscles a grin and he rests his hand on her knee. Sensing all was well, I returned to my trashy magazine and attempted to sun myself when M nudges me to pay attention again.

Now, she was standing up, her hands are up, her chin is up – she’s all up in arms about something. Although New York’s background music prevented M and I from eavesdropping, she was so upset by something he did or didn’t do that tears were now destroying her precisely-applied makeup. He, however, wasn’t budging. He sat firmly without moving, the iPod still in his hand, the headphones flirting with the pavement. A family with a child on a bike pass them by and she looks off into the distance, arms crossed and her body heaving as if she was sobbing.

Though she probably started to walk away from him and the conversation, she stopped, meaning she wanted the chase. He obliged and came over to console her, wrapping his arms around her and kissing the side of her head. For a moment it looks like they reconnect, but then she pushes him away and the rampage starts again, signifying the fight is not dissolved. She goes to rush off in a hurry, even grabbing her Louie and marching away – but this time he doesn’t go after her. He sits down on the bench, placing his hands on his head and sighing deeply. She comes over and smacks him to look up at her and when he refuses to continue the argument, she spits on him.

Yes, literally spit on the man.

At this point M and I are leaving the park to head back to our respective apartments, so I have no idea how this ended or what he did in response to her loogie. But as we departed, we chatted about how the girl was acting crazy. She was obviously upset about something – and maybe he did something profoundly shitty – but is it ever appropriate to spit on someone? Especially your significant other?

During our discussion, it occurred to both of us that all women are crazy little freaks from time-to-time.  I’ve had my own share of emotional outbursts, shoving a boyfriend up against a wall in anger, throwing a four-inch stiletto at another’s face, and breaking a bottle of expensive cologne in haste. I’ve refused to go to bed frustrated, though if I would have it would have saved both of us some tears and regrettable words. I’ve shown myself in an ugly light in front of friends and family, strangers and people I probably should have tried harder to impress.

But that’s the thing about emotions is that everyone, no matter how mature or together, no matter how many breakups or makeups we’ve endured, lets them get the best of them at times. And it’s not just women – men just happen to show their crazy little freak differently. Some guys take flight and some stay to fight, some are violent and some remove themselves from the situation, turning off their phone and disappearing for a few days to clear their head.

Yet the double standard persists, when a guy does this, he’s being a guy; when a girl has an emotional outburst, she’s labeled a crazy bitch. Even if the majority of time, she’s rather level-headed and collected. Is it that men can’t handle it when we have a hard time handling something or do they not want to take responsibility for provoking us? Or do we tap into our insecurities and our own trust issues, only letting those back-burner demons out to play when everything seems to start boiling?

I don’t know – but the key to being a cray little freak is to learn to forgive yourself. If a guy loves and cares about you, if he’s worth that energy, emotional stress, and commitment, then he will forgive you too. These things happen, we all lose our cool when something or someone gets the best of us, and while spitting isn’t encouraged, getting out that frustration is. And if you worry about the guy hitting the road, don’t stress. If he goes, he goes. Rest assured there is still someone out there who will handle your crazy little freak with care because he knows deep down, even in his super-duper cool facade, a crazy little freak lives in him, too.

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The Things That Never Happen

Long before teens and tweens become obsessed with vampires – I was deathly afraid of them. Having broken the rules and watched an episode of Tales from the Crypt with my friend who was allowed to watch it, I became terrified. There were nocturnal creatures who preyed on my neck and if they took a bite, I’d be doomed to be a scary blood-sucker like them?

I’m sorry Edward Cullen, but that’s just not sexy to me.

Not being able to hide my fright in the middle of the night, my parents soon realized I had been spooked by something and grounded me for going against their recommendations for proper viewing. But my own fear was punishment enough – I hung garlic on my bedpost, tucked the sheets around my neck (as if cotton would protect me from fangs?), and begged for a clap-on-clap-off light until my parents obliged so I could clothes my eyes and not have to open them again, just in case there was something scary standing above me.

After a week of sleepless nights and crying fits, I asked my mom for the 100th time how she knew that Dracula wasn’t coming to get me in my ballerina-inspired pink bedroom off a gravel road in a two-story countryhouse in North Carolina. Frustrated with me but not showing it, she said, “The things you worry about the most never happen.”

My troubles have changed as I’ve grown: would I make the tennis team, would I pass the SAT, would I have a high school sweetheart, would I pick the right college, would I be heartbroken if Mr. Whatever broke up with me, would I ever find love again, would I be able to graduate early, would I fail in New York, would I become a good editor, would I survive in the notoriously difficult NYC dating field, would I…?

While I’m not a negative person, it’s become a common reaction when I’m worrying to think of the worse case scenario. When I’m upset about my career or wonder if I’m on the right path, I automatically picture myself having to pack my bags and return to my home state, defeated and unsuccessful, hanging my head low while avoiding all of my old friends and sinking into a rocky depression. When I’m worried about love, I picture a messy breakup with Mr. P that involves screaming and hurt feelings, the end of a friendship and the foundation of trust and fidelity shattered into pieces that won’t fit back together. When I stress about how I look, I imagine myself gaining five pounds with each bite of cheesecake, my clothes not fitting and feeling like an ugly ducking that’ll never bloom into a sophisticated city swan that gracefully cascades down the streets of Manhattan.

But when I start seeing with a tunnel-vision of devastation instead of one with realistic consequences, I remind myself that the things I worry about the most never happen. Sure, I could take a few wrong turns on the way to the dream job and the dream may change. I could be silly to give Mr. P another chance and it could all blow up in my pretty little face, as so many have warned me. I could decide to let myself go, curse the gym and gain 50 pounds.

All of these things could happen and maybe they will, but it won’t be in the absolutely awful way I imagine them happening. None of these things would be the death of me – I would be hurt, I’d be a little lost, I’d have to take a step back and reevaluate, but I’d be okay. I would stand up again, I’d figure out a new path, I’d find a new love (or be happy on my own), and I’d build up my confidence again.

I may not have been able to survive if vampires were real and they attacked me when I was a kid, but as an adult, I can handle just about anything that life throws me.  And I can spend my time worrying about these things that’ll never happen to me, or I can live my life. I can dwell in fear or I can be the brave person I know I am. I can waste time conjuring up all of the ways things can go wrong, or I can be thankful for all the ways it is already right.

Daily Gratitude: Today, I’m thankful for my lovely friends who always put everything perspective. 

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The Six-Month Mark

My first date with Mr. Idea lasted nearly 24-hours, only interrupted by my hostessing shift at some wannabe-ritzy restaurant in North Carolina. We met for brunch and then stayed up all night talking, watching movies, and getting to know one another. My first date with Mr. Fire was similar, lunch shifted into cooking dinner, which moved to drinks and a very passionate first kiss. Mr. Fling and Mr. Disappear were all alike – I was smitten and convinced within seconds of chatting away.

After each of these dates, I excitedly called my mom, spilling the details and reading off his resume to convince her of this guy’s potential. She listened while repeating, “that’s great” and “how sweet” when the conversation permitted her to speak. And at the end of each monologue while I was still consumed with the splendor of a date-gone-well, I would ask: “So mom, what do you think?”

Cautious of giving me advice because she knows how strongly I take her opinion to heart, her answer has always been the same: “He sounds great and I’m glad you’re happy, but remember, you won’t see someone’s true colors for six months.”

Oh, mothers. Don’t you hate when they’re always right?

Mr. Fire and I almost made it to six months, Mr. Idea and I broke up right around six months, and the ones that lasted longer than half a year, probably shouldn’t have. Because of this, I’ve always feared the six-month mark in a relationship – it feels like the make-it or break-it point where the relationship will either continue healthily or fall to pieces.

And here Mr. Possibility and I are, flirting with the half-year mark, though we’ve known each other almost as long as I’ve been writing this blog. Our relationship has had its fair share of ups and downs and it’s required both of us to compromise to meet each other’s needs. We’ve traveled distances by car and by plane, lived together for a few weeks in between leases, and weathered the storms of the past while hoping for a future. We’ve had to spend time apart to learn how to miss one another, we’ve had to fight to learn how to accept our flaws, and we’ve had to grow as people so we could grow as a couple. While our story is probably more tangled and complicated than most relationships, I think what makes us connect is stronger than what’s connected me to men I’ve loved before.

Because with Mr. P, it was the first time I took things really slow.

I didn’t call my mom after our first date because I wasn’t sure if I was interested in him. I didn’t swoon over him, even though I fell in front of him on that silly bus. Partly because my focus was on myself because of this blog and partly because I just was exhausted of looking for love, when we crossed paths, I didn’t picture what tomorrow could be. Instead, for the very first time, I enjoyed getting to know him without placing any pressure on anything. Neither of us had any expectations and so when things worked out, when things progressed, when we became an item instead of just dating, we were happily surprised.

So maybe the six-month indication of success or failure doesn’t apply to this relationship. Maybe it does – I’m not sure. But for me, I didn’t need to hang around for half-a-year to figure out what Mr. P’s true colors were because I saw them way before I became his girlfriend, way before we kissed for the first time. I fell for his friendship, not for my own romantic ideas of a future that’s yet to be determined.

For now,he and I, and us, is still a possibility.

Daily Gratitude: Today, I’m thankful for a stellar Sunday morning with French toast, bacon, coffee, and orange juice.