Tag Archives: Relationships

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Dating the Doppelganger

Last night, my company had one of our big award galas followed by drinks on the boss and then the younger crew took to the streets for additional boozing. Needless to say, our GM’s request for us all to come in a little later was much appreciated.

My hair wet and my makeup carelessly applied and smudged, I couldn’t bring myself to read F. Scott Fitzgerald as I rode the downtown train. Somehow, Gatsby just seems to deserve more than my hung-over attention. Instead of reading, I did one of my prized past-times, people watching. Though I usually stand, at this mid-morning hour I gave into the desire to plop down and bulge my elbows to claim my personal space bubble.

Glancing through the straphangers, I met eyes with a few cuties, made a silly face at a baby with curls and said a prayer for the homeless man scratching himself in the corner of the cart as everyone around him scattered, afraid they could catch “homeless” if they got too close. The married, gray-haired man next to me read his Wall Street Journal folded up into a tight little square, opening it as he slowly read the financial news of the day. And a rather non-amused teenager listening to Nicki Minaj so loudly it made my eardrums ring.

And then across from me, sat Mr. Possibility.

Or so, I thought, anyway. But no, it couldn’t be – Mr. Possibility is out-of-town this weekend and there was no way he’d be riding the downtown train from the Upper West Side to Chelsea at 10 a.m. I did a double-take when I first saw him, trying to further convince myself that it wasn’t in fact my boyfriend, but his doppelganger.

I couldn’t help but study him, left with nothing else to entertain myself with for the next six stops. His hair laid the same way. His eyes were the same color. He made the same face that Mr. Possibility does when he’s thinking really hard. When he lost at whatever game his phone was entertaining him with, he mouthed “F***” just as I imagine Mr. Possibility would do if he had actually downloaded that Angry Bird app he once played for an hour straight at a friend’s barbeque. His attire could have been pulled out of Mr. Possibility’s closet. I didn’t know this man, but here I was watching him intimately, feeling like I could strike up a conversation with little effort. He doesn’t know me, but I’m dating his doppelganger. Who is this guy and what is the universe trying to tell me? It’s an omen of death to meet your own look-a-like, so what happens when you see the twin of the guy you’re dating?

Once I exited the train, I didn’t give too much more thought about the character I encountered and busily got to writing and editing articles. When 1:30 rolled around and I realized I was still surviving off my pizza indulgence from last night’s shenanigans, I hurried out of the office to grab something simple to eat and a hot dose of caffeine to keep me going until half-past-five.

Taking the stairs to rid my carbohydrate-d guilt, I flung the door into the lobby open and found myself face-to-face with the doppelganger.

He looked surprised and smiled as he asked, “You were on the train this morning.” I confirmed and felt my cheeks redden to the tune of Akon, realizing he noticed me, noticing him. We talked about working in the same building and both living on the Upper West Side and what a small world Manhattan is. I wasn’t too incredibly freaked out by the meeting until he said, “Well, it’s nice to meet you, my name is Mr. Possibility.”

Yep. They have the same name too.

I stammered my way out of his vicinity and into the streets, less hungry and more intrigued. Maybe Mr. Possibility is my match, but I just met his. I said a silent prayer they weren’t just alike because that probably means there’s another one of me lurking around the corner, writing a blog about dating, love, sex, and ridiculousness.

But you know – I kind of already know I’m not one-of-a-kind. Sure, there’s not another Lindsay Tigar on Facebook or anyone who is just like or looks identical to me or has my same history and passions – but I’ve met women who are very similar to me. The planet has no lack of writers or editors and not enough jobs to fill the passion. Anyone who wants to be can be a blogger and if you want a byline, there’s probably an outlet for you somewhere on some website, somewhere in the World Wide Web. There are blue-eyed beauties and average-height brunettes who love heels and hail from North Carolina. And if you’ve dated at all, you’ve probably found a Mr. Unavailable, a Mr. Possibility, a Mr. Idea, and all of the rest. I have no doubt I probably have dozens of twins and perhaps even a doppelganger too, that I’d like to not meet anytime soon.

Maybe we’re not so unique but rather, vain enough to believe there is only one person who can do whatever it is that we do. Or perhaps we’re silly to believe that only one person is designed to be our partner in this life, that only one wonderful, dream-like dude can fit the bill of boyfriend or husband or otherwise.

But that’s not true. I’ve met two Mr. Possibilities. And really, isn’t every man a Mr. Possibility until proven…impossible?

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A Broken Give-a-Damn

The day before my college graduation, standing in streets covered with a slippery thin sheet of ice, Mr. Idea and I screamed at each other hunched under an awning a block from my apartment.

It wasn’t either of our finest moments.

It ultimately led to me throwing a high-heeled shoe in his general direction out of frustration, unchartered emotion and a little bit of booze. It didn’t hit him but he was astonished at my actions so much that he screamed (much to the dismay of my roommate): “You threw a shoe at my face! Lindsay! What’s wrong with you?” Equally as loud but through a thick stream of tears and unflattering nose-runnage, I replied: “I just want you to make me feel like you care and you don’t!!! Why can’t you just make me feel better?”

I’d like to say I’ve grown out of that immature statement but the truth is, I’m not sure we ever do. Maybe those totally-Zen, consistently healthy and one-with-the-world people are clear and peaceful in their relationships, but I don’t happen to be part of that demographic.

I’m emotional. I’m impatient. I can overreact. I have a tendency to overanalyze. I think people should give me just as much as I give them, though I don’t take all that much. When I’m mad, I cry. When I’m sad, I cry. When I’m furious, I need to take a walk (and apparently throw things). And when I’m upset in a relationship, as I was with Mr. Idea and probably as I’ll be with any man I date, I tend to think they should make me feel a certain way.

They should be understanding and kind. They should sometimes prioritize me above other things. They should have my best interest at heart and work hard at bettering my life, just as I hope to make their day-to-day brighter. Promises should be made and kept, not haphazardly planned and forgotten. I consider myself a great catch and you, whoever it is that I’m dating, should treat me as such. You should know what you have when you have me, and gosh-darnit – you should make me feel like the most amazing creature on Earth.

Right?

Well, maybe that worked once upon a time in never-never land, but in real life, in real relationship that are messy, complicated and flat-out irritating at times – things aren’t so cut and dry. While your partner should make you happy and positively affect your existence, they are not and should not be responsible for making you feel any way. And if you find yourself yelling at the top of your lungs, Jimmy in hand, begging them to make you feel differently – maybe you should check yourself. Check your emotions. And above all – check on the relationship.

There will be ups and downs and there will be fights. Hell, arguing can even be healthy occasionally and shows you how someone handles themselves in the heat of the moment or when tensions brew. But if there are more bad times than good, if you’re not getting what you want, if you’re not feeling what you want to feel, if you’re not finding that loving feeling as often as you’re battling the urge to run away – then what are you doing?

You’re waiting for someone to make you feel a way you can’t with them and maybe asking them to feel something they don’t. And if you can’t and they don’t, then the answer to your questionable exit strategy is…go. Breathe. Revel in yourself and in the possibility to meet someone who doesn’t frustrate you. Who doesn’t stand outside in the cold threatening to break up with you on the eve of your college graduation.

Because really, the only person who can make you feel the way you want to feel is you. The you who one day finds a love that doesn’t make you doubt or wonder constantly. And if you’re with the wrong one, you can never meet the right one. If you’re too busy fighting, you don’t have any energy to love. And if there is no love left, then girl, go out and find it.

And before you find it, find yourself. Decide your give-a-damn is broken and make yourself feel so in love with you that nothing else can compare.

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Beautiful Little Fool

I’ve decided to dedicate this summer to re-reading great classical literature. I came to this decision after helping Mr. Possibility clean out some bookcases and stumbling across an original 1925 copyrighted edition of The Great Gatsby.

Thinking back to the first time I read it in high school and then again in between years of college, I instantly remembered where I was at those points in my life. That’s the thing about good books; they leave your forever impacted, remembering just where you were just when you read their pages.

And so, in addition to my long list of magazines and websites I read daily, I decided to make New York memories reading some of my favorites throughout the summer. After all, what’s better to do in Central Park or on the train then get lost in a novel that’s so old, so lovely, that the sentences flow together with such ease you’d swear that type of writing doesn’t exist anymore? (It doesn’t really)

Flipping through Fitzgerald’s vivid description of the 20s, I fell in love with this line: “I hope she’ll be a fool – that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.” Daisy’s words never meant anything to me until now, after being the beautiful little fool a time – or two or three – in my adult life.

While Daisy isn’t the best leading lady in literature, she makes an interesting accusation. Is a fool really the best thing a girl can be?

Looking back into relationships I’ve had, both those that ended far too quickly and those that lasted way too long, I’ve admittedly played the part of the fool a few times. And as I’ve said before, to be a fool you have to be a little brave; for being foolish means opening yourself up to ridicule or failure.

But when you’re starting to date someone new – should you be foolish to red flags so you get to know who they really are before passing judgment? Should you be foolish before you make it official, putting it out of your mind that they are free to date and to sleep with whomever they please until titles are concrete and promises promised? Should we be foolish to believe that no matter how many times we’re hurt, we can get back up and try it again…and again?

Or can you only truly be a beautiful little fool until the first time you’re fooled? Like the same way patience runs dry the first time you’re passed by?

I’m not sure – some of the best relationships I’ve witnessed are based off of an encouraged oblivion. My parents, as an example, have never discussed their past. Neither know how many the other have slept with or why past boyfriends/girlfriend bit the dust. When they said “I do”, they said “I don’t” to the past – and never brought it up. Does it matter 25 years later what happened 26 years before? Nope, not in the slightest.

So is foolishness beautiful or is it a way to process things without thinking too much or reading in between lines that you can’t define? Should we be beautiful little fools or maybe in today’s speech, pretty little liars?

Only though, if we’re fools or if we’re liars, are we fooling and lying to ourselves? And is that healthy? Is that…beautiful?

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Seriously, Wake Up

Following the very last class I took in college, I stopped by our university’s post office to check my PO box and forward my mail. I was excited and hopeful for the future, feeling relieved I would never have to attend another lecture unless I wanted to. When I turned the dial, I was surprised to find an envelope marked from Raleigh, NC with my name neatly typed on the front. Full name, mind you.

As I walked behind the building to my apartment on the main strip in town, I stopped dead in my heels and my mouth dropped: I had received my very first hate mail.

More or less, the anonymous writer wished me ill-will in New York City. They said they hoped I fell on my face, that living in the city for two months during an internship was no indication I could survive full-time. They misquoted me and promised me that fairytales don’t come true, that my Prince wouldn’t be waiting at Grand Central or Times Square or Bryant Park to greet me when I landed on Northern soil. They were rude and blunt, standing their ground as a coward who wouldn’t reveal their name and though they started the letter with “this is not from someone who is jealous of you – there is nothing to be jealous of” -each and every one of my friends could feel the envy seep into their hands as they read it and laughed with me in the days that would follow.

They signed their Letter of Unlove with: “Seriously, wake up.” I think there were some Gossip Girl-like “xoxo”s thrown in for good measure, and in all, it didn’t amount to anything more than a few sentences strung together without proper punctuation or a real purpose.

At the time, I was a little stunned. Part of me was hurt. The biggest part of me was curious and annoyed whoever had such beef with me wasn’t willing to say what they wanted to my face. I read their words with a grain of salt, never being one to let anyone’s opinions stand in the way of what I intend to do, no matter how unmanageable a task may seem to everyone else.

And I mean, I couldn’t exactly disagree with them because they weren’t telling me anything I didn’t know.

I never expected New York to be peaches-and-ice-cream, sunflowers-and-roses. I didn’t think I’d prance in and climb the media ladder without faltering here-and-there. But I’ve been successful. I’ve landed on my feet with a great group of friends, a job I enjoy, an apartment I adore, and a happiness that’s unparalleled. I didn’t think I’d meet my husband the second I moved (though in my love addict stage back then, I wanted to)- but I’ve been blessed to love a few good men and discover a possibility worth taking a chance on. I never wanted to work in magazines because I was “pretty” as the author claimed, but because my byline could has the opportunity to make tides – even if women’s issues in dating, love, relationships, and such doesn’t seem like that big of deal to many. (But don’t we spend the majority of our time obsessing about those things? Just sayin’)

Before I left to return to NYC today, I went through some old things on a bookshelf my father made and inside a book I read before I took flight when I moved, I found the letter in its original envelope. A dozen life lessons, heart breaks, changes, and tearful nights later, it had a different impact on me than it did on that cold December afternoon.

In fact, it probably had the intended effect the writer wanted. I read the typed lines, smiled and realized, I was awake. Anything that I once took for granted or anything I thought would be easy and wasn’t, most of the unrealistic notions I had about love and men, and all of the things in between – they’re all different now. I’m not cured, but I’ve matured. I didn’t need a letter to wake something up inside of me but it’s nice to know someone cared (or didn’t care) enough to go to the trouble to say such cruel things. If anything, I now see it is a testament to my own impact, my own power, and the essence I exude into the world by dancing across keys. I’m not the best writer, but unlike this author, I’m actually one who is brave enough to state my name. Even when more often than not, it isn’t always the easiest thing to do.

Without showing Mr. Possibility, I tucked the letter into my purse and decided just what to do with it. One day, when I find that private office, when I’m doing just what I want to do, when I’m happily married with a non-happily-ever-after mentality, when I live downtown and finally find comfort and cushion in my finances – I’ll frame this letter. I’ll hang it in my office where younger editors and interns can see.

So that they too, like every other dreamer in this city who also happens to have the conviction and courage to chase those desires with heightened ambition, will wake up. Because like me, they may find the life they created isn’t merely a dream, but a dreamlike reality based on your own hard work.

Seriously.

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My City, My Calling

Packing to return from North Carolina back to the big ol’ city, Mr. Possibility and I discovered two things: we’re coming back with far more than what we came with and our belt buckles are a tad bit tight. If there are any stereotypes about the South that are actually true (and I’ll admit they’re true) it’s that everything is buttery, baked, fried, and flat-out delicious.

Even so, it’s not exactly a cuisine that’s good for you. And while we were in the South, we didn’t hold back: grits and shrimp, biscuits with gravy, toast with jam and honey, Dairy Queen, Dolly’s Ice Cream, Tastee Freeze, steaks, potatoes, hot dogs, hamburgers, fatty bacon that doesn’t need oil in the pan, Lobster Mac N’ Cheese, beer, wine, Tequila (him, not me), candy, sweet tea (he didn’t hate it), strawberry shortcake, and I’m ashamed to say there is more I’m not listing out of embarsament.

So, as I sit here, writing this blog before my midnight self-inflicted deadline, bloated and amazed I was able to eat a dozen or so shrimp after attending a childhood friend’s lovely wedding as Mr. Possibility is in a food-induced coma in the next room, I find myself dreaming, yet again of New York.

Back to my Cobb Salads with non-fat dressing, happy hours with skinny-girl drinks and my favorite wine, healthy stir-fry, and avocados. Plus my near-daily runs taking in the energy of the city and feeling the weight of my chest rise and fall with each breath. Back to brunches and my friends, shopping at a discount, working at a magazine, and being able to go anywhere I want by raising my hand and smiling, not worrying about a DD or back-country roads that love license checks.

Oh sweet North Carolina, you are many wonderful things that I’ve enjoyed sharing with a wonderful dude who charmed my friends and family, but you just don’t hold a candle to my New York. You each have your own qualities and it would be nice for the North to Meet the South occasionally, but when I think about being happy and the place I’m the happiest, it isn’t here anymore.

My group of friends have changed, but I’ll never forget the bonds I’ve cultivated here, with people that no matter how much time goes by, it’s so easy to reconnect. What I want out of life has changed along with my ideas about the right age for growing up and doing adult-like things like mortgages and marriages, but I couldn’t be more ecstatic for those who are blessed to find their love at young ages. My day-to-day is continuously changing and is hardly ever the same thing, and the best thing about New York is the possibility. And no, not Mr. Possibility, but just possibilities in general.

New York seems endless with opportunities: to go, to do, to be, to achieve, to find, to cherish, to love, to live, to learn, to know, to teach, to want. Whatever it is, whoever you are, whatever you want, whatever you need, wherever you want to go – the city has it and if it doesn’t, it can find it for you. The quietness of North Carolina is lovely but I miss the rush. I miss the noise. I miss the push. I miss the bustle. I miss the intensity. I miss the excitement. I miss the thought that everything is within my reach. Everything is close-by.

And now, as I publish and sign-off, the best of all is close-by: my calling, my city, my New York. See you tomorrow – and I may even bring the Northerner back with me. Though he seems to enjoy the South “pretty darn well, y’all.” (His words, not mine)