Tag Archives: self love

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When You Listen

It’s easy to ignore especially since it’s nearly impossible to detect unless you let yourself escape away with it. You can tune it out and pretend that you don’t hear the gentle, nudging — maybe even nagging — rhythm it beats. It’s simple enough to just go on about your day and all of the errands and tasks that define those 24-hours, trying so hard to focus on the car horns and the street signs, the dance of the traffic lights and the unfamiliar faces that pass.

But then it gets a little louder.

It gains momentum and tries different tactics to steal away your attention, oftentimes without you even realizing its sheer force and determination. You can’t adequately describe what exactly it is. Even with your best attempts, the words don’t come out the right way and your friends just can’t wrap their brain around this alluding, and perhaps deluding concept that you seem so fascinated by. You explain and you examine, you question and dissect your options, hoping that by some pro-con list or magical realization that you’ll find a way out. You’ll discover the easiest path to take you the easiest way, and you’ll never have to step up to the plate and battle that thing that’s ringing in your ears.

That thing that for whatever reason feels a lot like an intuition.

That feels eerily like a voice telling you to do something that you can’t really explain. It’s the same irritating, pesky feeling that makes you do things that make you uncomfortable and explore emotions that you’d rather hide away where they’re safe from any harm.

But then, if you’re anything like me, you start singing that song of urgency and you follow along the notes until it takes you to the very spot in the middle of Times Square that not only makes your skin crawl but puts you so far out of your warm-and-fuzzy-mode that you’d basically do anything if you could just run far, far away, back uptown to your apartment. With your dog.

So there I was, standing in a room of strangers at a trendy-ish bar in midtown, refraining from plugging my ears from the raging DJ’s awful taste, not knowing one single person, and yet, knowing I was meant to go to this party. It was a fundraiser for a new charity in New York and from the moment I saw the invite on Facebook, something — that silly something — told me that I had to go.

When I started bringing up the Friday-night event to my friends, it seemed like every last person I knew on this island couldn’t attend: “I’m sorry, I’m out-of-town!” “Oh, I’m not feeling good. I might be able to do it, I’ll get back to you.” “I’m going to stay in tonight and be lazy, have fun!” “It’s in Times Square? Sorry, just can’t handle it.” “I have plans with my boyfriend that I can’t break, miss you!”

Ugh. So, I flew solo, just as that intuition instructed.

Now, why am I supposed to be here? I wondered while making small talk with another small town girl from the South over a $5 glass of champagne. She was talking about dating in the city and seeking my “expert” advice while pointing out men that looked like celebrities. That one looks like Ross from FRIENDS! And that dude by the bar looks like Channing Tatum, doesn’t he? Maybe a little? She was quirky and sweet enough, but I knew it wasn’t her that I was supposed to meet.

Or was I supposed to meet anyone? I considered. Maybe my mission this evening was to join yet another non-profit — since I can’t seem to refuse to help anyone — and give just a bit more of my free time to another cause who needs me. But that’s not it, I told myself as I signed up to join the marketing committee, mentally calculating how in the world I was going to make this work with my already jam-packed schedule. 

I decided to give the party another hour while I mingled and moved about, desperately trying to find the source of this lingering voice that made me come to the party to begin with. But the minutes came and they ended, and I was still uncertain of why exactly I was drawn to this establishment, and I started to doubt my ability to distinguish between intuition and restlessness. As I started to make my way to the front, I started to lose the voice I had heard all week, and I decided that maybe, my imagination was just getting the best of me. Or was it my ever-hopeful heart?

After closing my tab and unchecking my coat, I glanced at my phone to see a number that only started texting me the day before. The number, those 10 unsaved digits that meant really nothing to me, wanted to buy me a drink on the Upper West Side. Tonight. Like in an hour.

Then suddenly the voice was back. It just had the time frame all off. And the actual location. But it returned with more clarity. It wasn’t screaming or demanding and it didn’t need any words, I already knew its directions: go. Just say yes. Without hesitation, I agreed. I listened.

And you know what happens when you listen? You get rewarded for following your heart and trusting in its timing and its patience. When you listen… you sometimes get lucky enough to meet someone who really, truly, for the first time in a very long time, could be… someone.

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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!”

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Miles Behind Me

Both transitioning between one part of our life into another, my good friend M and I spent a recent afternoon going to the gym for several hours (no exaggeration, actually), sunning ourselves slightly (we’re embarrassingly pale for July), and talking about our futures. What’s coming seems to be a popular topic of interest among the majority of my 20-something friends, as we’re all continuously waiting for a grand gesture from the universe that somehow never seems like it’s coming.

(Until it does, that is. And it always does, eventually…probably, maybe, hopefully…right???)

As we’re walking back to my apartment in desperate need for a shower, we are faced with toddler traffic. Three strollers with happy, bouncy, adorable babies are coming toward us, their nannies leading the way. Reminded I live on the Upper West Kiddie Side, we moved aside to let them pass before crossing Amsterdam. Getting closer to my place, I casually say to M, still thinking of the cute blue-eyed, dimpled two year old, I say, “Isn’t it strange to think that we’ll probably have a baby of our own in ten years?” Not one who is keen on commitment and breaks out in hives at the thought of trying on a wedding gown, M said: “Yeah, it’s odd but think of all that’s happened in the last ten years!”

Hmm, let’s think about it.

In the past ten years, I’ve graduated from high school, started, and finished college. I’ve moved from my first home to a second home, from that second home to a lakehouse, from that lakehouse to a third home. I’ve packed up my all of my things to move to college, then a year later, packed up more things to move into an apartment, put those things in a storage unit, only to take them out a week later to move into another apartment. And then again to move to New York, my family mailing a box a week for six weeks. I’ve had several New York addresses. I’ve interned and transplanted myself in the city. I’ve bought furniture twice, paid utility and credit card bills, taken out students loans and started to pay them back, with a lovely thing called interest. I’ve saved up my money, only to spend it, and then save it up again, and again…and again.

I lost my virginity and then proceeded to sleep with x-number of people I’ll never reveal to this blog. I’ve fallen in love three times, learned how to orgasm, how to break up with someone, and how to nurse a heartbreak with puppies, alcohol, and cupcakes. I’ve shattered spirits and hearts, made friends and lost them. Joined groups and made them better, left them and started new ones on my own. I’ve experienced the annoying curse of Mother Nature for being female 120 times. I started getting acne and never stopped. I learned the difference between a push-up and a regular bra, miraculously in front of the mirror at Victoria’s Secret with the saleslady encouraging me to purchase a dozen outside the door: “Don’t they look great, pretty thing?”

I’ve gained ten pounds, only to lose 15. I’ve gone through clothes and through men, trying different ones on for size, only to find they just didn’t fit quite right. I learned how wear makeup, how to straighten my hair, and how to just accept my natural little, uncontrollable waves as they are. I passed the driver’s test in North Carolina, only to crash my car a month later, and have my parents say a prayer of thanksgiving when I moved to New York and was off the road, off their insurance. I became a runner and slacked on my schedule when things heated up with Mr. Idea and again, when things became official and steady with Mr. Possibility. I learned to play tennis and then took almost every guy I could to play a match with me as a great second date (and to see them run a bit).  I’ve traveled across the states, but not abroad, though my piggy bank will soon allow me to go overseas. I’ve seen my first byline appear in a tiny publication in a tiny town in North Carolina, and then on Cosmo’s website in bold, beautiful pink letters I’ll never forget. I’ve had two four-page spreads in national publications and started this blog, that you, whoever you are, wherever you are, are reading, right now. (Thank you!)

I’ve figured out I like it on top more than I like it from the side and while charming and handsome is great, dependable and cute is better. I’ve fallen for the wrong guy and passed up someone who may have been the right guy if he was just a few inches taller (or larger). I’ve been kissed in Grand Central Station and the Lincoln Center, as I always dreamed, and figured out that sometimes dreams are more vivid in your head than they will ever be in reality. I’ve landed my first job, paid my dues as a hostess (with the most-ess), a maid (seriously), a freelancer (always), retail sales clerk (folding clothes, yay!), and a babysitter (girls are better than boys).

And now, I’m here. A 20-something with a lot of highs and lows, ups and downs, trails and successes, loves and losses, hopes and failures, miles and travels behind her. But you know – it’s only been two decades. I can’t even begin to list what I hope (and know) is ahead of me.

Daily Gratitude: I’m thankful for huge coffees and the company of a new best friend :)

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Why I Do The Things I Do

My mom has this way of attracting ladies with magnetic personalities. Her gaggle of girlfriends is eclectic and intense, always laughing, always sharing, always discussing, and always formulating. I’ve always been intrigued by her network, and when I visit I often find myself gladly in their company and energy. Tonight was no different when she invited me to go with her to the Women’s Wisdom Circle – a group led by her friend C.

Leaving Mr. Possibility to have dinner alone with my father (the house and the two of them survived, though the bottle of Tequila did not), mom and I had dinner at our favorite Greek restaurant and a few glasses of Cabernet before taking a seat of wisdom. The group aims to raise questions and to get women to ask themselves basically the premise of this blog: if we know thyself, then doesn’t everything fall into place?

Each week has a different topic of interest and this week, the group chatted about motivation. Specifically, what motivates you to keep going?

We all had a moment to ourselves before sharing our thoughts, and as I sat there, pen and clipboard in hand, trying to answer this question for myself. Playing off of the very little I know about meditation (that’s the next step), I pictured myself back in New York, lying in the bed I bought with money I earned from the job I go to everyday. I thought about how I feel each morning, when the alarm goes off earlier than I want it to and my body is tired from a night of unsettled rest. I thought about the routine I practice when I’m not on vacation and how each day gets started.

What makes me get up?

Is it my iced coffee and egg-and-cheese wake-up wrap from Dunkin’ Donuts? Or my morning commute that is always filled with interesting people and ample fodder? Is it penning articles and updating websites and writing this blog? Maybe it’s my wonderful group of friends or my possibility or the combination of all of the above?

I couldn’t really decide and at first, it worried me. Does nothing really motivate me? Do I not have anything in my life that gets me going? That pushes me to move forward? Do I just do things for the sake of doing them? Because I know I should or that I think that by doing them, I’ll get somewhere else? Or find someone? Or get something in return?

Why do I do the things I do?

Chewing on the end of my pen on loan, hoping the owner wouldn’t mind, I circled the room with my eyes, searching for answers in the faces of a few strangers, a friend and my mom. They all read differently and they spoke about what drove them in different ways: “my morning coffee”, “my pets”, “I feel lazy if I don’t”, and “I have a need to be productive”, among others. When it came my turn, I spoke hesitantly because I noticed a big difference in my response compared to the others. Also because I was at a different point in my life, all of the women were over 40, a few retired, some married, some with children – and here I was, the visitor from the big city, daughter of the very lovely, open-minded and radiant woman, in my 20s, not hitched and without a child. Was I really about to say what I truly felt?

That the reason I got up each morning was that I’m happy?

And if I think about what motivates me to give each day a chance, it’s the fact that it is a new start. A sunny beginning. It’s the fact that if I get through today, if I give this 24-hour span my everything, if I work hard, if I believe in the goodness of life and in the brightness of my spirit, then tomorrow will most likely come. Perhaps not guaranteed but quite likely, it will arrive. And with tomorrow, I’ll be one step closer, one moment nearer to the pieces of my future and of my dreams that I’m still piecing together. That dream job down the road will be in sight, that home I hope to build, that love I want to find, and that byline I long to see, those will be closer if I decide to turn the alarm off instead of snooze. If I decide to shower and throw the covers up on my bed, pick out a pair of kicks to battle the city with. If I decide to smile and have faith in the divinity of what is it be and to have peace with the days that came before. Those days where I decided to do the things I’ll do today.

And I’ll do  the things I do because I’m happy with the me I am. And excited for the me I’ve yet to meet.

For more information on Women’s Wisdom Circles, email C. 

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Freedom From Myself

I’ve spent months upon months blogging about love. I’ve spent an unforgivable amount of time thinking about relationships in general. My own obsession with all things romantic, rose-colored and happily-ever-after approved is the reason I started this blog. I wanted to stop basing so much of my own happiness on if I was loved by a man or not. I wanted to stop fretting over getting married, on if there was something wrong with me that made men leave me or be continuously unavailable. I wanted to be able to have sex without having to think if that decision made me less of a lady.

Basically, I wanted to free myself…from myself.

I saw this whole world outside of my own mentality and boundaries. A city that begged me to play, to explore, to dream, and to do. To take my life in my hands without worrying if I had another hand to hold. Did I really need the balance of someone else to keep my sturdy, or could it be possible that I can be just fine, with just me?

What I’ve found through daily memoirs and a growing base of loving followers is that I’m not alone. I’m not the only young woman who has waited anxiously by the phone or had more guys break up with her than she ended things with. I’ve discovered I’m not as ridiculous as I once imagined and that sometimes, people get so caught up in your life, without knowing you, that they draw inaccurate conclusions. You can’t blame them though – writing and blogging is meant to drive opinions. I’ve learned that if you publish your intimate, personal details, those you were intimate and personal with will be affected, and they probably will contact you because of it. And the one your with, well it is possible he is subjected to just as much ridicule as you are.

But the beauty of this blog is that while I’m on Step 8, in a lot of ways I think I’ve made it further than I thought I would. Maybe I can give credit to New York or to having a big girl job that demands my attention. It could be that time really is the magical cure that solves all issues of the heart and mind or perhaps it’s just that like all things full of life, change is natural and healthy. Over the last nine months (yes, can you believe it?!), I’ve freed myself from some very limiting thoughts. Much to my surprise and maybe to the delight of others, I’ve now developed new perspectives and opinions I didn’t have less than a year go.

Just to name a few:

I’m Too Young for “I Do”

Since I started this blog, my best friend L took a trip to the courthouse and is now officially a Mrs. I’ve watched my Facebook friends post engagement and wedding photos, publish statuses about their “hubbies” and their babys-to-be. It used to be that such albums and sentiments would drive me crazy. I used to have this gut-wrenching fear that if I didn’t get married by 25, then all hope was lost. That’s how old my mother was and by Southern standards, that’s actually pretty old. But it isn’t like that in New York. In fact, if someone is married under 27, it’s quite odd. And children before 30? Forget it. Divorce statistics are higher down South and multiple marriages more frequent. I’d rather follow the lead of the North and wait until I really know myself, until I am established and happy in my career and by myself, before I promise my life to anyone. I mean, if I spend the rest of my day-to-days with the same person until I die…what’s the rush?

I’m Not Afraid of the Birds and the Bees

I haven’t slept around ever. I used to think that to have mind-blowing, earth-shattering, give-The-Rabbit-a-run-for-his-money orgasms, I needed to be madly in love. Though I haven’t experienced a one-night stand or sex with a complete stranger – I’m no longer against it. I have several friends in the city who are liberated with their sexuality and as they chronicle their escapades, I find a seed of jealously start to grow. I used to think it was really important to keep my number low so that one day, when I met whoever it was that I was going to marry, he wouldn’t think bad of me for exploring other options. But the thing is, my sexual history (as long as I’m healthy) is not the business of my husband. And the only standards I need to live up to are my own. This doesn’t mean I want to start galavanting about Manhattan, shagging with a different man every night, it just means I don’t think women should be judged by who they decide to sleep with. Or how many they decide to sleep with. Having high standards doesn’t always mean saying “No” – it can mean knowing when to say “Yes” to the right person…and not making excuses if you mix up right and wrong from time to time. After all, do men ever need to make excuses when they’re bachelors?

I love me.

Well, most of the time anyway. The point of this journey was never to meet a Mr. Possibility or to find the answer to all of my problems. It wasn’t supposed to change the person I am or my little quirks. I just wanted to learn to love myself -and who knew it would take over 200 posts (and counting) to start to get there? And who knew to love yourself, you’d need to free yourself, too?