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The Great Chase

I tend to take nearly everything my mom says to heart — but one particular tale always sticks out in my mind. I have no idea when she first used it as a learning lesson or how the topic came up, but it goes a little something like this:

Before my mom met my father (in a totally adorable way), she dated a man off-and-on for seven years. (Yes, seven!) He was several years older than her, unfaithful, self-centered and manipulative. He was emotionally abusive, always thought he was right and she was wrong, and though she knew he wasn’t the right guy, she stayed around far longer than she should have. Once she finally ended the relationship on her own terms, she came out of it with bruised confidence, no desire to really jump into another relationship and with one regret that haunts her to this day: not getting her Bachelor’s degree. At 21, when that guy gave her the choice between finishing school or being with him, she picked him. She has an associate’s in business, is a well-known astrologer in our town and is now going back to school to be an esthetician, but she often wonders what life would have been like if she had become a teacher or a psychologist. Now (though I disagree), she thinks it’s too late and too expensive to go back and try again.

And so, since I was a little girl, she’s instilled this notion in me that no man would make you choose between what you love and loving him. She made me promise that I’d finish school before even considering getting married and that I would never let a guy control the dreams I decided to chase. I’ve stumbled across old notebook-paper books bounded by string, where I depicted my future life (in crayon) and it always read, “I’ll go to school, become a journalist and then get married.” Yes, this was me a few decades ago.

I’ve been lucky that I’ve yet to meet a guy who ever asked me to choose between my career and him. Instead, they just left before they could grow attached to me. When Mr. Fire and I ran into each other at a bar in my college town before I graduated and I asked why he left, he said that he knew nothing was keeping me from New York and that he couldn’t compete with that. He continued to say that his current girlfriend lets him be the star and that I would always outshine him. Mr. Idea doesn’t like the idea (pun intended) of relationship writing and thinks all things within a union should be private (probably because of his many hangups behind closed doors), so I knew he would instantly balk at this blog. Mr. Possibility was as supportive as he could be, though I don’t trust the opinion he probably shared with everyone else but me. None of these men asked me to stop going after the career I wanted, they just didn’t get themselves involved, or if they started to become part of it, they made their getaway or pushed me to the point of letting them go.

I get it, I really do. Dating a dating blogger can be a lot of pressure, though most men think they’re worthy of a feature before doing anything that really merits inclusion. I understand that a writer’s life is often public, especially if you’re someone like me, who enjoys honesty to its fullest degree, even if that means being vulnerable and descriptive in ways that don’t always shed the brightest light on everything. And while I see the risks I take in writing this blog or pursuing a career where, ultimately, I hope women read what I write and are inspired to accept and love themselves, I would never stop doing what I love to find love. I’d like to think that the person for me is strong enough to handle an ambitious, tenacious and hard-working woman who knew what she wanted and did all that she could to get there.

I’d like to think that most men aren’t intimidated by successful women these days, but that’s far from the truth. I’d also like to think that women don’t judge other women for following a career instead of following a man, but sadly, that’s not accurate either. When I broke up with Mr. Idea, one of my good friends (who is now married), told me that since I couldn’t make it work with him, I probably wouldn’t find the right guy until at least 28 (gasp!). My grandmother (bless her heart) is proud of all that I’ve accomplished, but still asks about guys and babies every time I see her. When something doesn’t work out with a dude or a date goes sour, all of my paired-up pals always reassure, “Don’t worry, the right guy’s out there, you’ll meet him soon.”

If you read this blog, you know that I want to eventually meet someone to share my life with. I’m candid about the fact that yes, I do want to get married and yes, I do want to have children – but I’m also in no rush at all. I’d rather be single for the next 20 years than to settle for someone just because I feel like I have to get married. I knew I wasn’t alone in these thoughts, but recently, this whole thought process was played out on my news feed.

A friend of mine posted this quote from Lady Gaga, “Some women choose to follow men, and some women choose to follow their dreams. If you’re wondering which way to go, remember that your career will never wake up and tell you that it doesn’t love you anymore.” The post received comments, one which was, “but… if you go home and throw a tantrum to your man about work he’ll stay around… if you go to work and throw a tantrum about your man… bye bye career.” And then later, “I hope you haven’t given up on men yet.”

So because she posted a quote that basically said, “Go after your dreams, be who you want to be, don’t follow around a man, don’t depend on a man for happiness” – she’s suddenly given up on love? Quite the contrary, I think. The thing is – if we chase our careers, if we go after those things, whatever they may be, that bring us joy and make us feel like we’re contributing something, then ultimately, the man will be there too. And he won’t ask you to not write about love, to not go to law school, to not make more money than he does, to not be more successful, to not be the star of the relationship. He’ll only ask you to come as you are and let him do the same.

And if you don’t meet a man like that? Luckily, you’ve surrounded yourself with the things you love, built an existence that’s fulfilling and beautiful, traveled to the places you’ve wanted to see, and above all, been brave enough to never settle for less than what you want – in anything.

Especially though, in terms of yourself.

Because men leave and stay, careers grow and they change, but the one constant through it all will always be you. These things aren’t mutually exclusive of one another, as so many believe, it’s just that they don’t depend on each other to make either work. You can have a career without love, love without a career, or a love and a career, but more than anything, you have to have yourself.

And if you can be satisfied that you chased what you wanted instead of following someone else’s direction, you’ll be able to handle the ups and downs of your career and of your relationships. The Great Chase isn’t about a dude or a degree – it’s about always chasing a better you.

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It Won’t Be Perfect

It’s unusually warm in New York this season – the only indication that winter’s near are the white holiday lights and the fact that they glow at 5 p.m. I’m enjoying being able to sport my belted light-weighted jacket for more than a week (which is usually how long Fall lasts in the city), but sometimes, I think the weather is simply reflected more inside than out this year.

After a day of shopping for last-minute gifts and some gotta-have-it-can’t-stand-it buys, I caught the uptown train toward my apartment. Instead of reading this month’s book club book, reading my NBC news app on my iPhone or listening to music, I found myself semi-content people watching. But when the sight of the couple across the cart canoodling and the little girl singing “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town” adorably to her grandma became all but a bit too much, I turned my attention to a place I hate to go. I started to drown myself in thoughts, though consciously know they are just that: thoughts, not truths, about what my relationship was with Mr. P.

These memories or once-beautifully constructed notions of that man are weakness of my spirit and mentality. They don’t go with the Kate Spade bag I splurged on as a Christmas gift to myself, the faux-fur Vera Wang muff that makes me think I’m classy or the expensive sheets I purchased only because I wanted to lay on something that he hadn’t shared with me. They don’t match my relentless, sometimes irritating (even to me) optimism or the dating advice I give to both those I love and those I’ve never met. They aren’t part of the made up 12-step program that is really a never-ending adventure of learning to love yourself, over and over again, after each and every man who comes and eventually, as they all do but one, leaves. They aren’t healthy for my self-esteem or my waist line, nor do I want them to have a place in any part of my New York story. They don’t correlate with my hopes for the future or the strength I’ve always tried to find in the bad, instead of focusing on all the things I’m afraid to really feel.

Like loneliness. Or feeling terribly alone, even surrounded by my friends. Or longing for someone that really, was never fully mine. Or disappointment, both in Mr. P and in myself. Actually, especially in myself. For believing, even against what everyone thought or said, whatever red flags were waving or what emotional obstacle I was ignoring, that he was something different. That he could be my someone different, that if we had been through so much together, then we’d make it through in the end. Or the pit in the bottom of my throat every time someone asks me about why we broke up (thank you public blog) and I say “it just wasn’t working out, we were in different places” because I know the truth.

The truth that just because I fell in love with him, for him, the idea of him or maybe a great mix of both, it doesn’t mean he had to fall in love with me, too. And he didn’t, so I left to find someone who could.

I get asked a lot how I do it. How everything just seems to work out or how I don’t give up on my dreams or how I have the courage to take chances when so much is often at stake. How I picked up and moved to a place where I knew next-to-no-one and a few years later, have somehow created a life for myself. There was really never any other choice than coming to New York, so I don’t consider myself brave for doing something that just felt natural. I’m hopeful because bitterness doesn’t look good on anyone and I’d rather be sad than to not feel anything at all. I say these things, I mean these things, but underneath the careful illustration of a beautiful life, lives the weakness, the sadness, the fears, the silly obsessions and even sillier fits of frustration that we all have. And that I definitely have, no matter how much I try to conceal with clever word play or under mineral makeup, Jackie-O sunglasses on the train and waterproof Lancome mascara.

Because those parts, those rusted edges, those Adele songs that I’ve practically worn out in the past three months make me ashamed. They make me feel like I’m wasting time and spinning wheels, when I’ve never hesitated or moved slow with any other part of my life. My friends remind me that it only hurts because it meant something, that I will move on and there will be others, that crying is part of healing and it’s just as natural as breathing when recovering from a breakup. I try to go on dates and I fight the urge to call him or text him when something simple reminds me of him or of us, and the days continue on. Some are as brilliant as the cascading street lights I can see outside of my apartment, and others, like today, bring me to tears on the subway that I avoid by staring intently down at my tattered boots.

And it’s nights like this one, where I lay across my bed, typing away because it makes me feel better, drinking red wine because it makes me feel even better, watching the shadows dance outside as I let the tears splash as they should, that I remind myself that it’s not supposed to be perfect. That I’m not supposed to be perfect. That while I might portray myself as the heroine of a sappy romantic comedy cast on Fifth Avenue, I’m really just human. And with that, comes all of the good that I’m so thankful for, and all of the bad that one day, probably, I’ll be thankful for, too. That falling in love with the wrong person is a rite of passage into the great love I hope is in my cards, and that while I may be afraid to try again, I know somewhere deep down, that I will.

That I will love with all that I have, even if it currently feels like it’ll be a little less than what I loved with before. That I will be brave enough to pack away all of those dreams I had for Mr. P and I away in a place that will be pleasant to visit when I’ve moved on and let go. That I will find peace in the ending and beauty in the fact that I stood up for love by leaving because I knew there was no sense in stopping believing. That I will let someone else into the places that barely anyone ever sees, into those parts that I’m ashamed of, of those parts that make me feel weak. That I will be some man’s partner, and for once, he’ll be mine too.

That it won’t be perfect, but because I never gave up on me, because I felt my way through the ways I needed to mend, because I allowed myself to be vulnerable, because I was courageous enough to say that love is possible, it will be. Even if before any of that can happen or before it can matter, it’s going to have to hurt for a while.

And I’m going to have to let it, no matter how imperfect it may feel.

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What’s Worth It

Oh he’s cute.

How was I here, sitting in this New York magazine-highly-rated restaurant, savoring things that would cost me groceries for two weeks? And with him?  Given, he’s not something that’s really that difficult to come by — going on a date with a banker is as common as seeing a cab, but finding one that’s emotionally is available is like trying to hail one when it’s raining, Halloween or New Year’s. Sources say dating in New York is nearly impossible, but I was still less than a year in and refused to believe them. I had yet to meet Mr. Possibility and the possibility sitting across from me seemed quite…possible.

As we nibbled on the appetizers he ordered so quickly I couldn’t understand him and cocktails he assured me were delicious (they actually weren’t), I listened intently to what he said, making mental notes of what I wanted to remember to tell my friends and mom later. Before the third week (or let’s be honest, the sixth), you really only highlight the positives of a man and carefully leave out the select details that could make him seem unsatisfactory, until you call frantically, in tears, spewing off why he’s really a big jerk. This guy was 28, right around 6’0, did something for a living that’s so terribly boring I don’t care to explain it, had a buzzed head with blue eyes and biceps, and though he wasn’t particularly funny, I found him charming. We easily bantered and balked at topics we both found appalling, shared childhood anecdotes and he asked to see some of my work. He talked about the family he wanted to have while I wondered why we were talking about babies on the first date, but went along with it anyway, softened by the soft heart I imagined he had. He commented on my hair as he reached to touch it and asked how I liked my eggs cooked. We said “jinx” when we both said Eggs Benedict at the same time.

Oh he was cute. And he never called me back. I imagine he’s somewhere out there, doing that tiresome banking job and frying up some other girl’s eggs. I hope he learned how to sip wine instead of gulping it.

Now, his silence would probably annoy me, but it wouldn’t bother me for too long. I would consider why he wasn’t interested, bitch a bit to my friends and then move onto to the next date. But nearly two years ago when that Mr. didn’t call me back – I was flabbergasted. Because even though he wasn’t exactly right and I wasn’t exactly that interested, the fact that he wasn’t intrigued by me, made me feel totally rejected. Without even knowing him, I made him up to be some sort of wonderful, picture-perfect, made-to-marry man who I couldn’t let get away.

I thought, what if there wasn’t another one? What if I don’t have another great first date like that again? What if there is no special chemistry or man who can afford fine dining when, at the time, I was barely getting along financially fine? What if I didn’t get asked out on a second date or a third one or any number, again? What if there was something wrong with me?

Alone in that tiny studio that now I don’t miss one bit, I went through the words I said, the flirty glances I gave and the exchanges we had. I couldn’t pinpoint what had gone South or why he wouldn’t contact me again. I drafted emails I never sent, sent SOS text messages to friends who, bless ’em, always respond, and updated my Facebook status with a cryptic quote from a poet I had never heard of until I Googled “disappointed quotes.” A few weeks of silence later, I gave up on the blue-eyed banker and agreed to another date that ultimately didn’t turn out well (I didn’t like him, this time), and I put it behind me.

But now, as I venture back into the often terrifying world of New York City dating, I feel different. I used to put men up on a pedestal, believing their presence was more important than my happiness, and that if only I could find a good one, I’d have the good life. That’s why one sour date or one un-returned BBM could send me into an obsessive, analytical frenzy that often convinced me I wasn’t pretty enough, endearing enough or good enough to be with a guy I thought was great.

What I’ve discovered is that the great ones are few and far between, so there’s no use in worrying about the ones who are unavailable, captains of disappearing, only interested until they get laid or masters of careful word play because that also means they’re cleverly playing my emotions, too. And so, instead of putting all of my expectations into one man or into one date, I try to follow my heart but lead with my head.

And this is the advice I give to my friends when they’re having the same frustrations that we all face while trying to find love. It’s not the same wisdom I gave a few years ago or in college — perhaps I’ve become hardened or cynical, but I don’t think that’s the case. I only really noticed a change in my perspective after one of my dearest friends (one of those who answers my dating cries for help) when she started a text message with “Can I ask you something and you not get offended?” After assuring her I wouldn’t, she replied, “When did you stop diving into love? Was it Mr. Possibility or before? When did you become rational?”

I don’t think I’m rational, really – I’m think I’m quite  an emotional, optimistic irrational person the majority of the time. It’s not that I stopped taking chances on men or that I don’t think falling carelessly in love is a foolish or impossible thing, it’s just that now, I know that I’m valuable and deserve to be appreciated. Perhaps Mr. Possibility showed me that by pushing me so far that I had to finally stand up for myself and for what I wanted.  Or really, what I deserved.

So now, my heart doesn’t create dreamy notions of what a guy could be after one date. He doesn’t get the privilege to be embedded into visions of my future through those rose-colored glasses I tend to wear just because he opened doors, listened to what I said, bought my dinner or kissed me sweetly on the street. Those are things, in my humble Southern opinion, that guys should do. They don’t get brownie points for being decent human beings, but they might get a spot in my life if they prove to me they’re worth it.

Because I already know that I am. Dating may be difficult in this city but it also supplies a never-ending supply of bachelors, most of which, aren’t deserving of my time anyway. But one day, maybe, there will be one who was worth all this trouble to find. And who, always calls me back.

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And Then I Met Him at Bryant Park

It’s too soon, I thought inching my way closer to Bryant Park. Why meet at this park, near this time of the year, when everyone is overflowing with warmth and rosy cheeks? It hasn’t been long enough for me to recover, why am I doing this?

I heard my heels against the pavement and felt my phone vibrating in my pocket — the emails could wait, it was time to face him. I made the decision to go here, I willingly agreed to be on time and bring my best self, and I needed a few moments before walking up the steps. You can do this. You were made to do this. You are beautiful and strong, there is no reason why you can’t smile when you see him. Breathe Lindsay, breathe, I encouraged myself as I turned my head, black-and-red umbrella in hand and caught a glimpse of him. I gasped as my heart sank and then exhaled when I felt the tension break.

He looks great. He looks happy and fresh, shining as brightly as a freshly-pressed suit from Bloomies. Is it possible he looks kinder? Did I never notice that sweetness in his eyes before? Goodness, after all this time, you’d think I would have. I approached him carefully, cursing myself for wearing heels on a rainy day when I just shelled out for a lovely pair of Michael Kors boots that would have been perfect — but I needed to look gorgeous on this night. I had to feel like a better version of myself, I needed to let the parts that weren’t fragile or mending highlight my energy. The first words were awkward and I found myself cautiously grinning, uncomfortable with my choice concerning this encounter. He was understanding of my hesitation and led me through the park gently, as pop-up store clerks greeted me with weary grins on this rainy night. Weather suitable for how I feel, I thought.

But he was different tonight and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Perhaps he was calmer or more collected, less frantic and more together. He was gracious to the tourist, but had the same attitude about him that I first fell in love with. We didn’t talk much as we walked, but rather we observed this park that we mutually adored — both for its beauty and for the memories it brings. For each of us, I think, the visions of those little tables and waving trees in summer and winter, fall and spring, are as brilliant as they are bittersweet, but that’s what relationships weather, seasons of change.

After some wandering through escalating water sprawled on the sidewalks, we decided to do something that’s usually only reserved for drunken nights or moments of complete convenience and hunger: walk through Times Square. Without much to say and wanting to keep the pace quiet through a crowded place, we listened to Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin as we explored. He was a gentleman and led me through the least trafficked areas while being genial with my umbrella as winds whipped between building tops. With him by my side, even in his silence, I felt relaxed and peaceful, and I wondered why I had been so distant for so long. I couldn’t fight the urge to tell him how sorry I was for being cruel and cold, for not answering calls or listening to my desires because I feared how I would feel afterwards. I confessed that I had often thought of him in those lonely, empty hours inside of my apartment with no roommates around, with no one close by, and that I couldn’t count how many times I nearly hopped the subway to surprise him.

He returned the sentiments – telling of times when he wondered where I was or when I’d return to him. He reminded me of the home we built, the time we spent and the relationship we put so much effort into fostering. We talked about the good times – at that glorious Bryant Park and at Rockefeller Center, on the Highline, walking around Chelsea and the Village and discovering neighborhoods that I’d never known. As he spoke, I started to feel guilty for my absence and for those doubting thoughts – had he really been that bad? Was it his fault? Maybe I had been a little too harsh in this situation. 

Before I could let my emotions get the best of me, I knew I needed to eat – only eating a salad and some cashews for 12-hours doesn’t do this gal’s body good. I offered to buy him pizza at the next 99 cent shop we passed and he gladly accepted the challenge of finding a no-name place in some corner of the wall of some street in the heart of Times Square. When we found it, I giggled at the cliché – here we were, making another impression on one another that neither would be able to forget. Maybe this was a bad idea after all, maybe it is too soon, I wondered as I waited on my mushroom-and-olive slice that definitely broke my new diet. I didn’t care though, I wanted to savor something I love, like pizza and of course, him.

As we walked under the umbrella, finishing our slices and approaching the train, I wondered if this was where the story would end. A brave, brief rendezvous with so much communication, though no one could hear it but us. I craved to be with him more, but my feet hurt and my heart was reluctant to continue an affair that I knew could be difficult to endure. I had allowed him to break my heart before, I had shunned him and been less than forgiving – would anything really change if I kept seeing him? Or maybe I’ve just been listening to all the wrong voices, all the wrong advice, and letting all the wrong people into the places and relationships I value the most.

And then, he wanted to walk me to my door. Considering that required a ride uptown, I questioned his motives. He promised not to come up because surely, he couldn’t – but he just wasn’t ready for the night to end. I was uncertain if the magic of the evening could continue past Central Park, but something inside begged me to take the chance. And so, we caught the train. We read New York magazine and he glowed at the several articles about himself – still arrogant, I thought. Approaching my stop, a warrior for the homeless entered the doors, offering warm food and crackers to those without raincoats or cheese-and-dough filled bellies, a meal for the evening. I thought it was kind until I heard him say he was homeless too, and then I found it inspiring. Without consideration, we gave change and admired the giving and concerned faces of those across from us. The splendor of the season reflected off of their faces and came out as pennies of hope from their pockets.

When the doors opened and we turned our faces up to greet raindrops, we found there were none. I put away my umbrella and walked as slowly as I could, though inside my toes were pinching in their soggy soles. There wasn’t much left to say as we stood in front of my doorway, except for promises to be made. I swore to not let anything come between us again and he swore to continue to give me evenings like this one. I promised to be more forgiving and allow him back into my life, even if I was afraid, and he promised he would always be there, no matter what happened. There was no kiss or hug, just a mutual sense of relief and that undesirable feeling of peace that only he can bring to my soul.

It really had been too long and yet, maybe it was too soon, I concluded as I pushed the 7th floor button. But really, I could never have let Mr. P come between me and him–my New York–for long. Cheap dollar pizza and Bryant Park? My first love has always been this place — and it was time to stop letting memories have anything to do with guys I’ve dated, and let them be about the man, the city, that first stole my heart. 

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A Little Thanksgiving Hope

Thanksgiving has always been an odd holiday for me. I’m not sure my quaint family-of-three ever knew how to handle it — my mother’s siblings always did their own thing with their respective mates and we never traveled up North to share the feast with my dad’s side. Most of the Thanksgivings I remember centered around my mom, my dad and me — maybe my grandmother would join, but more often than not, it was just us.

We’ve always had the same things: mushy mashed potatoes that I love so much I ever-so-elegantly scoop with my fingers when no one is looking, baked mac n’ cheese, brocoli & cheese casserole, rolls, cranberry sauce from the can, rolls from another can and green beans (not the casserole, but the frozen kind). We never dressed up for it, though I insisted a few years to be a tad fancy when I was a teenager out of vanity. I never helped cook until I took up baking in high school and then I was determined to bake a mean apple pie every year. To this day, my dad requests one to be sent to him.

It’s a little too pricey to fly to North Carolina twice in a six-week period, so I spend Thanksgiving with my friend E, who hosts a pot-luck type dinner for all of the out-of-staters who stay in-city for the holiday. Sometimes we call it Tanksgiving (ahem, a lot of wine is served) or I’ve heard it called Friendsgiving, where we try to recreate those fabulous dishes our parents or aunts seemed so good at fixin’ up. It’s always a good time and usually a night that ends early, offering a mandatory sleep-a-thon until early Friday morning.

This year isn’t really different, but it sure does feel that way to me.

After getting off work early, I rushed home to turn on some Frank Sinatra and enjoy having my five-person apartment all to myself. I completely destroyed the kitchen making a mac n ‘cheese and an apple pie (of course!), then I cleaned it before going to bed, frankly just out of fear that if something happened to me, I couldn’t have anyone finding the apartment a total disaster. Everything was fine and fine was my attitude, but Ol’ Blue Eyes didn’t get me in the festive mood as he usually does. My dishes turned out great (I always take a little nibble) and I tweeted and Facebooked about looking forward to stuffing myself way past the point of being able to wear a sweater dress, but something was off.

With my hair done-up in a high bun, a glass of orange juice to keep me company and an iPhone on 20 percent battery, I sat down to write Christmas cards. After a few, I put down the pen and sighed, annoyed at my disposition and wondering what was bothering me. Do I miss my family? Do I think I should be spending it with them? Is it that I thought I’d be spending it with Mr. P and his family? Do I feel bloated from the miniature dish of macaroni I made myself? What’s wrong with me?

 Too frustrated to write sweet sentiments or to even sit down, I got up and paced my apartment, trailing my hand along the hallway, gawking at my room like it was the first time I saw it. And that’s when it hit me: nothing’s wrong, I’m not sad or upset really — I just long for a home.

The city itself feels like home, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. I’ve somehow gathered an incredible group of friends that feel like my family-away-from-family. I’m so incredibly thankful that I’m one of the lucky ones who landed a job she loves and looks forward to going to everyday. I’m healthy and fit, attractive and intelligent, and mostly I’m surrounded by the positive energy of all that I’m involved in and all who love me. But it’s a funny thing living in an apartment complex with strangers you met on Craigslist that somehow turned into friends — as much as you try, it’s not like having a family or building a home.

I’m far too young to think about such things, I’m told. I shouldn’t worry about the future or the husband I’ve yet to meet, the kids I’ve yet to procreate. I have so much living and learning, exploring and traveling ahead of me, I shouldn’t want to settle my roots for years to come. I have the freedom of coming and going as I please, doing as I wish and being totally selfish with my choices, my money and my actions.

And for once, I do actually enjoy the single life — but as much as my career, New York and my fabulous friends are important to me, I sometimes wonder what my future would look like sans marriage or children. Would I finally buy a house somewhere outside of the city all on my own? Or maybe an apartment that I could decorate as I desire? Would I freeze my eggs and revisit them at a time when I was ready, even without a man? Where would I spend Thanksgiving? With my friends and their husbands, or back home with my parents? What would my life look like?

A year ago when I was writing this blog, those thoughts would have angered me. I would have convinced myself that those were negative, love-addicted notions that have no place on this space. I would have been upset that I wasn’t stronger, or even worse, I would have let those fears dominate my thinking and cried myself to sleep on Thanksgiving Eve. But this year, they’re just thoughts. Nothing more, nothing less — just ideas of what my future could or couldn’t be.

Because you know what? Being a strong woman who’s happy (and totally thankful) for her life doesn’t mean that she doesn’t crave happily ever after with a man. (Even if she’s unsure of what the “after” refers to, really.) It doesn’t mean that romantic fantasies are far-fetched or detrimental, they are just part of what we hope tomorrow brings. It doesn’t make us weak or less together or successful, it just makes aware of what we want while knowing that should that not come, we’d be fine otherwise. It doesn’t make us silly because we dream of sharing memories with a man who wants to make memories and have anniversaries, holidays with us.

The Thanksgiving memory I wish to recreate is a memory that was never mine — but something I watched on home videos of my parents. It was my second Thanksgiving and I was strapped into a booster seat, nibbling on baby corn and wearing an adorable brown and red dress (thanks Mom!), with the camera set up to get the whole dinner scene. The tape rolled for nearly an hour-and-a-half, my parents just had to capture the first Thanksgiving they thought I’d remember. I sat and watched the whole segment once, and my favorite part had nothing to do with how I giggled at my dad impersonating a turkey or my icky-face at cranberry sauce (I still make it) — but at an intimate moment not meant to be captured:

My father reached across the table and grabbed my mother’s hand as he said: “You’re so beautiful. You’ve given me the best life and a beautiful daughter. You’re the love of my life.”

So today, I’m thankful for so many things, but one of those happens to be that I have the courage to believe that one day, those words could be spoken to me.