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Stuck in a Love Snowglobe

The day after Christmas, in a land far, far away from the majesty that defines New York City, I found myself stuck in my childhood home, surrounded by almost a foot of snow. And worse than being annoyed, was the realization that I wasn’t getting anywhere until Tuesday.

If you can feel my deep, intense, loud, and heaving sigh from wherever you are – I wouldn’t be surprised.

Now, don’t get me wrong – I really did enjoy being home for ten days. It was nice to see familiar faces and do virtually nothing but eat, sleep, and be very merry. I had a very wonderful Christmas and was actually able to consume some solid food by the time we opened presents. And of course, receiving 30 beautiful Christmas tulips (my favorite) from Mr. Possibility was a very nice gesture. (And hey, they weren’t second-hand, but intended for me). But after so much downtime, relaxing, not working, having no obligations or responsibilities – not to mention not really spending any money at all – this woman is going quite stir-crazy. I’ve found many ways to pass my time indoors, from giving myself a pedicure and attempting to teach my six-year-old dog tricks to eating lots and lots of snow creme and cleaning out all sorts of things that I’ve had for way too long.

Nevertheless, there has been something about having absolutely nothing to do and no way to get out – that’s made me a little melancholy.

I’ve found myself lost in my own thoughts, dreaming up notions of tomorrow in my mind, feeling that all-too-familiar twang of sadness and desire for a love to call my own, and even despite my recovery efforts, something has made me revert back to some of my love addiction fantasies.

You know – the fairytale land we’ve all created: those images of how we believe our future hubby will look like (tall, charming, handsome, with blue eyes), what his future career will be (something he loves and makes a ton of money), what our house will be like (old with a history and made of brick), and how he will propose (in a symbolic way that will mean something to us). All of these visions, these beliefs, these hopes for how our future, our lives, and our loves will play out.

And man, oh man, do I have a ton. I even have a journal I refer to as my “Dream Book” and it has documented everything from my first dollar made, my date to prom, my college acceptance letter, my first pay stub from my first real job, and it also holds my aspirations, my bucket list, and keepsakes. Bridal magazine clippings, snapshots of couples in love – from the super young to the very old, catalogs from Bergdorf Goodman with items tagged I’d die to own, pictures of places all over the world that I hope to travel to, scraps of fabric, adorable babies in cute little outfits, and apartments that are so very, very lovely. And it also holds my life’s checklist: I’ve checked off graduating from high school, going to college on scholarship, graduating from college, moving to NYC, working for a magazine, and now, there are still several remaining items to “accomplish.”

However, those left, minus being a New York Times best-selling author, aren’t exactly attainable by merit or ambition – but rather, what I believe, are only possible with patience and well…time. But these must-haves for my future, these figments of my imagination that somehow have never left me – are sometimes, so painful to think about. And yet, so precious to me.

I keep them in a part of my heart that I don’t even go near most of the time, a section of my soul that is still vulnerable, still open and full of faith, and a part of my mind that even against its best judgement is a hopeless romantic to the core. They are under strict protection, hidden away in a box beneath my dresser, underneath piles of sheets and pillowcases, completely out of sight for any visitor, friend or Mr. Possibility who may enter my apartment.

And yet, even though they are stuck under glass, in a love snowglobe of sorts, I almost always allow myself to input the man of the hour, of the week, of the month – into these fantasies. I gaze up at this man, interjecting him into these ideas, and hoping, wondering, praying – that he’ll live up to these notions I’ve sketched. That he’ll help me check off a box, be seated next to me at our wedding in a photo I’ll stick on a page in the Dream Book I’ve had since I was 13, and be the answer to these late-night, pleas for love. But then, when it doesn’t work out, when he was never really meant to play the part of my Mr. Forever – there those romantic angles go, right back in the book, out of sight, out of mind, out of heart. Protected again, under the same imagination they were created by…until the next endearing candidate comes along.

Maybe it is being captured by the snow with way too much time on my hands or just the growth of this journey, but instead of dwelling in these blueprints I’ve outlined for tomorrow – I’ve decided it is time to shake up the love snowglobe.

To twist the dial and let the music play for however it’d like. To watch the snow and the glitter, the specs, and the debris fly all sorts of ways, and allow those plans and checklists to be a little less structured. To give not only myself, but my sacred Dream Book, some room to change and some room for new opportunities to come my way. To give my heart some lee-way and to let go of the rigid expectations I’ve made for my Prince Charming, so maybe when a possibility comes along, my imaginary projections don’t drown out the brilliance of who he really is.

Because being trapped in any way – where it be in snow or in visions of white wedding dresses and homes with finger-painting messes – isn’t a pleasure for anyone. Stuck in the same rut with the same idea and the same hopes….will never liberate the Dream Book from its title or allow the most wonderful dream of all, reality, to play its course.

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All I Want for Christmas is Me

There is something about this time of the year that makes everyone, young and old, near and far – want to be less of a “patridge in a pear tree” and rather one of two turtle doves. With less than 12 days left to Christmas – how’s a girl supposed to get through this season without wanting five gold rings (or just a diamond one), a kiss under the mistletoe, and someone to prove to us that really, every kiss does begin with Kay.

Since I started college, and freshman, sophomore, and junior year passed swiftly without a significant other to dote on me during the holiday season – Christmas has served as a nagging reminder that I was (and am) in fact, single. As my friends and their newly found college sweethearts would plan out trips to their respective hometowns (and now are married, by the way), and obsessively describe what they wanted and what they were getting their boyfriend – I silently wished they would all just shut up.

During breaks, I’d work at a retail store at the local mall and constantly watch couples cooing and smiling with their little shopping bags and hand-holding techniques that made me want to gag myself. And of course, at my Southern-inspired Christmas dinner, where at the ripe ol’ age of 20 – I was the strange one who was not only without a boyfriend, but also with no intentions of getting married right after graduation. Nope, I was the crazy misfit who wanted to move far, far away to a scary place called New York City and be a writer. Though they supported me, I’m not sure they ever quite understood.

But this year, this Christmas, this season, something in me is different. In fact – I hadn’t even noticed that I was single for the holidays until a dear friend of mine, K, sought my counsel and said “You know, it is just really hard to be single right now.”

Don’t get me wrong – I’ve been well aware that Christmas is quickly approaching. I’m flying home on Friday to spend some much-needed time with my family and long-lost friends whom I haven’t seen in ages. I’ve toured all the window-displays on Fifth Avenue both with my friend E, and Mr. Possibility. I had front-row tickets to watch the tree at Rockefeller Center light up with Mr. Unavailable. I saw the Rockettes in complete style and everlasting wonder with my friend J, and I’ve walked throughout the city admiring the lights and the peace that seems to come with this time of year. Mr. Possibility took me ice skating and we went to Macy’s to check off gifts on our shopping lists. Right this very second and for the last few weeks, my Pandora “Christmas” station has been getting quite the workout. And most important of all, when that first flake fluttered to the Manhattan ground, I was completely alone and completely in awe.

I’ve embraced Christmas, and without even knowing, I’ve been perfectly content without a boyfriend. I haven’t been putting myself down because for the fourth year in a row, one of my best friends, L, will be my date to our Christmas Eve dinner. I haven’t felt ashamed that I’ll reunite with my extended family and they will probably ask me when I’m getting married. I haven’t wished and hoped and dreamed of being proposed to on Christmas morning (as I used to carefully plan out in my head). I haven’t cursed the smitten couples or the newlyweds who are so excited to spend their very first Christmas together.

But for the longest time, this season was so difficult, so grueling, so sad, so disappointing – because isn’t Christmas or any type of holiday at this time of year – supposed to be about love? About celebrating miracles and hoping for all that is to come? Or trusting that even if you can’t see it, it is out there – waiting to come into your life and shower you with gifts not only under the tree, but also helping you hang ornaments on the top limb.

But really, aren’t all of those ideas applicable to being single? Even when we relate it more about being a pair?

That while we think meeting Mr. Right will be a miracle, the true amazement is that before him, we get this incredible time to just love and concentrate on ourselves. We hope to see our children’s faces light up and ask us about Santa and play with our hubby in the snow – but don’t we also hope that we don’t lose ourselves in a relationship, and that we continue to adore the person we’ll see staring back at us in the mirror, each and every day for the rest of our lives? That sometimes it is so tough to believe there is a light at the end of the single tunnel or a glimmer of positivity in truly, finding peace in being alone – but even if we can’t feel it, we know it is possible, we know it can be ours.

This anticipation of a man to enter, to make the holidays brighter and fuller, to give us little boxes with bows, and to love how we look in our red sweater dresses – tears us up inside. Because really, we fear it will never happen. But instead of doubting the process, doubting the fates, and even worse, doubting ourselves – we miss out on how magical and truly beautiful a Christmas can be without a man. How experiencing flickering lights, parties, and travel can be just as entertaining when we’re out of love.

I don’t feel like I’m waiting on something. I don’t feel like I’m missing something from Christmas or that the universe is depriving me of a companion to make the holidays bearable. But instead, I’m excited. I’m so ready to shout from the rooftops that I’m single and that I’m happy. That I have a life that I created, that the presents you see were bought by only me and my money. That while I’m not kissing under the mistletoe – I haven’t lost hope that one day I will. Besides, it isn’t the number one priority anymore – not at Christmas, not at New Year’s, not at all. Right now, in this moment, in the snow, in the lights– the only thing to focus on is myself and this journey. And I can say with confidence that I disagree with you, Mariah Carey – I don’t want you (whichever man that represents) for Christmas, but all I really want is me.

Tis Christmastime in the city, and my, oh, my is the weather frightful –

…but the feeling I have inside is so delightful. It is a feeling of wholeness, of completeness, of security, of magic – that derives from the greatest blessing, the most thoughtful gift, and the most incredible miracle I could ever experience – and that’s celebrating self-love. Celebrating…me.

 

 

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The Love-That-Got-Away: Mr. Fire

I’ve been trying to figure out all day how to begin this post and each and every single time I sit down to start it – I find myself lost for words. As someone who was born with a pen in her hand, this is out of the ordinary.

But then again, if I really think about my relationship with Mr. Fire – being speechless seems pretty fitting.

We all have that guy in our lives. The one we meet in some peculiar way and instantly, our whole world comes crashing down around us. Each barrier we set up to keep our hearts and bodies safe is utterly destroyed, and suddenly, we’re standing there exposed and vulnerable to any and every charm this man throws our way.

Mr. Fire and I met my sophomore year of college through the student newspaper, where at the time; I was serving as Lifestyles Editor. For whatever reason, I was on a local history feature kick and was intrigued by a bagel shop that had been in my college’s town for decades. After doing the central interview, I needed an extra angle from a current student who worked part-time at the shop. The place suggested a guy whose name I couldn’t spell to save my life, but somehow finagled my way to his Facebook – and three messages later, we had an interview set up.

He snuck up on me (much like the relationship that followed) by coming in the backdoor of our office and when I saw my friend M’s eyes light up, I knew he must be somewhat attractive. I spun around in my chair, tilted my head to the side, smiled, and said, “You must be Mr. Fire.” He nodded, went into a long speech (as he usually does) – and within a few seconds, I was hooked.

He was tall. He was funny. He had character. He was active and fit. He had a large group of friends. He was open. He made me feel comfortable. He listened. He challenged me. And about a week later, I found out he was a great kisser too. Our first official date was to a concert I had press passes for and he served as my “photographer” for the evening. As we attempted to dance to the music and he wrapped his arms around me, a little glimmer of hope inside of me said, “Maybe this will actually turn into something real.”

Our courtship or relationship or whatever you call it (we never defined it) didn’t last very long, but the impact it had on me was significant. The chemistry we had was so bursting with passion, with energy, with this complete connectivity that I couldn’t deny. He finished my sentences and widened my viewpoints. He had so many of the amazing qualities that I always desired in someone. And of course, when he kissed me – the world, literally stopped. It truly enforced that some people are meant to come into your lives, regardless of how long they stay, and change you.

During the time we were together, a lot of huge things starting happening in my life, for the better and for the worse. I went to my interviews in New York and he assured me I’d have killer success, and he also managed to keep me on the phone for two hours each night I was there (a huge feat for a New Yorker-wannabe like me). Before the interview for the position I’d eventually be offered, he sent me a “Go get ‘em Tigar!” text message that I kept long after our relationship ended. He encouraged my goals and told me about the trips he’d take to see me during my summer in my most favorite place on this planet. He may have even mentioned Versace and that made me fall for him a tad bit more.

And then, my dad went through one of the most difficult periods he’s ever gone through, and even though it was Easter break, Mr. Fire spent an hour on the phone checking up on me and ensuring that I was okay, breathing, and safe. Having experienced more loss in his own life than anyone should have to endure – he knew what page I was on.

When I returned from this horrible experience, he literally drowned me in gifts, food, and attention. He chased after my legs when we snuggled on his bed and tucked me into the inevitably inviting nook we all crave, and I was surrounded completely by just him. He picked me up in his kitchen, spun me around, and told me “Don’t you worry. It will all be okay.”

And all was well and promising, until the morning it wasn’t.

I had spent the previous day at one his games (he played on a club team on campus), met his mother, and then went to a party to celebrate their victory. At the get-together, he seemed cool, distant, and unusually unaffectionate. Most of the time, he was always finding an excuse to touch me, wrap his arms around me, or steal a kiss –even in front of his friends or teammates. After one-too-many beers, we ended up back at his apartment, where in all of my 5’7”-glory (heels on, of course) – I demanded why he was acting so funny. When he failed to respond, I returned with half-rage by attempting to leave and walk home if he didn’t want to be around me. To this, he responded by scooping me up, calming me down, and making me fall asleep.

In the morning, I rolled over, looked up at him and apologized for acting ridiculous and questioning. To which, he stroked my head, kissed my forehead, and said the words no girl ever wants to hear from the man she’s falling hard for: “Linds, I think we’re moving too quickly.”

In a matter of days, everything I thought we were building together was all-but destroyed. At first, he needed space. Then he decided he could only talk to me on the phone, text message, and Facebook, but not see me in person (to which I replied: “Are you out of your mind?”). Finally, I decided we shouldn’t talk for a week so he could get his mind straight and figure out what he wanted.

And in the end, he didn’t want me. Because I was going to New York and he was staying overseas for a month over the summer – literally putting us on opposite sides of the globe – he thought it was best we didn’t explore a relationship. He also reassured me he wasn’t interested in anyone else and couldn’t (and wouldn’t) be dating anyone seriously….

…until a day later, pictures of him and another girl showed up on Facebook. And not just any girl, a girl I had been introduced to, hung out with, and he had made fun at some point. At the time, it was absolutely devastating and made me feel like the biggest fool in the entire world – but within time (like a few years), I forgave him. They are still together, nearly three years later, and seem incredibly in love, and for that, I’m happy for him (at least somewhat, anyways).

Before I graduated and moved my way to these big, bright, shining lights I love so much, we ran into each other at a neighborhood bar. We were both in serious relationships at the time, but he said he “at least owed me a beer,” and I agreed, but added, “And an explanation.” Over the course of several hours, we discussed what he felt, what went wrong, and he apologized profusely. At some point, he said, “I always regretted how I treated you, but I didn’t feel like I had something to offer you with your New York dreams. I know you’re going to go far and I don’t know how to be just a part of that.”

I’m not sure if this means he wasn’t “man” enough to step up to the plate or couldn’t handle a gal who was going places, but it does mean that we simply weren’t meant for one another. No matter how much passion, how much fire or intensity, or possibility I saw for us at one point – if someone can’t take you for who you are and love you, pride aside, they aren’t worth it.

He is an incredible man who I know will be successful in whatever he does and in whatever marriage he enters – and I hope when he thinks of our time together, he smiles. He remembers the energy. The love-that-got-away from both of us. And somewhere, down deep where we hold our most precious and sacred memories, I know that our flame of happiness and of hope that we sparked for each other – remains lit.