Tag Archives: Women

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The Nice Girl

Since I’m really trying to turn over new leaves and try new things this year, I decided vamping up my online dating profile would be a solid first step. Sure, dating isn’t a priority but I enjoy going out with guys and meeting new people in general, online is an easy way to take pressure off when bar-hopping with the ladies. Let the guys I may want to date stay online and the guys I want to dance with hang out at the club, right? Sitting in my new fluffy bathrobe, exhausted after forcing myself to start running again, I sent the link to my friend K to have her give suggestions. After reading, she asked why I wanted to change it, and I said: You don’t think it sounds too nice?

She replied, But you are nice.

Ugh that word. Nice. You’re so nice. You’re such a sweet girl. You’re a doll! It’s all so irritating. I don’t want to be nice. Her words nagged me. They buzzed about my head and allowed my brow to scrunch, though I knew my mother would say it causes wrinkles and I shouldn’t do such a thing to my skin. But I was annoyed. Very annoyed.

Surely she meant no harm and was just being honest – I am, indeed, a nice person. I think of things before others do, I try to be the best friend I can be, I send hand-written cards for the holidays because I love to picture the instant smiles from others when they receive real mail, I always give gifts with meanings, I pause to let the person walk in front of me, I give up my seat for the elderly and give half my sandwich to the homeless. I volunteer with kids who want to write because I’m passionate about helping children and literacy. I hold the doors open for people I know and those I don’t. I get cabs when I know others are struggling financially. I try to be considerate even when someone is inconsiderate. I’m even nice in relationships – I usually don’t really care what we eat, so I eat what he wants. I leave hidden notes in places he’ll find throughout his day. I learn to bake his favorite goodies, regardless of how long we’ve been together. I’ll return text messages timely and I’ll give back scratches without much persuasion. I may even sit through an incredibly sports-something-or-another if it’s important to him.

She’s right. I’m nice. But when she said it – I automatically hated it.

Noting my frustration, K asked me to describe myself in three words. Irritated at my “nice” label but trying to look past it, I typed: ambitious, thoughtful and optimistic. I stared at them on the Gchat screen gazing back at me. I didn’t include sexy or spontaneous. Or anything about adventure! I’m starting to travel and do things alone, should that be included? What about something about attitude? I can be a bitch if I really try! Or when someone royally pisses me off like Mr. P, oh my god, he can definitely bring that side out of me. Are those really the words to describe me? Really?

I typed to her: Doesn’t that make me sound boring? With her usual elegance, she replied, Thoughtful means you have the skill of making sure cards magically arrive right on time, ambitious means you moved here all on your own and made it happen without fearing the worst, and optimistic means you’re trying online dating, you believe in people, you believe in luck, you believe in fate, and you’re excited! That does not make you boring, that makes you, you.

I didn’t let go of my irritation that night, I went to sleep believing no one would message me — the nice girl. Or the guys that did, would be so intolerably irritating or nice guys that are waiting until marriage for sex or sport that button up with khaki look that I despise, I would curse myself a little bit more for being nice.

Staring up at my ceiling I decided how I wanted my profile to read: I’m so incredibly happy and satisfied with my life that I’m standing here in a black dress, drinking champagne and laughing, not caring what you think or if you want to go out with me. I want it to say: I’m sassy and independent, don’t mess with me unless you have big enough balls to match my courage, and the ability to wow a real woman. I want it to be like this: cool, confident, sarcastic, sexy and totally unavailable unless it’s a really, really incredible guy. I picture myself dripping in diamonds with a slender frame, red, red lips, standing in sky-scraper heels on a rooftop with Manhattan as my background, with a look that says: Don’t f*** with me.

But let’s be honest – that’s just not me. I am nice. A nice Southern girl who moved to the big city. Right? Or maybe – maybe – I’m confusing nice with boring. Nice isn’t boring – it’s…nice.

I am happy and satisfied with my life. I do wear black and drink champagne with my friends, not caring what a man thinks or doesn’t. I am definitely sassy in the right circumstance and I was raised to be an independent thinker. I’d like to think my ballsy courage is one of my greatest traits, and currently, I’d say I’m pretty unavailable unless a dreamboat comes sailing along. The thing is, even if I’m all of those things, I’m still a fun girl…with a heart. The girl who will say what she thinks, but kindly. The girl who is strong enough to walk away but will feel a little twang of guilt for having to do so. The girl who helps others but also remembers herself. The girl who dances on tabletops but also makes sure her friends don’t tumble while they’re joining her. The girl who is undeniably strong, but equally undeniably sensitive, too. I do lead with my heart instead of my breasts. I say what I want, I know what I want and go after what I want – but I don’t walk all over people to get there. I’m not that model-esque thing standing in the corner of an overpriced club downtown, I’m more the girl who hangs out at a lounge in the West Village, eying the guy with blue eyes and crazy, curly hair. And while I may first be attracted to his mystery and his sex appeal, or his comfortable confidence that’s not too arrogant, what will keep me attracted to him is how thoughtful he is. And the ambition that drives his optimistic view on life.

Maybe nice girls and nice guys finish last – if so, I might have a long way to go. But I don’t think being nice is a turnoff, I think being boring is. And they’re not the same thing, though it may be easy to confuse the two. I may not be all of the things I think make someone cool, and I may have more sugar-and-spice than frogs, snails and puppy-dog tails – but one thing I’ll never be… is boring.

Because if I was boring – I wouldn’t have woken up to a few messages in my inbox the next morning and two dates planned this weekend. Looks like nice girls aren’t so bad, after all.

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Ten Years in the Making

You can do it, Linds. You can do this! I reminded myself walking up a white staircase into a large white room decorated with home décor accents from Family Dollar. It was a little newspaper in the “downtown” area of an even smaller town – but for me, it was my first real gig as a journalist.

Having just moved to a community where the closest Wal Mart was 30 minutes away and the only attraction was a barbeque pit and a sparkling man-made lake, I felt out-of-my-element and frankly, lost. To ease the idle time at age 15, I started reading the county newspaper and noticed a void of teen content. Tapping into my self-starter mentalities, I casually mentioned my observations to my mother who gleefully suggested I pitch to the editor of the newspaper.

Well who would write it? I asked. You, silly! She suggested. Hmm…

And so after some string-pulling and a four-hour shopping trip to buy my very first suit set (it was pink corduroy, sadly), I landed a meeting with the Editor-in-Chief of The Clay County Progress. Just tell her what you want to do. That’s all you have to do. And walk in these heels – don’t fall!! I said over-and-over while waiting in a “lobby” next to a water fountain, flipping through my “portfolio” which was really just a few pages of things I’d scribbled together and essays from school. I surely couldn’t bring in my diaries, though that’d be a more credible resume booster if I wanted to be a columnist.

When she finally called me in, I handed her my colorful binder (purple with letters cut out of magazine headlines that spelled: Lindsay’s Writing Portfolio) and proposed a weekly teen column that discussed the young adult perspective on everything from war to love. I continued to describe myself, making sure to throw in words like “hard-working” and “creative” like my father suggested. Don’t tuck your hair behind your ear, don’t do it. Just leave it. No, it’s not itching. Just leave it alone, Lindsay! I thought while clutching my fists under the table while she asked me questions. Smile, I encouraged myself. Maybe she likes you!

Twenty minutes and a trip to the bathroom later, I jumped into my mom’s car where she sat anxiously waiting: Well? she asked. I’m a columnist! I screamed. We went to get ice cream sundaes to celebrate and I reveled at the fact I’d get a whole $10 a week for writing. I could hardly believe someone was wiling me to do something I’d do for free and that I’d see my name in a newspaper that people actually paid money to read.

It was amazing – and I was hooked.

From there, I went on to co-lead the high school newspaper, intern for a local women’s magazine, then I brought that same ridiculously unprofessional portfolio to college where I started as an intern reporter and moved up to an Associate Editor. During my Appalachian State days, I managed to land an internship at Cosmopolitan (where my NYC love affair became undeniably serious) and wrote a blog for Seventeen.com. When I wasn’t promoted to Editor-in-Chief at the college newspaper, I was blessed to be offered an Editor-at-Large position at ChickSpeak.com, and it was there that I fell in love with the beautiful land of cyber-style writing. I love to hold my magazines and read them on the train, but my heart is intertwined with the web.

All of those experiences bought my one-way ticket to New York City (along with several restaurant and retail jobs) where I tried my skills out in the business writing world. And then of course, this lovely little blog deemed me a “Carrie Bradshaw”-like heroine in New York (though I could never afford her apartment or her shoes).

Lastly – and most amazingly – all of that hard work paid off this year when I landed the dream job. Nearly ten years (almost to the exact date!) have passed since I pitched my first column and now, I’m working, editing and writing for NBC. I never thought I’d be this remarkably happy at a job, but I am. I wish I could put into words how thankful I am, but no amount of gratitude could ever express it.

A year ago I wrote about what 2010 meant to me and what it represented. It was the year for New York, the year for many firsts, the year for great strides, big chances and slim paychecks. It was when I gained my city sense, when I tried out urban dating, when I started to become my own person, when I figured out (or rather solidified) that New York was definitely the place I wanted to live.

But 2011 has meant something different. It marked the end of a decade – ten years in the making of what’s made me, me.

It’s been about finding me in every aspect of my life. It was the year I decided I would be brave enough to fall in love, regardless of the outcome. It was the year I dedicated to writing – posting 1,000-word entries for nine months out of the 12. It was the year I met people I know will be my best friends when our boobs reach our knees. It was the year I learned how to survive on my own, completely cutting financial ties with my family. It was the year I went after the things I wanted, the things I came to New York to find. It was the year I let go of what was dependable and good to find the incredible and the great.

It was the year I got to where I wanted to be: a strong, independent 20-something, working at a place she loves, surrounded by friends who inspire her and doing the things that make her happy, with or without a man.

It seems impossible that so much time has passed or that I’ve already written so many articles and blogs that I’m more Google-able than I’d like my dates to know – but I’m proud of my work. I love that someone, somewhere has read something I’ve written and has learned something. Or felt less alone or less crazy. Or has been courageous enough to leave a relationship that wasn’t healthy to find hope for one that will be. Writing about love isn’t like being a journalist on the front lines or reporting on the latest political advances – but it has its own place and purpose in the world.  And for now, it’s a place that I belong. It’s a purpose that I found a home in. It’s where I was always meant to be.

So thank you 2011 for changing me. For allowing me to make a lot of mistakes to get to where I am now. For teaching me how to love myself unconditionally, through jobs and breakups, love and a lot of luck.

I’m not the person I was in 2010 and thanks to 2011, I have a good feeling I’ll be one hell of a woman in 2012. Just wait and see.

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I Miss Me More

On Christmas eve, just before I sat down to a lovely meal prepared by my father, I received a text from Mr. Possibility.

I was expecting a message of some form from him around the holidays — maybe even a call. I didn’t know what style it’d come in or if it’d be bittersweet or heartfelt. Since much of my 2011 was spent with him, it was difficult not to think of him in my memories of this year – so naturally – he would contact me at the holidays. But standing in my childhood bathroom, curling my hair and sipping on cheap wine from a Southern grocery store, seeing his number (no name, it’s not saved anymore) light up my iPhone wasn’t a screen I wished to view.

Knowing my friend L would soon arrive, I took a deep breath in, decided my hair was pretty enough and went to my bedroom to read what he wrote. I sat down on my bed next to bags of clothes and the four shoeboxes from my shopping spree and looked over at the blooming rose my father left my bedside for me to see when I returned to North Carolina. I smiled at the sentiment and cursed myself for being even semi-taunted by a man who would never measure up to my thoughtful, loving dad. Trying not to remember how Mr. Possibility laid on this very bed, on these same sheets, with the room radiating with the intoxicating smell of summer just a few months earlier, I read what he had to say.

A won’t stop talking about you. Or how she wishes you were here for Christmas. She wants to come to your house. It’s so cute. 

Well, that wasn’t quite what I expected – but somehow, it hurt more. It wasn’t a message about Christmas or the magical feelings this season brings, but about his niece. His adorable niece who I fell in love with. As much trouble as its been to let go of Mr. P, it’s been just as much work to separate from his family – especially the two little girls I grew to feel like an aunt to. They even called me that when we’d visit a few times a month: Aunt Lindsay! You’re here!! 

Before I had a chance to respond to his text, I noticed a voicemail from his sister, that really was a Christmas wish and a sweet “I love you” from four-year-old A. I played her sweet voice a few times before typing “She misses me!” to which Mr. P responded, “She’s not the only one.” It was then that L’s car pulled up and I left my phone far out of reach, far away from where I could be tempted to say things only wine and twinkling lights could make me silly enough to believe.

The eve came and passed, and I managed to refrain from mentioning my tension or how my heart felt frozen when I heard A’s voice or thought about the family I had grown to love along with the man I loved, was moving on from me too. The closest of relationships share those dear to our hearts and when the affair ends, so do those family ties. As much as I had enjoyed and cherished becoming part of his clan, I know that with the passing of time, phone calls lessen and memories of a temporary Aunt will fade when a permanent Aunt is in the picture. But those – those – are the thoughts I simply can’t entertain. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

On Christmas Day, my mom and I felt a little antsy being stuck in the house with non-stop musical tunes and my grandmother’s sweet (and sorta irritating) ramblings, so we went for a drive. I wanted to see the mountains I never get to gaze at and she wanted to see me – so we drove around winding roads, catching up, laughing and doing our very best to avoid the topic of my departure – it’s a subject that isn’t friendly after spending a week together. As we’re going along the old highway I used to speed down, she asked me how I felt about Mr. P and the phone call from the previous night. I told her my grievances, how I feared my ability to really let go and love so unconditionally again and how though I knew I made the right choice, I felt like I was giving up a part of the me I created in New York so I could discover the life I really wanted.

She then asked bluntly, Do you miss him, honey?

Without much consideration and with little hesitation, I said: Yes, but I missed me more when I was with him. She smiled the grin that says: I-know-I’ve-been-there-too and reached for my hand. I was as honest as I could be and the truth laid flat in the winter air – as much as you can love someone, if the relationship just isn’t right or the person is selfishly motivated, you end up losing more by staying with them. And while I miss the companionship, the talks, his family that started to feel like my own, the shared dreams and intimate connections that I’d never share with this blog – if I would have not stood for what I needed, I would have ended up needing to really find myself again.

The best kind of love is the kind that brings out the best in you. It’s the kind that soothes your soul while it startles it. It entices you to be a better person and to believe in yourself more, while still being selfless with the person you’re committed to. Love is patient and it’s kind, but to find that perfect rhyme – you can’t sacrifice your happiness. And that person who cares, that person who is right, would never allow you to do so. Just like they would never let you miss out – or start to miss yourself – by being with them.

Less than a mile away from home I said, Maybe he showed me he loved me by letting me go Mom. Yeah, he misses me. His family does too. I miss all of them. But if we continued, we would have ruined whatever we ever had or any chance at friendship. So maybe he loved me enough to let me go. Right?

Without skipping a beat or missing the right turn into our street, she said, Or maybe, sweetie, you finally just stood up for what you deserved and he knew he couldn’t give it to you. It’s time to stop missing him, stop missing yourself and go out there and find someone who you’ll never have to miss. 

Amen, Mama. Amen.

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We Were Just Beginning

In the home I grew up in, the love flows just as steadily as the wine. My dad still looks across the living room at my mom (who is pulling up the corner of her cheeks while talking about her fantasy face lift) and says, “Honey, you’re beautiful. You don’t need that.” In this house that’s a few right turns off of the main road that leads into town, my dog thinks I’m a better person than I really am. In this place, where my room is almost empty, minus some books and bedding, is frozen back in time when I loved playing tennis and hung up pictures of the city I wanted to call home.

And those photos are now sights I could see anytime I wanted. They are only a train ride away and some are views I see each and everyday. I made it to New York and I survived it – or as my friend E says, it let me stay. There is no secret to “making it” in Manhattan, it kicks out those who don’t belong pretty quickly.

But when I’m back in North Carolina, when my pace slows down, when I sit around talking astrology and dreams with my mom, when my dad brings me a heating pad and pillow to curl up with because my stomach hurts, when I walk out of the kitchen and return to find all of my dishes put away, I’m reminded of the place that grew me. The people who loved me enough to let me chase that brilliant ambition that is now my reality. The sense of longing that I used to feel while lying in this bed, looking out at the fog sweeping the mountaintops is gone – and in its place, I feel peace.

I feel this sweet surrender inside of my heart that for the first time, maybe ever, I’m just content. The journals I filled with wishes and hopes, are now subway stops and memories. The stories I used to store in a shoebox are now archived on WordPress and countless other publications I still can’t believe I’ve been lucky enough to write for. Those magazine clippings of inspirational quotes and couples snuggling on the couch are now my own sayings and my own snapshots of the men I’ve loved.

Really, there was nothing this Christmas that I wanted or needed other than to hop a flight back to where the wildflowers grow, the sound of silence echoes pleasantly from hill-to-hill, and sweet tea is within driving distance. And thanks to this blog and all of the wonderful people I’ve met in New York, being a single gal for the holidays feels more natural to me than bringing home a love that wasn’t meant to last.

Sitting around with a group of my friends tonight at the annual Christmas potluck while I’m in town, I thought about where we were: single and striving, learning and loving, letting go and being brave enough to hold on, chasing dreams and their origins, starting all over again and putting together pieces, realizing we’re finally adults and wondering what that really means. Looking at their faces and hearing their stories that while we may have different zip codes, sound scarily similar, munching on sausage balls I pretended had zero calories, I thought about how we all worry about what the future holds.

There is so much more life ahead of us than what we’ve experienced. There is room to reach so many more goals. Chances to love someone more than we’ve ever loved before. Opportunities to see the world and to reveal a world inside ourselves we never knew. Experiences that will test and try us as much as they teach and taunt us. Mortgages and babies who will call us “Mom”, Christmases that will one day mean more to us than seeing our old friends and feeling fancy cooking our family the Eggs Florentine we discovered in the city. Lifelong friendships that only become stronger with age and men who think we’re radiant despite our age.

It’s hard, I think, as a 20-something to see an existence outside of the current one. We’re busy coming and going, figuring out what we want and how to get it, dating and mating, relating and playing, attempting to save money and determining how much we need to put into our 401ks when really, 45 seems old, never mind 65 when we actually see the account. Everything seems so far away, so not-something-I-need-to-think-about right now, something that I’ll address later when I’m ready, later when I’m older, when I’m settled, when I have it all together. We can’t see our children’s faces or truly believe deep into our bones that yes, one day, one man, will be different and it all won’t be so complicated. We can’t see that house or the playground behind it, the successful career that we worked so hard to achieve at its very peak, we can’t see the impressions we leave on others or imagine our beautiful, youthful friends with wrinkles around their eyes.

But before we know it – or so I’m told anyway – one day, we’ll wake up and our realities will be different. The ways we find peace will be new. Our intentions humble, our pace slower, the things that make us happy, simpler. We’ll look back on these days, where we roamed wild and free, dabbling in this while dabbling in that, fretting over being a size 6, crying over a guy who we won’t remember in the long run, drinking more champagne and coffee than what’s healthy while soaking up sun, and wonder why we took it for granted. We’ll look back and remember all of those Christmases – from being children to having our own, and be amazed at how much things change, how much we change, how much the world continues to change before we’ve caught up to it.

And we’ll wonder how we didn’t see that then, sitting around that table with our friends, talking about how old we feel at the ripe age of mid-twenties, that really, we were just beginning.

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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.