Tag Archives: Women

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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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The Wisdom to Know the Difference

The mirror that I get ready in front of each morning hangs on the back of my door, surrounded by things I love. Photos of people I know and those I aspire to be like, quotes from calendars four years old and fortune cookies that wished me well, notes from my friends and family, postcards from places I’ve never been — they all are taped and tucked in the edges of a cheap white-framed mirror that came with the first apartment I had in New York.

Maybe mementos are as much a part of my design scheme as the color purple, which captures my attention more than any other shade, for a reason I don’t understand (I hardly wear purple!). I like to be reminded of things that make my happy and as a writer, nothing touches me more than encouraging or engaging words of others, or photos that speak more than any blog could detail. One of the items that I’ve kept around since before college is a bookmark my dad gave me when he was sick and could only express himself through gifts — his own voice too weakened to speak. With a fuzzy beaded tassel and a rainbow in the background, it read the serenity prayer: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.

It’s most well-known as the mantra of Alcoholics Anonymous, but the hope goes for anyone who is trying to overcome anything — where it be a dream passed by or a relationship gone dry. The latter for me, is the most difficult right now.

I hate still writing about him and I hate more that the emotions that invoke me the most to type on these pages are the ones I try to hide from everyone who knows me best. They are the hidden wounds I only let out at nighttime when I’m alone in my room, listening to my roommate play piano and sing with her adorable boyfriend, wishing that things could have just been different with Mr. P. Finally, I’m mature enough to realize that our demise had nothing to do with me and I don’t blame myself for the ending, nor do I want to return to a dysfunctional, one-sided relationship, but it’s my own thoughts-of-what-could-have-been that keep me awake at night and require under eye creme each morning.

Accepting that you can’t change another person, that you can’t love them enough to make them love you in return, that you can’t hold so tight that they see you as irreplaceable, that you can’t turn someone into a better version of themselves, no matter how many letters you write, emails you send, voicemails you leave or love you make with them — takes serenity. It requires constant mental reminders that you’re worth more, that lack-luster anything is just that – lacking of the beautiful luster that comes from a partnership worth the work. Letting go of someone who never latched on to you emotionally can make you feel like it was impossible for someone to fall in love with you, but that’s when that courage comes in. That’s when you have to be brave enough to realize that while this person wasn’t right for you, no matter how much you believed they could be, if history proves anything, it’s that once we love someone, we can always love someone else. It often gets better and stronger every time around.

But only if we are wise enough to realize the difference between what we can change and what we can’t. In every relationship, it’s the different between knowing you can only control yourself and your actions, not a guy’s decisions and his emotions. And if he isn’t giving you what you want or what you deserve, your only option is to walk away, even if that’s the hardest task of all.

Outside of my favorite pub in midtown east, a tad tipsy from cheap white wine and Blue Moon, I looked inside to see my favorite girls laughing and bundling up in their coats and scarves and then outside to the city that makes me feel at home, and though I was tempted to text the only man I’ve loved in New York, the frustration and the trouble that always comes from contacting him, kept me from pushing send.

Because these women always keep me laughing, these streets breathe new life into me, and I’m lucky enough to know the difference between the things that are good for me and the things that are bad. And since no one I care about would ever try to change me, I can’t expect to change someone I once (and let’s be honest, still do) cared for deeply, it’s not what is best for me or for him. But I can change myself and my perspective – simply by looking at all that I have around me. The serenity is there, if I’m brave enough to look for it.

And maybe someday, there will be a someone who will bring that same serenity, without having to change either of us, at all.

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I Believe a Little Wish For Me

Catching up with a dear friend hundreds of miles away while I painted my nails and did my hair up hipster-style, I smiled thinking of her pretty face and of the sweet memories we shared in college. As we’re spending half our time carelessly bitching and the other half vocalizing our big dreams for the year ahead, she pauses and says, “Everything always works out for you Linds. It always has. Somehow you just make it all work. How do you do it?”

She’s not the first one to say these words to me — it’s actually something I get asked quite often. Some people spend their whole lives searching for what they want to do and where they want to do it, and I happen to be part of the rare group who has always just kind of known. There are dozens of things I’m completely unsure about (and therefore analyzed to death on this blog), but there are two truths that have never teetered for me: I’m a writer who loves New York.

When I’m speaking to youngsters who just graduated and are trying to land their first job, I always talk about the importance of networking, hard-work and being absolutely dedicated to each and every little detail, even the ones that seem insignificant (like writing hand-written thank you’s and such). When I’m speaking to my friends and family who are dearer to me than any career or location could ever be, I credit my success to luck. I often comment on how I just landed at the right time on the right foot and the universe laid it all out for me. I took the opportunities I was given and I kept plugging along even when I felt like nothing else could go wrong. And because I followed my heart, my heart followed me right to where I belonged.

But if I’m honest with myself and with the thoughts I have when no one else is around to hear, what I really credit my happiness and my work to is belief. Regardless of how much of an unstoppable force I was in terms of doing all the recommended strategies to enrich my resume or how many pennies I picked up that signify blessings from the heavens themselves — the thing that kept me going was the fact that I didn’t believe in anything but making it. Even when the world seemed impossible, I believed anything was possible if I kept believing. I apologize for channeling Cinderella here, but my dream was a wish that my heart made, and it was there that I laid my beliefs — if I trusted all would come true because I had it in me, then it would.

And it did.

Love, though somehow seems different — yet scarily similar. Like a career or a zip code, you can work really, really diligently (and strategically) to meet someone who you could be with. There are hundreds of bars, plenty of shared-interest activities, speed dating activities, common friends who know single folk, chance encounters on trains, planes and automobiles, flirty glances across messy platforms and funny conversations with dudes who will never be more than a blinking box on Gchat. And if you seek out all those measures to meet a man, you’ll meet one. If you’re lucky, that is.

That luck will transfer throughout your relationship, too. You’ll believe that because it’s so damn difficult to meet someone of substance, when you meet someone who could be a special something, you keep counting those blessed, magical stars that you met him. He may even tell you how thankful you should be for him and for your love, because only a privileged few get to find the romance they seek on the streets they stroll.

But then as quickly as it all started, no matter how much time, effort or energy you put into the relationship that seemed so inclined with the unquestionable ways of the world, it all crumbles at your feet. You may resent that you wasted your heart on something that never worked out anyway, you may even feel like that same heart won’t feel that thing again. You may start to wonder if the universe has decided you’re not meant to find the infamous One, that instead, you’re just meant to have the career you wanted in the city you chose to live in. And if you try hard enough, if you accept what you think the illusive fates are trying to tell you, somehow you will be just fine, alone. Just fine without having to try again (and again and again) for a love that never seems to be available.

After all, New Yorkers tend to adopt the bitterness rhyme — but me? I’d rather sing a song of hope and move to the beat of forgiveness. It’s easier to give up on love than to believe in it. It’s simpler to shut yourself off from crowds of blank faces that may or may not become faces we love. Especially when the looks you once grew accustomed to, became the same smiles and eyes you’ll only see a handful of times the rest of your life — if even at all. It’s tough to accept that some people are just bad people. Or that they aren’t awful souls, just not the soul that was made to mate with yours. Even more troubling to swallow is that some people are just kinda lost, and if you could, you would find them — but it’s not your responsibility to.

The beauty, though, of an open heart is that you know it can expand to take someone in. And if that someone is wrong, if you believe it can adapt to a new pulse, it’ll let you love again. But you have to keep reminding yourself that anything is possible, even in love, even when you don’t technically want happily-ever-after right now (but someday!), even if you don’t know how you’ll be as unconditional and liberated again, even if hard work and fate don’t always play on your side — it’s your belief that makes you attractive. It’s what makes me have a beautiful energy, it’s what makes me exude positivity and shine when everything (or everyone) is dark.

It was my belief that I was a writer that made me one. It was my belief that New York was home that made it so. It was my belief that dreams come true that I was able to make them my reality. It was my belief that I’m irreplaceable that makes me unforgettable. It was my belief that most people are actually good to their souls that’s made me surrounded by incredible company.

And so today, on 11:11:11 on the day that we’re all supposed to make a wish, I believe this little wish for me: that I will never stop working hard at believing that I’m actually one of the blessed, lucky ones who finds the love I was meant to share my beautiful dreams with in this remarkable city that I adore.

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You Have a Beautiful Energy

Burning up because I foolishly wore a sweater dress without checking the weather, I attempted clever conversation with a boy. It wasn’t my first date since Mr. Possibility and I split ways, but I still felt like I was getting into the swing of things. First dates (and even second dates, for the matter) tend to feel like interviews to me: get as much information as you can without coming across as pushy.

Until now, that is.

Piggy-backing off some bits of advice from my friends who have mastered the infamous New York dating scene, I’ve taken a new approach. I still ask questions, but they aren’t big ones. I let the guys do the conversation, allow them to lead the chat and I just sit back to enjoy my glass of Merlot, while hopefully looking at something chiseled and pretty. I’ve stopped counting on them to cover my bill, so I order what I want, fully prepared to cash out at the end of the night. Of course, most men are still gentlemen and make sure to pay, but I somehow switched my attitude of seeing dates as free meal tickets to perceiving them as the art of getting to know someone.

And this someone sure did know how to talk. He even leaned over to touch my knee from time-to-time. He smiled a lot and he drank his beer quickly. I could tell he was somewhat nervous and that he had allergies, and I saw the red flags popping up all over the place. He still lived at home with the folks, most relationships have ended because women haven’t understood him and his last one ended almost as soon as it started. I take this all in quietly and engage him with follow-up sentences, witty remarks and encouraging glances. I’m not really interested in him as a mate, but as a person or a friend, he seems alright.

Then, at the tail end of a discussion he says: “You have a really beautiful energy about you.”

Though I was taken aback, I thanked him and grinned, quickly changing the subject to something that didn’t rely on my aura, and the date ended with a walk to the train. I didn’t think much of it or him, we didn’t speak again and I forgot that we hadn’t. Then, last night I went on a date with a new guy at my favorite little cafe around the corner from my apartment. He met my not-required-but-really-highly-suggested height requirement and lived close by, so we met spontaneously for a drink and some mac n’ cheese that wasn’t nearly as great as my family’s recipe. The conversation was decent but I found his voice a tad too loud for my liking and his beliefs far too conservative to mesh with my ideas, yet he did the same thing the other dude did, and caught me off guard. As we’re sitting at the corner table, he reached across the table, touched my hand and said, “You have such a great outlook on a life. It’s a really beautiful energy.”

Now, either there is a new dating book for men that I’ve yet to be sent a press release about or a line from a movie that I’m not familiar with or apparently, I have a really pretty energy? What does that even mean?

Being a writer who spews her personal life across the web, my first instinct was to ask my friends, readers and Facebook pals what they thought hearing the same comment on two consecutive dates with different guys, meant. No answer was the same — some said they thought it meant I made them feel comfortable, others said it wasn’t something that could be put in words, a few said it had to do with my bubbly personality and my niceness. Some of my friends agreed with them, sweetly letting me know how beautiful I am. I appreciated their comments and even pinged my good friend K as I wrote this blog, still trying to determine what “beautiful energy” means to a straight, single New York man.

I still haven’t put my finger on it and my thoughts are still a bit conflicted but I think it has almost everything to do with where I am right now in my life. I’ve finally mastered what I wanted to be a pro at, over a year ago when I started this blog: I’m not looking for love.

And so, when I’m out on dates I don’t feel any pressure. I don’t prep or primp for hours or arrive early so I can sit in an area that shows off my best angles. I don’t consider anyone boyfriend material really, because the idea of being in a relationship makes me feel incredibly suffocated. I don’t say what I think men want to hear and I don’t try to get them to ask me on a second date.  I dress in what makes me feel attractive, without worrying if it’s too tight or not snug enough. I don’t fidget or stumble over my words, I just let them come as they are, uninterested if they come across the wrong or the ideal way. I don’t try to make a guy seem better than what he is by turning what he says into something I want to hear, I just listen and heed the warning signs as they come. I don’t interrogate or pry, I let him state his peace and I move on, glad to share my own viewpoint. I don’t have any rules for my adventures, if I want to kiss on the first meeting I do, if I don’t, I don’t. If I want to see him again, I will, if he’s easily forgotten, I won’t.

I’m just myself, without any excuses or intentions. And you know, if that means I have a beautiful energy, then I’ve wasted a lot of time and energy trying to be anyone or anything other than me.