Tag Archives: Women

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If Memory Serves Me Right

They say when one part of your life starts to excel, another part will ultimately crumble. Maybe it’s the way the universe stays aligned and keeps its perfect order that never seems to satisfy anyone for very long. We can’t have all of the things we want just as we want them or we’d never strive for anything, there would be no reason to have a furious fight inside of you. He who is handed it all will never learn what it feels like to work for something, so therefore, he must struggle.

Even so, when things fall apart the heavens have a simple way of keeping us sane – they never let everything that’s important to us to falter at once. Lighting rarely strikes in the same place twice and there is always something, even if it is a tiny unremarkable thing, to help us maintain our dignity and confidence in the world. Sometimes they are in the comforting words of friends ever-so-dear or in the soothing touch of crisp, cold, linen sheets against your bare body. It comes in the form of unexpected billowing winds inside the subway platform or in the support you depend on from someone you may have not known very long, but feel as if you’ve known them forever.

For me lately, my peace has been found in all of the above along with some magical New York moments I can only accredit as blessings sent from places higher than the Empire State, but most significantly, my calm has been instilled by the power of memories.

Mr. Possibility and I have been going through a very difficult period the last month. With our age difference and the fact that we’re at opposing stages of our lives, we’ve been riding the rough waters, attempting to find an anchor to hold us steady so we can sail into bay safely. Anchors aren’t always to be found though, and sometimes taking a breather and some much-needed space is the best thing any couple can do. And so while my career has been flourishing and I couldn’t be more thankful to finally be doing exactly what I always dreamed of doing, the man who helped me through the ups and downs of the last year, isn’t as sturdy as he appeared.

But I do remember when he was. I can recall the exact moment I knew I loved him – way back in January, while talking on Gchat following the Dubai disaster, and something just clicked. We waited a while after that before we made anything officially exclusive but in those times we spent building up our relationship, building up our connection, he couldn’t have been more beautiful to me. He was attractive in a way that made him human – I saw his shortcomings and I knew his downfalls but I chose to love him anyway, to trust him against my better judgement. Time will only tell if my grandiose hopes about him will ring trite-and-true and prove all of those against us, wrong. And maybe, prove myself wrong too.

It isn’t memories of us that grant me a sweet stillness, though. It’s rather in memories of myself.

I remember those weeks when he was far away overseas, only available to me through the wonderous webs of the Internet, where I had no responsibility to him but to reply to an email or arrive on time to a Skype date. I remember when this city was my dating playground, when though I wasn’t very good at disconnecting my expectations from my emotions, I enjoyed seeing New York from various points of view. I remember when I would dream about a love I couldn’t imagine, about having a man admire me just as my father admires my mother. I dreamed of a great love story, of something that wasn’t complicated or difficult, of something that brought me that easy, peaceful feeling instead of making my heart beat so uncontrollably I couldn’t fall asleep until well into dawn. I remember these moments during this journey itself, even when I knew Mr. Possibility, even when he was sitting next to me as I typed, where I longed to be single, where I finally found that strength to throw caution to the wind and take a chance on finding something great – in a man or in myself. I remember taking myself to dinner and to the movies, to the museum and to the cafe, just to sit in the company of myself, watching the city circulate its people with car horns and buses serenading the developing scenes.

I remember when this city was like Spring to me and I, still without my toughness or doubtfulness, believed in the best of people, the best of Mr. Possibility, and the best of myself. It’s realistic now but it will always be closer to extraordinary in my eyes and far from ordinary. Because even with all that’s happened, all that I’ve given that I can’t get back, all the attempts I’ve made that may not turn into anything of significance, I have those memories of what make me me to recall.

And if I can do it all alone once, of course I can do it again. Only this time, I’ll be a little stronger, a little brighter and have more hope for what’s to come. After all, if memory serves me right, I’ve always had the ability to believe that falling in love isn’t limited to the man who lives on the corner of Hope Street and is ripe of possibilities. Love indeed, begins inside of me and because of that, I can find it anywhere I go.

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You Can’t Screw Up What’s Meant to Be

Hard-to-get jobs and even harder-to-get men, high heels unintended for anyone but Ms. Lady Gaga herself, a city that allows few to make it before they break it, chances that have no reasonable shot in hell…. I tend to be pretty resilient and brave, a fighter who graces dresses and pearls while living up to the name I was born with.

But when it comes to gaining enough gumption to end a relationship…I suck.

Perhaps that’s not the most elegant of words to choose but it’s a pretty fair representation of how I view myself when a love affair turns sour. We all know when those boots should be made for walkin’, we know when the tension has turned from sexual to painful, and when nights are ruined by the presence of your partner, instead of brightened. The truth of any matters of the heart is that they are never easy. And if you’re anything like me, they are extended and lengthy, lingering around for far too long before they come to some immature, emotional and irrational head – leaving both parties destroyed and vulnerable, resenting each other for the past three hours of torture they endured. Not to mention, inflicted on one another. The end of a relationship is a great time-waster and mood killer. That’s when you know it is truly, completely over – when there is no hope for makeup sex because you just want…you need…to get away from one another.

God, it sucks.

My friends and family get to hear about this process the whole way through. They’re so lucky, aren’t they? As I wrangle with my exit strategy, make pro and con lists, go through periods of indescribable bliss that tease me into thinking things can change…only to be brought back down to reality the next day when the picture-perfect something I cooked up, boils over. It’s a nasty little ride I take myself on, a rollercoaster I not only pay for but add thrill to. Funny thing is though, it’s not thrilling but I entertain it anyway, waiting until the very last second before I finally push on the brakes. I barely miss a head-on collision each and every single time. My friend K says it’ll get easier as I date more New York men. I’ll grow accustomed to the process and it won’t be so difficult to turn on my heel and trot off. I’ll believe her when it happens, just as she had to experience it to believe it for herself.

For now though, I’m stubborn and falsely misled by fancy illusions of what a man could be, rather than really seeing, accepting and loving him for who he is. Possibility might as well be the middle name of any man I attempt to date -Lord knows I’ll be trying and trying again, until there is no more opportunity left to be found or piece of my heart to be shattered.

But when I get to that point, it is actually rather simple for me to cut my losses and tighten my ends. The decision becomes clear and my head stops spinning. I still experience the wallowing stages of misery that follow the death of love – after all, nothing dies more painfully or slowly than a dream, especially one that floated on Cloud 9 at one point. But when I decide it is time to leave, when there is no more fun to be had, no more fixing-up I’m capable of, no more squinting to try and visualize a future that never existed – I go. I swiftly get as far away as I can, severing contact and carefully tucking pictures with tattered, loved edges away for safe-keeping. For when it’s safe to look at them again without risking inexplicable sadness. And of course, without going up against the obsessive “What if” thoughts that attack the heartbroken spirit.

What if I would have tried harder? What if I wouldn’t have given up on him? On us? What if I would have been more understanding, more patient, kinder? What if I would have stayed around longer to see what could happen? What if I would have swallowed all of those things I wanted, just to be with him for a few more hours? Few days? What if we were at a turning point and I sealed our fate? What if all this is my fault? What if this is as good as it gets and I’m crazy for hoping for more? What if I walk away from him and he is my soulmate, and then I never find anyone else? What if I’m always alone?

What if I f***ed it all up?

When those thoughts disguised as fearful regrets won’t leave me alone, I remember my mother’s carefully selected words that she planted in my mind a decade ago when I felt so guilty for breaking up with Mr. Faithful after he had been so, well, faithful to me: Honey, you can’t screw up what’s meant to be. 

So tonight, with my two-piece fried chicken dinner from KFC because Southern food will always be my comfort food, a bottle of bubbly left over from ol’ Irene, a list of distracting movies from Netflix and some buttery, awfully bad for me popcorn for later on hand, I repeat her mantra in my head: Linds, you can’t screw up what’s meant to be. But I also add my own ending: you also can’t screw up what was never meant to be either.

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You’ll Be Sorry

Last summer was a great debate – should I or shouldn’t I go back to Mr. Idea?

We both flirted with the option, I even made an impromptu trip to visit him in his new a zip code, where he had new friends, a new apartment and a new job. We spent hours on the phone that usually resulted in some sort of bickering – I wasn’t doing enough of this, he wasn’t jumping to that conclusion. We would talk about the good times like they were decades ago, when in reality we had barely known each other a year. In the duration of our relationship, the honeymoon period was brief and lack-luster, but I think we both held onto the idea of what could be. Hence his name in this blog.

I knew then – or at least I’d like to believe I did – that it would never work out. Maybe we hadn’t known each other that long but in that time, a lot happened in my life: my dad recovered from a six-year health struggle, I graduated from college, I moved back home, I moved to the city, I found my first job, I paid rent for my first New York apartment, I became an adult. And with all of those big, life-altering, character-creating, patience-demanding changes – I started to learn more about what I wanted.

I discovered that I needed to be with someone who was supportive of my career – Mr. Idea didn’t really care for my writing (to each his own), nor would he ever approve of this blog (I can’t tell you how many times he’s called me to tell me not to write about him. I always listen, can’t you tell?). I figured out that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with someone who enjoyed having sex and initiated it (to be blunt, I’ve never met a man –sans Mr. Idea – who didn’t want to jump my bones). I realized I wanted someone who wanted the same things I wanted, who lived in the same place, who shared my same set of values (He was always a little too self-centered, far too stubborn and completely indulgent in fantasies of himself that simply weren’t true). I came to believe that while a man who made me laugh gave him an amazing advantage, a man who I could trust enough to never worry or doubt their devotion was far more important (I’ll give it to the guy, he’s funny – but I care more about that kindness that comes from your soul).

On and off paper and no matter which way I tilted the picture, Mr. Idea was far from my ideal mate. I didn’t have that deep, intense longing to be with him or to rekindle something that died within the first three months it was lit. Even so – I wanted him to want me. I wanted to have that comfort, that safety net just in case my feelings changed. Just in case I could mold him into the Mr. Right I sincerely knew, in my heart-of-hearts, he wasn’t.

But there’s that thin line between love and hate. That line that produces thoughts we’d rather not entertain (or admit we have) – I want him to think I’m the one who got away. If I’m sad and it is hard for me to walk away, I want him to be sad and have trouble letting me go. If I hurt, he should hurt. And if he doesn’t hurt, I’ll wait until it will hurt him to jet set off into my new, bright, fancy life. 

Ouch – writing out those words makes them sound far crueler than they ring in my head. But truth is painful sometimes, and most of the time, it’s a lot to stomach. I’m not proud of feeling that way or being so venomous, yet I know I’m not the only wounded lover or hopeful woman who had her hope lost when the rose-colored glasses she wore, shattered.

After exhausting conversations with him, where I would ultimately have to get off the phone so I wouldn’t say something I regret (like those crummy sentences italicized above) – I’d close my eyes, tuck my knees into my chest and I’d dream up the perfect scenario:

Mr. Idea would be visiting New York – or maybe he would have just accepted a job that finally brought him here, after months of arguments on why he wouldn’t look in the tri-state for opportunities. He’d be strolling in Central Park and see me sitting alone, wearing something ultra-flattering and alluring, and he’d have to rub his eyes, just in case I was a mirage. I wouldn’t be of course – but I’d be more beautiful than he remembered. After all, it would have been years since he’d seen or spoken to me. Casually with an air of hesitation, he’d approach me and we’d exchange niceties, both saying a lot without saying anything at all. The Autumn air would then circulate the city and my hair would fall in my face. He’d reach to push it away, giving me those puppy-dog eyes of remorse I craved – but then I’d move my head quickly and smile at a man walking up behind me with two ice cream cones. It would be early September, right before my birthday, and this man would be treating me to sweets as I celebrated another year. He’d kiss my cheek, I’d reach for the cone with my left hand, giving Mr. Idea a glistening view of my lovely engagement ring, and say, “Sweetie, you remember Mr. Idea I told you about? It looks like he’s found his way to New York!” And then Mr. Idea would be filled with regret, so disappointed that he let me get away, that he was so awful to me that I couldn’t stand to be his lady anymore. He’d be…sorry. He would be oh, so sorry.

A year later, a year maturer, and no part of me wants to rub anything in Mr. Idea’s face (pun intended). I actually want him to be happy, to be successful, to find the love that’s right for him. To find peace in those things that bothered him, to release whatever troubles haunt him. I don’t care if I’m the one who got away or just someone he briefly cared about for a short period of time, and though we participated in heated fights that were very hurtful, I wish nothing but the best for him.

Visions of revenge and witnessing your ex envious of your happiness may be enjoyable past times when you’re getting yourself through a breakup, but when you wake up on the other side – where acceptance and compassion live -you won’t be wishing that he’d wish for you, you’ll be sorry for having wished him any awfulness, at all.

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I Wish for Wrinkles

It is often the first thing I notice in the mornings, when I wake to splash water on my cheeks and prepare for the day ahead. I see it when I powder my nose in the shadowy mirrors of downstairs basements of downtown clubs I don’t pay to get into because I have breasts. I see it when I click through tagged pictures on Facebook and reflected back to me in the sunglasses of my friends on hot summer afternoons, sipping on mimosas and pretending Eggs Benedict isn’t bad for me.

It’s become part of the structure of my face, a defining feature that adds to my visual character, something that most would refer to as a flaw, but I see as beautiful: a wrinkle, quite deep for someone my age, smack dab in the middle of my forehead.

If I hold my face perfectly still and refuse to react during conversation or to concentrate while writing, it is hardly noticeable. But if you’re around me for five seconds, you’ll quickly see that I almost always have something to say, and I say it extremely animatedly. So even if I wanted to disguise my wrinkle, I’d have to try extremely hard with careful thought, and then I wouldn’t be acting like myself.

I haven’t always been fond of this crease – I used to try to clog it up with makeup, somehow convinced foundation would work like cement, filling in this hole I despised. I considered it ugly and distracting, an imprint I couldn’t erase that caught attention instead of my baby blues. I envied my friends with their flawlessly-tanned skin, without any acne scars, without even the slightest indication of aging or sagging to be found on their faces. Some of my friends are blessed by the kiss of a complexion so clear, you’d think they still had the layer of skin they were born with.

It’s easy to feel insignificant and even invisible in the presence of those who have something you want. It’s easy to compare yourself and to measure all the ways you fall short on the levels of attractiveness when put up against someone who you find alluring. I’m still guilty of entertaining self-defeating thoughts when it comes to my looks, but instead of analyzing the bar scene to see if my friend is getting more attention than I am, I’ve started reminding myself that she’s probably doing the same.

We all have insecurities and parts of our bodies and faces that we wish we could change. Even though we’re all familiar with the prevalence of PhotoShop and the fact that models in person don’t look how they appear on the ads – we all secretly wonder if we could look that way. We see the chiseled, defined bodies of celebrities who we know have the luxury of a personal trainer and dietitian to tell them what to eat and what to work out – and yet, we think we can exercise the same self-control they do, sans scary-drill-sergeant, sans certified-brownie-thief. And we all see features on our friends that we wish we had – crispy, white smiles, legs to die for, hair that always shines. But rest-assured, they see something in us that they want, too.

I’m sure my friends or strangers don’t long for my little wrinkle, but I’m also sure they don’t really notice it. Come to think of it, the only person who has ever mentioned it was Mr. P, but it was in the context of compliment during an intimate moment. Contrary to my personal belief, it isn’t the first thing others notice about me, nor something that would be a deal-breaker for a could-be mate. That wrinkle, which is only the first of many to come, is a tiny reminder of the things about me that are beautiful.

It came to be only because I chose to laugh so hard that I couldn’t control the corners of my grin. It came to be because I’ve spent endless hours thinking and writing, trying to put into words the story that’s always lived inside of me. It came to be because I decided to cry when I was sad, to express enthusiasm when I  was happy or inspired, and to verbalize anger when it couldn’t be softened.

I don’t really wish for more wrinkles and I’m not against plastic surgery within reason, but if having no fine lines means never living one hell of a fine life, then I’d rather have those memories outlined on my face for the world to see. For the world to witness all the beauty I’ve been able to find – in its people, in its challenges and joys, and especially within myself.

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Dudes and Dogs

So my roommate got a kitten. She’s tiny with piercing blue eyes and her name isBowie.

When she started flirting with the idea, browsing Craigslist looking for eligible animals that were rescued or abandoned and now up for auction or for free – I admit I was a little jealous.

I’ve never quite been a cat-person, though I grew up with one who recently passed away. His name was Indiana Jones Tigar, named after one of my favorite series as a kid. We nicknamed him Indy, and he was adventurous and quick, always getting away from me with a smirk that spoke louder than his meow. And then of course, there’s M’s baby Milo, who as my “godson” is permanently embedded in my heart and I’ll admit, that when the earthquake shook New York, I wondered how he was alone in M’s apartment.

And now, there’s yet another kitten sashaying into my life and with her arrival, my heart sinks just a bit. While some women at my age, God bless ‘em, feel like they’re achin’ to have kids, I’m achin’ for a pet.

Specifically, one of those puppies with sad, sad eyes from the Humane Society commercials. Or maybe one that’s across the street from my friend K’s apartment in the WestVillage– the one that every time I walk past it on my way to her place, I fight the urge to ask just how much is that puppy in the window?

The time isn’t ticking on my ovaries anymore than it’s ticking on my ability to support a dog right now, but I have this overwhelming desire to own one. I want to come home after a glorious day at work, followed by drinks with my favorites, to a wagging-puppy-dog-tail that’s excited to see me and will lay by my feet at night. I want to have responsibility for something else, something to take care of, something to depend on me, something that’ll grow because of my loving nature and guidance.

Rationally though, I know I’m not in the right time of my life to adopt a dog. While I could support it financially, I couldn’t give it the time and attention it deserves and that it would crave. Walking a dog through Central Parkwhen it’s painted with an earthy palette while wearing my fleece peacoat seems beautiful and idealistic, but it’s quite unrealistic.

Animals, like relationships, aren’t as cute as we imagine and far more work than we’d like to realize. I’m fully aware of this truth, both with puppies and men (quite similar if you think about it…), and yet, I still want them both. I’m not sure which tail is cuter, frankly.

But sometimes, the right decisions and the hard decisions are one-in-the-same. Being an adult means sucking up what you want to decide what’s best. Ensuring your life and your happiness continue to excel means getting rid of those things, those people, or those ideas that hold you back. Even if one of them happens to be the image of a rescued, wet-nosed pup who adores you. Maybe even a man who adores you, too – though he’s not the best for you, as much as you’d like him to be.

Because when you take the plunge and commit to a puppy or to a guy, you’re promising to come home each night, just as you said you would. You pledge to be there to fill their bowl and build their ego, stroke their cute little heads when they need encouragement or to be soothed. To excitedly call their name, even if they’re not really doing anything you are getting excited about, and to play with them, regardless if you’re tired and have a headache or not.

Men and puppies require attention and time, both things that aren’t difficult to sacrifice when you have many other things that fulfill you. But the fever that comes with dudes and dogs is one that’s rather difficult to extinguish.

But I fight the puppy-fever by volunteering to help others with their pets. By giving Milo andBowiean extra pat on their tiny kitten heads, by complimenting dog owners on their adorable pets, by volunteering when I can at shelters. By bookmarking photos of dogs I’d like to have and stopping at every rescue center or puppy-for-sale store I see.

And man-fever? Well, I still have 26 days to figure out how to battle that high.