Tag Archives: writing

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Oh, The Lady You’ve Become

You’re moving to the city you always knew would be home.  And yes, my darling, you’ll be going alone. There will be many limitations, but no limit to what you’ll do. Or how difficult it will be to let go of all you knew. But this town built for millionaires and struggling artists alike, will change more than your address, it’ll change you. You do have those brains in your head and those kickin’ heeled-kicks on you feet, but realize you’ll have to make an effort to remain true.

Because when you first land on Northern ground, you won’t know it then, but you’ll go many places.

You will turn the heads as much as you’ll turn your back in an effort to forget the most charming of faces. On a plane, train, or automobile, you’ll find yourself going above and under water. And not just the waters to the east and to the west, but in ways you’d be ashamed to tell your father. When time moves slower than you had hoped and living on a prayer has left you penniless and broke, don’t sweat. There are opportunities and chance encounters on the next avenue over, and you’ll be thankful to the company you’ve kept. The ambition and fear of regret that brought you to Manhattan will keep you afloat, but it’s your heart that will make you shine. And shine you will my dear, and up that ladder you will climb.

To put on hats you anticipated too big or too small. And skyscrapers you were once convinced were too high and would cause too much of a fall. But on you will go and with each day you’ll grow. Not just into the woman you wanted to become, but into someone you’d be happy to know. The shoes won’t always fit, the zippers won’t always zip, and out of vanity there will be many parties you’ll miss. Because the image you see in the mirror may not be what you see in your pretty head, but pretty it is. So you’ll hold it high and you’ll march on. On and on.  You may worry and you may fret, you may be filled with less hope and more doubt. But you’ll soon rest easy knowing, yes, you’ll always find a way to figure it out. But you’ll still go left when you know you should go right. You’ll lose your heart to some stranger a time or two, and you’ll give him all of your might.

Because even with a pen in your hand and a byline in print – there are certain feelings the glossies can’t make. And that sweep-you-off-your-feet kind of love isn’t always something you can describe and certaintly nothing you can fake. But in the game you’ll play, there may be a charade of players dressed in charm, and nice guys disguised in armor that doesn’t fit your taste. You will date and you will sometimes mate, but most of all you’ll blame it all on fate.

And that little magic will bring you to your knees and wake in places you thought were dead. You will fall head over heels and heels over head. It’ll make you linger on each and every word he said. It’ll make you believe, beyond any reasonable doubt or higher education you achieved, that this feeling, this preciousness can never come to be again. You’ll conclude that while you’ve laid in lust before, this is unlike any romance that’s ever been.

Oh, my sweet, the people you will love.

And though it is a promise I’m sure you’d rather me not keep, you won’t just love once. Or twice or thrice.  You will fall in love on accident and on purpose, with mostly the naughty, but sometimes the very nice. You will change your opinions to fit his, you will let yourself be a fool. And that wildly beating heart, will again be forced to dive back into the pool. And so you’ll swim to chase the fish you’ve always heard were plenty and you may catch the tails of a few. And those you’ll try out for size, place them in your life and maybe in your memories of love, but at some point, you won’t like the view. You’ll grow tired and weary, frustrated with the love you’ve lost and the love you’ve yet to find.

And that’s when you’ll change your mind.

You’ll decide that if love is what you aim to achieve, it is time to start to believe. But not in happily ever after by waiting for prince from the storybooks – but accepting that it is you who will meet your needs. You’ll pick up the pieces of what you shattered, take the blame where it’s due, and forgive the mistakes that were made. And slowly, with a lot of work and more patience than you thought you had, those worries will fade. And even more you will change.

Choices will weigh more heavily than the ones you made the day before. And those adult like things like groceries and buying hosieries will stop seeming so much like a chore. They will become normal and commonplace, part of the routine you’ll make for you. And for the first time, you won’t let what you want be compromised for some dude. No matter how deep the dimple or blue the eye. Because you’ll realize your worth, your hope, your future is in your own rhyme. In the life you create. With maybe, a little help from Captain fate.

And though today is your something-year anniversary of when you packed your bags and moved to the city, the places you’ll go and people you’ll love will continue to grow way past plenty. Your days are always numbered and your twenties certainly won’t last forever, but you’ve found your footing and your balance against every odd. With every disapproving and encouraging nod.

So relish, my love. Thank those powers above. Go out and let your passion play. Listen and appropriately ignore all of those warnings I say. Because, today is your day. Have some fun and celebrate the lady you’ve become.

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Put My New York On

As we said our good-byes at the airport when I returned back to the city, my mom said she watched me “Put my New York on.” Meaning she noticed me shift gears in a single instance – from relaxing and being off guard in the sweetness of the South to prepare for the toughness of the North. I’m not sure if my disposition or attitude altered or if I somehow flipped the intensity of my brow – but my mom’s right, being in New York is unlike being anywhere else.

The city’s pace can be exhausting at times, but it is also exhilarating. It challenges your spirit, your ego, your skills and your failures, your audacity and your ambition. It isn’t a place where excuses are accepted, but an island where business gets done. And not done, but done big or not at all. As much as I adore Ole Blue Eyes, I’m not convinced anyone can ever claim they’ve made it in New York. I think the city makes you instead.

I won’t confess how long I’ve been here (I’ll let you make your own assumption), but in the span I’ve been able to truthfully claim New York as home, I’ve changed. According to my mother’s remark, it is a noticeable change. It’s the difference between the comfort that comes from not being alone and the bravery necessary to take a chance on a city that’ll push you to your limits while bringing you to your knees.

New York ain’t no joke, y’all.

The inhabitants and transplants I’ve encountered here have told time and time again that I’m tougher than what I seem. It continues to surprise me to hear it, but then again, it’s a natural theory that someone is pretty delicate if they are blue-eyed and pint-sized.

In other words, I don’t exactly elude a “stay the hell away from me” energy, but I’d like to think I do pretty well on my own. And half-a-year of daily blog posts later, I don’t just think I’m okay by myself – I know it.

Regardless of how much effort I put into keeping my spirits high or getting to a point where I don’t care if the man I’m ga-ga over thinks I’m so-so –the thing that makes me more independent and self-assured than anything else isn’t a post. It’s not encouragement from others. It’s not having a someone who could be a something. It’s not feeling like a knock-out or knocking out competitors for a gig.

Rather, it’s putting my New York on.

It’s the satisfaction that after years of dreaming and never having the chance to dwell in the place I adored, I finally grew some roots. It’s the constant ups and downs that city living presents; those things you’ll never understand unless you actually spend more than a month or so drenched in the culture. Like having your dress fly way past your head, in a torrential downpour on Fifth Avenue, while pieces of trash wrap their way around your calves. And while the applause of the gawkers was well-intended, I didn’t appreciate it – especially when this was a day I decided to go commando. Or when the one night you don’t make plans, thinking no one else made plans, everyone you know actually did make plans, and you are left to plan with greasy Chinese takeout. Or when in the middle of Times Square, with ten minutes left to make it to fourth-row tickets at the theater that were given to you for free, your cab driver’s credit card machine bites the dust. And you’re without cash, causing you to pull out some words and exchanges you never would have deemed appropriate six states down.

But then there are the splendors of being a slicker that are only appreciated by those of us who have seen the good, the bad, and the superbly New York. Like the sense of accomplishment when you get to the station and the train is there within seconds. Or when someone asks you for directions because you look like you belong, or you don’t need to use Google maps or HopStop to meet your friends for drinks – instead, you just know. Or if you don’t, you’re finally not afraid of getting lost to find your way. Or when you’re walking in beat with your iPod and the street changes precisely when you would have had to come to a stop, allowing you to just keep strutting down the avenue. Or when you don’t feel the need to have a rolodex of friends or go to the hippest parties in meatpacking. You know – when you have an actual life, with actual people who you care about, and you finally feel like you’re living, not just working your way up the ladder or the social calendar?

It’s a good feeling.

Putting my New York on means I’ve learned not only how to adapt to my surroundings but to become them. To allow myself to shed some old ideologies and ways of life that may have worked for me in the past, but now would never fulfill me. It means I’ve reached the point where instead of feeling a little inadequate and out-of-place in a city of people who seem to be obsessed with black, I feel comfortable in all the bright and grey shades I cascade. It’s realizing that a city, a man, a dress – may hug my curves just right at certain points, but like my body will eventually sag and wrinkle in places I’d rather not mention, life will change too.

And though I always have an eye on tomorrow and a mirror within reach to glance back at who I once was, I’m more attracted to the person I’m becoming each and every single day. A girl, that while she puts on her New York when she wakes up, there is always a little North Carolina in the choices she makes.

The world may be my oyster – but I’d like to think I’m some sort of a peal in this city that’s anything but pure.

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The Trouble With Happy

Returning from a networking event that filled me with excitement and an accelerated drive, I found myself cursing the cursor blinking in front of me. I didn’t know what to write – and that’s a big problem.

As an editor – a young one at that – it is part of my job responsibility to have fresh, modern ideas. I’m supposed to produce proposals that knock the stilettos off of editors two to 20 years my senior. These angles, these formulas, these stories are all brewing inside of me, prepared to burst at the printers of the glossies I’ve always imagined seeing my byline in.

So why is it, that when I sit down to write this blog, which historically has taken me maybe half-an-hour to write, I find myself lost for words? Dried up of stimulation to string together words discussing my love life or my views toward sex, relationships, and all that romantic jazz that causes so many stumbles?

I mean, what’s wrong with me?

Concerned by my inability to do what I’ve always considered my best ability, I called out to Mr. Possibility, who was aimlessly working on a project that’s kept him occupied for weeks. As he usually does, he listened to my frustrations and cautiously tried to hide the smirk painting itself across his chiseled jaw. In desperation I exclaimed, “I have to write! This is what I do. I don’t ever get writer’s block, what’s going on with me? I’m not losing it, am I?”

Wrapping his arms around me and greeting the top of my head with his lips, he asked, “Linds, do you ever think that maybe, you’re just happy? And that’s your problem?”

Hmm. Perhaps that could be possible, Mr. Possibility.

Writing about the trials of being single, how difficult it is to keep your self-confidence at a somewhat high, and learning to love yourself is easy to do when you’re sad. When everything in the world seems to be crashing down or you’re afraid of the walls you’ve built losing their durability against charming men with dimples – sentiments and thoughts flow freely. When a guy is more of a jerk than a gentleman, when a man would rather bone you than phone you, or when Facebook or a friend or a fan reveals something about a someone that makes you reconsider the prospect of “someday” with them – blogs are easy to devise.

But what happens when drama stops dazzling your mind? When complications become uncomplicated? When the road-less-traveled branches off to easy street? When there isn’t anything wrong, yet anything that’s superbly outstanding – but you just find yourself content? If lack of tragedy or anxiety in my dating life or any other facet, causes me to wonder what to write about – does that mean I need to be challenged to be inspired?

Could I be a drama queen and never knew it?

I’m still single, but seeing someone pretty regularly. I’m not overly satisfied with the way I look, but I’ve made an effort to focus on what makes me beautiful, without touching up my makeup hourly in the mirror. I’m not lacking a desire for a mate, but if something were to happen, if things were to fall apart, I have no doubt I’d be able to find my footing. Would I be hurt? Of course. But am I stronger than I was six months ago? Absolutely.

My career is on the track I hoped it would be at this time, and my nights are spent searching and prospecting for the next address I’ll call home. I’ve saved enough money to take an international trip this summer and while my run time isn’t at its peak, it is still strong. I can’t remember the last time I cried or obsessively asked my friends for advice or downed a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

Really, Mr. Possibility is right: I am happy. Perhaps I should knock on some wood for even claiming this right, but it’s the truth.

So maybe I cross a different fork in my journey to self-love: what do you do when everything is fine? When you’re satisfied in your singleness, mostly unafraid of the prospect of a possibility, and secure in the life you’ve created for yourself? Happiness is usually temporary, but when you’re submerged in the oasis it creates, how do you relish without resting in the reassurance? How do I let myself let go of the notion that to write, to be a 20-something, single-something, I have to be upset? Can’t I hold those titles and be pleased?

Maybe drama is easier to portray because when we’re disappointed or aggravated, we feel justified in complaining. We know dozens of people who share our craziness, who approach relationships and love with the same exhaustion, so spewing out the strife of struggles seems natural. But having the bravery to say, “No, really. I’m fine. I’m happy!” – seems like bragging or boasting when we know so many are not at the point in their lives where they want to be. Or able to reach a point of contentment that we have.

Or perhaps we get used to focusing on the bad, instead of the good. Pain is sharper than the warmth of joy. Being depressed seems less risky than imagining the opportunities that could lay in the horizon. Trouble brews and boils easier than the art of just living our lives.

I can’t say how long this bliss will last or determine where it stems from. I can’t say I don’t wonder if it’ll all blow up in my pretty little face tomorrow. But that’s the trouble with happy – if you don’t enjoy it while you have it, then you never should have had it to begin with. So instead of analyzing it or wondering how long it’ll last or preparing myself for the discovery that I’m simply chasing pavement –I’m going to try living. Try being thankful and counting my lucky stars.

And maybe, writing about what it feels like to just be…happy.

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Blind Sighted By Me

We may be too young, too old, single, married, divorced, uninterested, obsessive, or otherwise. Yet at the core of every woman, of any background and any social standing – is this desire to be beautiful.

And not just be it, but have others notice the radiance we exude.

Surely, we tell our friends not to compare themselves to other women or to judge our own beauty by the luck of looks some seem to have. We convince ourselves that flaws are what make a person, not break them. That without imperfections, we would all be signed up for the cover of Vogue or to grace Lincoln Center’s runways. We remind ourselves that everyone is truly gorgeous in their own right, and one day, we’ll find someone who simply can’t take his eyes off of us because he is so captivated.

But it’s not easy.

I’m constantly analyzing my life and my ideas toward it – but more than that, I nit-pick the reflection I see. I see the acne. I notice the scars leftover from zits that were. I notice the slight forehead wrinkles I kindly blame on writing. I try to hide my imperfect teeth. I wish my hair would grow longer or decide to be curly or straight, not an unpredictable wavy somewhere in between. I squeeze the love handles I’ve never loved. I wonder why I can’t get rid of cellulite on the back of my thighs, even though I’ve ran nearly everyday for several years. I make a plea to make me grow just a few inches taller than my 5’4” self.

But, I remind myself I’m a pretty woman (I even have the song to keep my spirits up when they start to fall). However, believing I’m beautiful – that my appearance turns heads on the streets – is one of my greatest struggles. New York isn’t a breeding ground for beauty; there are knock-outs everywhere – but  I always find myself encountering women I don’t feel I measure up to. By the standard of attractiveness, anyways.

Not to mention, in my overly idealist notions about how a man should feel about me, view me, and speak to me, I’ve always thought any guy I would end up with or date seriously would have to find me absolutely beautiful. If not, why would he be with me? Doesn’t a man want to end up with the most attractive woman he’s ever met?

Not necessarily.

A while ago, after an intense and passionate romp with a man I loved, I laid wrapped up in our joint perspiration and the simple silence that follows ecstasy. He grazed and kissed the top of my head and the ends of my fingertips as he asked, “You know what I love the most about you?” Dazed but far from confused, I mumbled to him in a state between warmth and sleep. He whispered: “I love that I don’t have to look at you to know you’re beautiful.”

In that moment, his sentiments matched the energy I was emerged in, and I didn’t question how he arrived at this perspective toward me. However, my inquiring mind asked him the next morning, over omelets and orange juice, what he meant.

“Well, Linds. I’ll be honest with you. When I first met you, I didn’t find you that attractive. Not that you weren’t pretty, just not the typical girl I go after. Just by your looks on that day, I wouldn’t have approached you at a bar. It wasn’t love at first sight, or even lust. But what I love about you is that I fell for you – what you say, who you are, what you write. And the longer I’ve known you, the more gorgeous you’ve become. I don’t know how we got here, but we wouldn’t have without you, just being you. Has nothing to do with your body, your eyes, or anything. It’s just you.”

At first, I was highly offended that he didn’t find me outlandishly breathtaking. In remembering the way we met – something right out of a movie – I thought I was looking quite alluring. I even recalled the tight summer dress and heels I picked out that day. But no, he wasn’t impressed. I couldn’t believe that this man I was dating, who I had shared my most intimate self with, didn’t view me lovely from second one.

And then, I thought about it. It’s actually quite the compliment. Without peering at a face of perfection or a body that’s free of lumps – he saw through to the real me. To the me that no one knows when they first meet me, see a picture, or catch my eye. To a me that acts without hesitation, that displays my everything, without making excuses. He wasn’t blinded by my beauty, but blind sighted by me.

So maybe the trick to feeling beautiful is not putting on more makeup or telling yourself you are lovely, no matter the off-the-charts women you cross. But rather, reminding yourself of those things that make you, you. And not physical characteristics, but character traits. Maybe it’s silly to stand in front of a mirror and say, “You’re funny. Really. I mean, people are always laughing around you” or “You give so much to everyone and they do appreciate it. Your charm is not something someone can describe,” – but think about the smile that’ll rise inside of you to admit your positives.

Perhaps beautiful isn’t so much an adjective as it is a state of mind or a place of acceptance. Maybe it is a destination. To be beautiful, to really feel every affirmative connation that comes with the word – you have to internalize it. Without a man, without reassurance from others, without strangers drooling over you, without comparing yourself to every woman you meet.

And especially, without your eyes open.

PS: Jennifer from Cincinnati, OH completed Love Addict’s survey and won a fabulous glass from Lolita and perfume set fromPacifica. Love Addict will be doing another giveaway soon, so make sure to take the survey for your chance to win! Congrats Jen and thanks for reading!

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The Good, The Bad, and The One for Me

Motorcycles aren’t my thing. Really. I know they are quite popular among the Southerners I grew up with, but they’ve never oiled my engine. The savage beast inside of me is not tamed by the musings of a musician with a sleeve of tattoos and a knack from strumming strings with precision. A detailed rap sheet or a scent that attracts bar fights aren’t things I’d put down my dream man’s checklist – and they’d be a red flag in a hot minute. I’m not impressed by the number of shots a dude can down or how many women have been nailed up against his bedpost. I really don’t care how fast he can drive his car, no matter how expensive it is.

I’ve never really wanted to date the bad guy. You know – the one who’s flawed around the edges and rough with me. A player or a gangster, a homeboy or unattractive unemployed artist have never caught my eye or held my attention. I may not be entirely specific about what type of person I desire, but I know he doesn’t fit the bad boy protocol.

Well, at least in the traditional sense, anyways.

I have a knack for attracting unavailable men with miles of baggage and disclaimers. Those who make entirely more money than what I would know what to do with and the ones who avoid commitment in ways more clever than my own. They don’t walk on the wild side, but they bring out the wild little freak in me who over analyzes everything to death – with the help of friends over Gchat, Merlot, and mass text messaging. They don’t put me down, but my self-assurance can leave as easily as they have seemed to do, and I’ve admittedly been a doormat a few times, allowing them to walk all over me in the process. They are not crazy or dangerous in any sense, but they make my heart feel like it’s in harm’s way and I go a little crazy for each of them, each time.

A few years ago, as I was describing my most recent opposite-sex induced dilemma, my mother exclaimed, “Lindsay – where do you meet these guys? They are so complicated and have such odd hang-ups. Don’t you ever just date a nice guy?”

In my own defense – I’ve tried dating the really good guy. The one who, on paper, would seem like the best fit for me. Someone who is tall, attractive, comes from a great family, makes a decent living, likes what he does, answers when I call, responds to emails and text timely, doesn’t question his desire to be with me, takes me to nice places, and compliments my eyes. He says all of those things I want to hear, exactly when I want to hear them, and he is never too much, too invasive, too needy, or too anything. He’s just fine.

And that’s the problem.

I’d classify myself as an equal-opportunity dater, give or take a few non-negotiables that I’d never lower my standards for. I do tend to give most everyone a chance –or at least a drink – and see how I feel before writing them off into never, ever land. But generally speaking, I’m a middle-ground kind of girl: I really don’t care for the bad boy in the rock band, but I also don’t find myself gleaming at the guy who has everything together. Or at least the versions of together I’ve met so far in the game.

Does a man need to have visible flaws for me to be attracted to him? Do I confuse passion with a disaster waiting to happen? Am I lured in by an unfinished project, rather than a sturdy hunk of a man? Do I overcompensate the importance of a personality, of a man who makes me laugh, who keeps me on my toes, and continuously guessing? Do I think for a relationship to be successful, it needs to be work? Is a stubborn, charming challenge more alluring to me than one of those easy, simple, All-American boys?

Or is that we all just attract the company we keep? Or the people we really are?

If I’m a little messy, if I’m a gal who will snap back the wit as quickly (if not quicker) than its spewed, if I’m a woman who needs constant intellectual engagement – is that what I’ll find in return? If I’m still haunted by the ghost of past-love, will I inevitably meet men who can’t shake the lingering what-if’s from their last girlfriend? If I’m attempting to figure myself out and see what Manhattan has to offer all in the same breath – will I meet a multi-tasker, just like me?

I’m nor the good girl or the bad one. I’m not the down-and-dirty, hardcore gal, but I suppose I’m not strawberry shortcake and lemonade, either. I can be messy, I can be indecisive, I can be all over the place – so why wouldn’t I be intrigued by a man of the same manner? After all, isn’t imitation the highest form of flattery?

The nice guys are always irritated by the women who won’t give them a chance and will say they always finish last in the pack. The bad guys on the other hand, don’t really seem to give a damn who finishes where. Maybe the reason I find myself searching in the gray area between the one with wings and the ones who gets high enough to think they have wings – is because I’m search of myself. I’m always looking for answers, so I want someone who is willing to think a little more out of the box. I’m going to get upset and I’m going to be less than polished and classy at times, and I need to be around someone who accepts me as I am. I’m not an extremist but I also would never be satisfied by a life that’s painted with mediocrity. Any investment I’d make with my money would be on something that I felt was worth the risk or the time, but part of the thrill, is in making the wager. If I don’t feel like I have something of value, by my own standards, something that I would hate to lose, why would I go for it at all?

Maybe the good guys are meant to show us what we should want, while the bad ones are designed to tease us with what we shouldn’t. But they each show us the life we don’t want to have forever, and are merely ideas of futures we’ll never experience. They show us the different sides, varying scenarios we’ve imagined, but they also give us a reflection into our own psyche. At whatever point in our life we’re at, that’s the partner we’ll decide to pact with. The way the good guy gets the girl or the bad guy steals her away- isn’t based on the men themselves, but the woman who choses what’s best for her, right then, right at that moment. There’s no way to determine if she’ll go left or right – or go straight into the army of middle ground again.

But somewhere, between the ones who brings me to my knees and the one who would get on their knees for me- is the man, who is good for my life, bad for the attention-span, but perfect for me.

PS: Jennifer from Cincinnati, OH completed Love Addict’s survey and won a fabulous glass from Lolita and perfume set from Pacifica. Love Addict will be doing another giveaway soon, so make sure to take the survey for your chance to win! Congrats Jen and thanks for reading!