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Thankful for A New Kind of Love

When I started this blog months ago, I really had no expectations.

I had reached this point where I realized how much the yearning and the desire for love and for a man to validate me was tearing away little pieces of my heart each day. The pressure I was putting on myself to find “The One” and to finally stop searching and stop dating and stop fretting was immeasurable. I was exhausted, I was down on myself, and any ounce of positivity and hope I had ever had…was long gone from any recent memory.

And so, on a whim, I signed up for a WordPress blog and my friend M and I came up with the 12-steps. I never intended to write every day and I never thought anyone other then my best friends would read what I wrote. I never anticipated any sort of reaction at all and if anything, the blogs would be something I could hold onto for years to remember my 20’s and all of their madness. And of course, I had no idea if doing a self-proscribed and created 12-step process to gain back confidence and let go of chasing after “Happily Ever After’ would work. In many ways, I doubted I’d see any change at all.

But here I am, on Step 4, and seeing the progress I’m making each and every single day. I feel more relaxed and more confident than I’ve been in a very long time. I’ve transformed my thinking-processes (sometimes they get the best of me, but still) and the attitude I have towards love, relationships, and men. I’ve started taking away what I’ve learned instead of what I resent, and by not ruling out any man who is unavailable in any sense – I’ve gained a true, wonderful, friend (who just happens to be a dude, too).

I compliment myself and encourage myself to not only go above and beyond what I’m capable of doing but to rest and to cherish the quiet and the times of immobility. The hope that I thought would always be extinguished has started to weather a new flame, and something, down deep in the most profound parts of my soul – I feel like I’m doing exactly what I was meant to do.

And yet, there are days when I don’t want to write a blog. When the only thing I want to do is hide from the world, call in sick, turn off my cell phone, curse every man who ever chopped away my pride and my purity, and scream at the universe for making me so miserable and alone. There are questions that live unanswered in my heart and people I think of every day, but never call. There are memories that burn painfully inside and nights where even the city in its everlasting wonder can’t take away the pang of loneliness.

But it is in those moments, those down-low-and-dirty seconds where I start to lose momentum or the passion to continue on this journey and on this blog – that I think of you. And yes, that means you – whoever it is reading this blog right now.

When I made the decision to put it all out there – on my personal Facebook, on a Facebook fan page, on Tumblr, on Twitter, and on the winding web of WordPress (not to mention 20-Something Bloggers and BlogHer) – I did it because I knew I wasn’t the only single girl feeling the way I did (and still do at times). I knew I wasn’t the only one who felt things in the pit of her stomach that she couldn’t swallow, dare say them out loud. I knew I wasn’t the only one who longed for a Prince Charming or just a man who sticks around through everything, no matter what. I knew I wasn’t the only one who dreamed a little dream as a little girl, and in some little apartment in a great big city is making a little life for herself on a little budget.

Because that’s the thing about being a 20-something or being a single woman (or man for the matter) – sure, we’re all unattached, but in some cosmic, magical way – we’re all attached. We’re all connected in those same feelings and in those ridiculous fleeting thoughts and ideas that we get consumed by. We may be in different places all over the world, at a variety of ages, and with different men who represent Mr. Fling or Mr. Unavailable or Mr. Fire or Mr. Rebound – but together we stand single and dealing with it. And hopefully in time, celebrating our independence and freedom, while still having hope that when the time and the rhyme is ideal- we’ll meet that right person.

So on Thanksgiving Day and always – thank you. For proving to me there are so many other people in the world who share my struggles and my thoughts. For supporting me by commenting and promoting my blog to other people. For Tweeting about the blog and Tumbling away the posts. For emailing me such wonderful thank you letters and for sending loving Facebook messages. For laughing with me and sharing in my sadness. For giving words of kindness and of criticism to help me see things in a different way.

Thank you for making me thankful to be a single woman at this stage in my life so I can have the ability to help others and for the first time, realize how special and temporary this portion is. And instead of being depressed to be without a boyfriend at Thanksgiving dinner, I can think of nothing more promising and exciting then finishing the 12-steps and gaining that strength I so badly desire and need. Now, I’m thankful for a new kind of love – blog love.

And again (and again and again!) thank you for your continuous support and for encouraging me, no matter what, under any circumstance, to ever miss a day of blogging. Because now, instead of this journey just being about me and what I’m going through – it is about all of you and the path you’re going down, too.

And for as long as you wish, you’re more than welcome to walk by this single girl. We’ll even stop and get margaritas somewhere along the way.

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I’m Not Ms. Fix It

There’s this common belief that love cures all things.

That once you meet this dream person, that he or she in their infinite wonderfulness will take away every ache and pain, scar and bruise – and you’ll feel absolutely, totally brand new. Anything that was wrong or imperfect before, anything you worried about, or anything that made you self-conscious instantly disappears and because you have this person’s attention and they are giving you unyielding love – you’re fixed.

Now, I haven’t met someone who I could seriously consider spending until-death-do-we-part with, so I can’t say if this belief is true and I can’t completely discredit the late Dr. Karl Menniger when he said: “Love cures people – both the ones who give it and the ones who receive it.” I do believe that love (and not just romantic) is good medicine. However, it’s not a cure-all.

But what I can confirm with total confidence is that I’m no Ms. Fix It. At least not, anymore.

Tuesday night I was walking home after dumplings with Mr. Unavailable (I swear he’s addicted to those things) and I was in a particularly great mood. I usually do not listen to my iPod when I walk because the North Carolina in me is still a little on-guard in her neighborhood, but I was in the mood for jammin’, so jammin’ is what I did. I put my playlist on shuffle and the first song that came on was “Fix You” by Coldplay.

As I walked down my block, listening to the somber words and feeling my boots click against the streets and the wind blow my hair in unattractive circles, I thought of the men I’ve dated, the men I’ve touched, and the men I’ve loved (or all three). And I realized that in every relationship I’ve been in – I’ve tried to “fix” the guys.

Now, this doesn’t mean I tried to change who they were, shape their beliefs, or dress them up how I would like (though, maybe a few times with Mr. Faithful, but that was high school) – but more so, make them feel better. In a way, turn all of their frowns upside down all the time, and anytime they felt poorly about some function or faucet of their lives – I attempted to be the one to change it for them.

I tried to be Ms. Fix It, and though with some I excelled at helping them grow into a stronger, better, and more confident person – with others, I failed miserably. Mr. Idea had a fit for six weeks where he was rather unaffectionate (among other things) and I lovingly called this episode a “funk” and disregarded each and every feeling I had to focus on him and his needs. With Mr. Fire, I  pretended to lose my desire for commitment so I could fit into this box I thought he wanted me in.

I always, always put what they wanted, how they wanted it, and when they wanted it (“it” being a constant rotating wish-list) before what was important to me. In an effort to be the “girl who changed everything” or “the woman who made him a better man” or “the lady who swept away every badness and blessed him with goodness” – I stopped focusing on me and started concealing my dreams.

Now, I’ve already said that frankly, I do give a damn – and that’s still true, but even more so, I realize that I can’t make a man’s world. I can’t make a man who he is. And I don’t want to.

I don’t want to be the woman who swoops down and takes all of his pain and troubles away. I will listen to someone (man or woman) talk about the troubles they experience, the sadness they can’t get rid of, and the heartache that constantly tugs at them – but at some point, they have to get it together and deal with it. Sometimes, you just put your big gal panties on and you force yourself to push through it because it’s all you can do. I don’t want to be the one who jiggles his ego until it feels good or makes him realize his worth.

I would much rather be with someone who knows what they have going for them without me having to constantly remind them or solve their issues so they can reach happiness. It isn’t my responsibility to ensure someone’s joy or the success of their life or dreams by being the one to place them on a pedestal and shower them with compliments. My role, as a girlfriend, a lover, or a friend is to be there when they need me, and of course, to encourage them – but never, ever, define who they are. Or put them back together.

Part of the journey to learning to love myself is be just fine on my single two feet (pun intended). And to of course, fix my own problems. To be secure and wise and independent and value the power I have within to move forward through any situation. At times, I stumble and I fall, and I admit and face my weakeness straight on.  But it is me, in my single-ness, who picks up the pieces and glues them back together. No man-part required for construction.

So, for the next one I get involved with or for the guy I will ultimately marry (or not) – please realize right this very second that I do not come with hammers and nails and screwdrivers. Whatever issues you’ve dealt with before you met me, deal with them, and I’ll deal with mine. When we are both complete and self-assured individuals – then we’ll meet. Then we’ll put our gorgeously chipped but stable whole pieces together and make something bigger than both of us.

Until then, I’ll be just fine here, collecting all of my many shortcomings and chaotic disasters and celebrating the beautiful mess that I am. Because I know, that with or without a love to “cure every inch” – I’ll be perfectly happy just in my own company.

And most liberating, I don’t have to be Ms. Fix It for anyone but myself.

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A Lifetime of Magic

And so it has finally arrived.

That moment I’ve been waiting for my entire life. That instant where the world stops, the earth becomes still, and you feel like you’ve finally felt that one thing you’ve always wanted to feel…in the place you wanted to feel it. Pieces of your soul float together and your heart mends in a single moment, with one little look, and one glimmer of shining, brilliant hope.

Yes, my dears, Christmas has arrived in New York.

The streets are paved with thoughts of sugarplum fairies, the windows are frosted, and people of all shapes and sizes look all-sorts-of-adorable in their mittens and their coats. But most profoundly, there is this vivid feeling surrounding the city streets and corner-lights: magic.

As soon as Macy’s finished their decorations, I wasted no time in scoping out the extravagant displays and walking through each floor to see what holiday-madness I could find. Since it is my very first Christmas in the city, I will forgive myself for acting like quite the tourist for a few weeks. And while I’m relishing in this freedom -I plan to do it in style.

To top the hat off of Macy’s cheerfulness, a friend of mine, M, asked me to be her date to Radio City Music Hall’s A Christmas Spectacular.

It was her last night in the city before moving back to North Carolina to support her family and continue down a path she was born to walk on (or strut, rather) – and we wanted to take this little island by storm before she left. Her seats were first mezzanine and center – basically the very best seats you could have gotten in the house. We decked ourselves out in Christmas-ey dresses and stockings (with heels of course) and got there early to get the full-Rockette experience.

When we walked into Radio City, my mouth about hit the floor: it was about as classically Christmas as anyone could imagine. I was surprised to not hear a jazz band playing “The Christmas Song” in the corner with a woman in a red dress leaning up against a baby-grand singing in a sultry voice. And once we sat down and the show began – I was taken back to another time in my life.

To those Christmas visions at the holiday season when you’re a child. When there is nothing more important than being good so Santa will bless you with his many toys. Where shaking boxes wrapped under the tree could take up an entire hour of your time easily. Where the first snowfall that brought the chance for a snow day was almost as great as your birthday or Christmas Day itself.

Where there was no reason to doubt magic because you just believed.

There was no questioning or wondering if you’ll get that one gift you so desperately desire -you knew it would be under the tree when you wake up at the crack of dawn. When you thought about growing up – you knew exactly what you wanted to do, no matter how absurd or unrealistically achievable it may be. You never wondered if you would get to kiss your Prince Charming underneath the mistletoe one day, and frankly, it was not really a priority – because you just knew it would happen. Everyone got happily ever after and everyone became a princess. Everyone got that mini-truck or the Barbie Dream House because why wouldn’t they?

Magic is simply guaranteed and we never really think we’ll grow up into big boys and girls, until we find ourselves as a 20-something, in the middle of Radio City Music Hall, realizing we’re completely on our own. And not only that, but for the longest time we’ve been skeptical about the splendor that we once thought would always be ours.

When do we lose that beautiful, pure, and unrelenting hope we all had as children? When do we lose that sparkle and that bubbly faith that comes with being inexperienced and out-of-tune with the functions of the so-called harsh reality of life?

As I watched the dancers, the singers, the actors, the ice skaters, and the musicians who put on literally one of the best performances I’ve ever seen – I thought about how at one time, all of them were children. Just like I was. They had big dreams and perhaps, at some point, they said unquestionably to their parents: “I’m going to be a Rockette one day!” And now, there they are– tapping out a beat on the stage they knew they’d always grace. But even so, after they bow and take off their dancing shoes backstage – they probably criticize and belittle their achievements or their talents and always think “I could have been better. I could be more entertaining. I’ll never get to my full potential.” Or maybe the man they were seeing promised to show up and even though they are a smokin’ Rockette or an incredibly talented figure skater – he decided to cancel at the last minute.

Do we stop believing in the promise of magic because somewhere along the way, we allow our spark to be put out? Because we start analyzing and comparing ourselves to others or dwell on the idea of absolute perfection? Or when we get a glitch in our hearts, we decide feeling that immense all-consuming feeling of falling in love is impossible in the future?

As I watched the show, listened to the words, and thought back on my wild and wonderful hopefulness as a little girl, I thought: what’s the harm in believing?

Everyone tells me not to have expectations because then if something even half-way good happens, I will be pleasantly surprised. But what if instead of being satisfied with the ordinary, I actually gave myself permission to believe that the extraordinary was a true and real possibility?

I left Radio City with a swollen heart completely in awe of the city I live in and the stage of my life I’m blessed to be exploring and experiencing. M and I walked to Rockefeller Center and it was almost as the heavens rained down magic for this special night. As we walked around, I witnessed every stage in my life: there was a little girl with her best friend and their moms, smiling for the camera with curls and bows in their hair and saying “Ice skating!!” And then we walked a little further and saw a group of high school girls and boys infamously flirting with one another on and off the ice. There were groups of twos and threes, solos and families – all skating on the same rink, in the same direction – but at completely different points in their lives.

Leaving the center, we looked at each other, with this sense of knowing we were talking towards our futures in some majestic way, to whatever stage may come next. And sure enough, there was a limo, signifying sure success, and a couple stealing a kiss on the corner of the block, showing us that believing in magic maybe isn’t such an outlandish idea, after all.

Does believing hinder my growth? Or my self-proclaimed recovery? Does relishing in the soft cloud of hope make me vulnerable for falling to a slow, painful, heart-breaking demise? Nah, I think it just gives me a power above the rest. It keeps that youthful, inexorable glow that we all have as children but let go of a little more with each Christmas we experience.

I will never be able to see through the same pair of eyes I looked through as a child, or as a teenager, or even the me I was before I moved to Manhattan. But if I keep this reminder of hope inside of me, at this very special time of the year (and always) – maybe those visions I dreamt of, those kisses under the mistletoe I’ve longed for, those holiday parties I’ve wanted to attend at the magazine of my dreams – will become more than a image in my mind. But rather, they will grow out of the magic already burning inside into something even more outstanding: my reality.

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Becoming a Luxurious Dater

A few days ago, I took myself shopping in celebration of some recent accomplishments. For the most part, I’m a penny-pincher, but every once in a while I will go out to a big, fabulous dinner or buy myself something elegant, expensive, and beautiful…just because I deserve it.

In today’s economy and especially in a competitive marketplace, there is this idea behind commodity vs. luxury. Consumers, like me and you, are questioning the value and the worth of what they purchase. Do I buy the super cheap coffee pot because I just need my morning java, even though I know it’ll break in a year? Or should I make an investment in something more pricy, so I have the piece of mind that it will last me longer?

While I don’t need to eat a meal that is overly-priced, but tastes so rich, fresh, and gratifying – giving myself the luxury of experiencing something out-of-the-norm and away from Guy & Guillard is a privilege for me. And that same goes for the $70 red sweater dress that hugged me just right.

But what price tag do I put on myself? How much worth do I show the world and especially in terms of relationships? Do I come across as a commodity girl-next-door that’s a dime-a-dozen, or a luxury lady that’s commendable of the best manners, the best dinners, and the best love? Am I treat or something you can find on every corner any day?

Do I settle for less than what I deserve because I’m accepting second-best or third-shelf instead of aiming for first place?

I’ll admit I haven’t always given myself the credit that I deserve and in times past, and I’ve played down who I am in an effort to satisfy, allure, and retain a man. But with this on-going journey and gradual climb in self-confidence – I think I’m due more than the average girl and my presence in a man’s life or on his arm…is a luxury.

And I know I deserve and now will demand, to should be treated as such.

If I’m always settling for Mr. Non-Committal or Mr. Good Enough or Mr. Yeah, Alright, He’s Okay – am I putting myself in the right areas and pointing myself in the correct direction to meet a man who will actually recognize all that I’m worth? And lowering my standards for the pure reason to not be alone is not only a silly idea but it is far from what I know I’m capable of having.

And this idea of being a luxurious dater or woman doesn’t translate into gold-digging. Frankly, I really don’t care what you do for a living (just needs to be legal of course) as long as you do it with passion. If you don’t make a ton of money, that’s fine by me, I have my own paycheck – but do something that brings you that independent fire. Something that gives you a reason for getting up in the morning and doesn’t involve me at all. If I determine myself as one-in-a-million, you should feel the same way about yourself -without me having to constantly remind you or toot-your-horn.

With love I give or love I share or love that I receive – I want it to be special. Out of the ordinary. Ridiculous even, if the time calls for it. Because unless it’s mad or extraordinary – what’s the point? It’s the relationships and the love we really put our investments in that make the long haul. If you’re not willing to invest yourself, invest in me, and invest in our relationship – I’m not so sure I want to take a risk with you to being with. My stakes are far too high.

By giving myself a high price-point that’s determined by all that I have to offer – I may not weed out all of the men who fall short or break my heart, but the quality of who I’m dating will hopefully rise. Remember, it must be about quality instead of quantity in the competitive landscape of dating. And in return, the investment I make in myself is different from the prices I’ve paid in the past because instead of making myself a commodity offer, who will go on a date with anyone, I’ve turned myself into a luxury dater who knows any old Joe, just won’t do.

In the meantime before I do happen to stumble upon a man who will realize my value or if I never meet him at all – I will continue to splurge and provide for the most important relationship I’ll ever have: the love for myself.

And the cost of that is immeasurable – regardless of any Harry Winston or exclusive dinner I could go to or receive. You can’t afford the value of falling in love with yourself as a single, happy, confident, luxurious woman. Because simply put – it’s priceless.

 

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All the She-Fishes in the Sea

I’ve never been “one of the guys.” When I younger, I longed to be called me a “tomboy” – but now in hindsight, I haven’t fit that nickname once in my entire life.

And because I’m not coined as a guy’s girl, I’ve gladly and proudly accepted being a girly girl. Being a feminine lady has a lot of perks, in my opinion, and the best of all – is having a ton of lovely girlfriends. My friends have helped me cope when nothing else could get worse, when my heart was crumbled, and when I felt far from beautiful. They’ve also been there to celebrate my victories with champagne, hugs, squeals, and night’s out on the town. There is nothing more sacred, precious, or beautiful then the bond between two women who were meant to be the very best of friends. Like I’ve said before, my group of closest ladies are my soulmates, through-and-through, 24-7, forever-and-always, and no matter how ugly or old we become one day.

Before I moved, I knew I’d have to find a job and a place to live. I was prepared to live off of Ramen noodles and PB&J sandwiches for months or take a waitressing gig if that’s what it took to stay in this magical city. But what I never anticipated was how insanely difficult it is to make friends.

Making this transition in my life meant I would have to leave behind everything I’d ever known and everyone who had meant everything to me. I knew by chasing this dream, I would go alone, far away from the rolling North Carolina hills – and pounding that city pavement would be my own personal quest, without a companion. In many ways, the decision to move to Manhattan was a selfish one, and something that I did just for me, and in no way would I ever go back and make the jump with a friend or boyfriend. Part of the victory beauty, and accomplishment to me, is that I did it as a single woman.

And while I’ve learned how to enjoy dates with myself and evenings in solitary confinement – sometimes, I just get lonely. And this loneliness doesn’t stem from needing or desiring a man – but from needing and longing for my friends. I miss laughing and being ridiculous. I miss getting all dressed up for no reason other then its Tuesday and we feel like it. I miss parading around to powerhouse woman songs and someone (or me) asking twenty times “Do I look fat? Now, really, tell me if I do. You’d tell me, right?”

Don’t get me wrong, being the go-getter I am, I have wasted no time in attempting to find women with similar interests. I’ve gone to happy hours in my industry, joined volunteer groups, signed up for the gym, and tried to get some of the many gay men in my life to introduce me to their “wives.” And yes, I’ve made a few amazing and dependable friends this way – but I still find myself sitting alone with a movie and a dustpan some Friday nights, wondering where in the world my social life has gone.

I realize building everlasting friendships is always a work in progress and that no one on this planet could ever replace my core group of friends growing up. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want someone here to vent my life to, share our mutual achievements and difficulties with, or go get fruity drinks and flirt with boys we’re not interested in at bars…simply because they’ll pick up the tab (sorry, it’s the sad truth, guys).

So what’s a gal gotta do to find her group of friends in a brand-spanking-new zip code? If we all want the Sex & the City lifestyle – no matter how far from the actual reality of New York as it is – you can’t have a Mr. Big without a Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha to talk about him to.

In some way, I think my love addiction intensifies when I’m bored at my apartment and feeling un-friendable makes me reach out to men that I’m not even remotely interested in. Or it makes me consider texting those Mr’s from my past simply for the attention I know they’ll give me. And meeting new men almost seems virtually impossible, unless I want to sit alone at the bar alone, which makes me look like I have a different type of addiction. Right?

Finding friends feels like a chore and a part of my recovery that I never thought would be such a critical component. To overcome something that’s so insanely burned into your DNA – you need support and guidance. And while my friends from home are constantly emailing, texting, messaging, and calling me with their endless wisdom, honesty, and kindness – sometimes all I really need is a hug. Or a night out without any male interruptions.

Is it possible to be heartbroken because you simply can’t find a best girlfriend in the very best city in the world? If it has never been hard for me to meet friends, why is it so difficult now, in a city with millions of people?

What part of the friendship puzzle, secret handshake, or girl code…am I missing? If there are so many friend–she-fishes in the sea, why can’t I find a few who fit me?