Tag Archives: writing

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Put That Sorry Attitude to Bed

Yesterday, I was in a bad mood.

I could blame a recent turn-of-events, an impending monthly visitor, the extremely humid weather, or an overall feeling of being quite lost. As it usually does, New York’s been throwing me for a loop lately and it’s testing my patience and my dedication to the city I grew up adoring. For the most part, I’ve held true and strong, riding the waves as they come and living on a prayer that everything does happen for a reason and that this period of feeling downright shitty will pass. I’ve learned to see bad times for what they are and not let my mind cycle into the long list of things that are or could be wrong in my life.

But sometimes, I slip.

I let myself get so down into the dumps that nothing and no one can do anything to change it. No joke or funny moment can alleviate my sourpuss attitude, no amount of motivating blogs or long talks with my mother can turn my sullen frown upside down. I know myself well enough to know that when this happens, it is best that I spent some time alone. It’s best that I do the stupid, ordinary things that make me happy – like laying around in nothing at all, eating something that’s as terribly delicious as it’s terribly bad for me, watch a movie that’ll make me cry and snuggle with a blanket I’ve had for decades. It may be an immature way of coping with stress and adjusting my attitude, but if it works, why try and change it?

So why I decided it was a good idea for me to hang out with Mr. Possibility the entire day yesterday, knowing full well that even his dimples and loving nudges couldn’t shake me into my normally bubbly, talkative and happy self – I have no idea.

But I did.

We spent the day shopping in Williamsburg for gifts for other people and he continuously attempted to play around with me, offering his jovial nature and quick wit to raise my spirits. In return, I bickered with him over a beer he was buying me, nearly walking out because I felt suffocated and frustrated, wanting everyone in the world – including this sweet man – to just leave me alone. Then off we went to the city, to grab burgers at his favorite place, where I sat in silence feeling guilty and a tad angry at myself for being so irritable, when his request throughout the week was to spend Saturday with me because he enjoys having me around for lazy days of wandering. At some point over ice cream later, he casually mentioned that maybe we should go out with our friends separately for the evening, to give me some space and give him a break from my many evil glares and gestures that he didn’t deserve – or appreciate, I’m sure.

Not typically an insecure girl who attaches a ball-and-chain to her man, I found myself turning into the girlfriend I’ve never been. He had hurt my feelings by asking for some breathing room and I had denied him air. I demanded to know why we couldn’t hang out as we originally planned and he proceeded to calmly explain that a few hours away from one another would do us both some good and give me room to unload my spotty mood on something else other than him. He offered up his apartment, told me he’d be back later, and topped off his offer with a kiss on my forehead. I didn’t accept.

Hours later, after a nap and some cute videos on YouTube, he changed his tune and I switched my mood. He decided he wanted me to tag along and that we should enjoy a good night to make up for my bad day. Though in my state of ridiculousness, I was relieved to receive his invite, my realistic-self who had achy feet, a grilling headache, and tired eyes knew it would be better if I stayed in alone.

But the bitch in me took over.

She thought it was a brilliant idea and that I’d be able to make up for being snappy earlier by being the cute and charming woman I really am. I threw on some heels and a backless dress and joined him on the L into meatpacking for his friend’s birthday. I won’t get into details because they are so awful I don’t have the stomach to write them, but in a nutshell, Kettle One and I had a date at this party and it didn’t go so well. Still working out some trust issues from his straying before we were a couple, the jealousy I usually keep pretty calm came out to play.

And it didn’t play nice, to say the very least.

The night ended with a cab back home, Mr. Possibility furious with me, and mascara tears streaming my face. There are no words or excuses, rhymes or reasons for my actions, but when I woke up this morning with a hangover, un-brushed teeth, and puffy eyes, everything came together and for the first time in several, several months I felt like a hot mess. Getting out of bed for some much-needed water and bathroom break, I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to reason.

Why did I take out my frustration on Mr. Possibility when the reasons I was upset had nothing to do with him or with us? Why did I embarrass him in front of his friends, people that when and if they meet me again, probably won’t have the highest opinion of me? Why did I not listen to my intuition? Why didn’t I walk away instead of trying to finish a fight in a public place, for strangers to witness and to make me look like someone I’m not? I write dating advice for a living, columns and freelancing articles pay my bills, so why did I go against each and every single word of wisdom I had ever written or read?

What the hell was wrong with me?

In relationships, the easiest person to unload your every emotion and struggle on is your partner. They are there for you, hopefully, through each trial, and they often turn into what Pink would call “perfect little punching bags.” No this isn’t healthy, and yes, it’s hurtful to you, them, and your relationship.

But as Mr. Possibility so graciously and kindly reassured me this morning, it happens.

And when it does, any and every insecurity you have hidden away underneath makeup and confidence comes out. They pour out right past the very floodgates you set up to keep them away. You say things you regret instantly, do things you’d never do again, and feel things so deeply that you’ll swear this feeling will never, ever go away. And if you don’t happen to be with someone who sincerely loves you, who has your very best interest at heart, you may lose your partner in the process.

Because your baggage is your own, those bad days are your responsibility, those arguments will come to an end if you have the courage to walk away from them instead of pushing them so far that you may not be able to go back. Relationships aren’t meant to be wrapped in fancy paper and topped with a box at the end of every night – sometimes, the best thing you could ever give each other is what Mr. Possibility suggested to begin with – breathing room.

And the best thing you can give yourself is space to calm down, let things work themselves out, and put that sorry attitude to bed.

Daily Gratitude: I’m thankful for Mr. Possibility who is sitting across from me right now as I write this blog, standing by my side, and contemplating how he can throw me down a well in NYC.

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Little Blindly Ambitious Me

I’m not the prettiest girl on my block. Or the smallest. My skin isn’t flawless, I didn’t graduate with the highest GPA in my high school. I don’t know how to sew or to cook anything ridiculously complicated. I’m not extremely clean and I don’t always say the right thing. I’m not the best, most supportive friend I’ve ever met and sometimes, I can be lazy in love. I could run more and be more dedicated to a work out routine to give me abs like Jennifer Aniston. I complain when I’m tired and get cranky when I’m hungry. I can be impatient, demanding, and self-serving. I’m not well-traveled because I’ve never had the means to do so, and though I would love a dog named Henry, I know I’m not in any place financially to provide for one how it deserves.

I’m aware of my shortcomings, both physically and otherwise. I don’t claim to be the best or the greatest, the smartest or the most beautiful. I don’t consider myself average and while others may discredit my intelligence because I choose to write about my personal life for the web to see, I am well-read and educated. My interests are more than love, dating, and sex-related. But more important than how I look, where I came from, or the career path I happen to follow wherever it may lead, there is one quality I have that sets me aside.

And that’s ambition. Often times, blind ambition, actually.

I may not always know the right way to go or have the means to get to where I want to be, but I believe in myself. I may find myself unlucky in love at times and not be the most ideal partner or friend, but I listen. I take note of things people like and don’t, I read to better myself and when it doesn’t feel like I can push any further, I push harder. I’m not one to give up, even on things that I should – like a failing relationship with Mr. Idea that lasted way longer than it should have. I don’t walk away from things even when they’re pulling at my heartstrings or tearing me apart inside because I somehow feel like I can be the one who is different, the one whose faith will see them through.

I don’t feel the fear and face it anyway, I just ignore the doubt. I turn my attention away from the ways I fall short and I highlight the ways I measure up higher than the rest. I cold email and cold call, hoping that someone, someplace, somewhere will take a chance on me and all the little things that make me some kind of wonderful, some kind of brilliant. I’m not a hopeless romantic or a hopeless cause, I’m just hopeful of the life I hope to have.

As I grow and weed through more life experiences, I think my ambition will shape itself. It’ll stop being so blind and indecisive, and I’ll become more focused and wise of the ways I want to go. I’ll stop believing with my whole heart and start giving just a sliver, I won’t let my hopes rise, I’ll just say a prayer for the best situation to present itself. I won’t dream up the possibilities before a possibility is certain, and when it comes to love, maybe I won’t give myself away so easily. I won’t have to think if I’m doing the right thing or going the right way, that structured adult in me will just revel in clarity and a calm understanding of self.

Or maybe I won’t. Maybe this blind ambition, this ruthless spirit that I can never seem to tame will be what makes me, me. Maybe it’s the part of me that won’t wither with age and perhaps it’ll stand the time more than my kindness, my patience or my heart.

After all – blind ambition may blindly lead you into the unknown, but I’d rather take the chance in the dark than to only stay in the light out of fear.

Daily Gratitude: Today, I’m thankful for early-morning wake up calls and breakfast at Tom’s Restaurant. 

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In Terms of a Blog

Do I think in terms of blogs or are my blogs the products of my thoughts?

After hundreds of days (over 300 now!) of writing, I’m not so sure anymore. This space, this blog, these words have become such a part of my life, so engraved into my everyday functions that it’s strange (and sad and refreshing and…) to think of my life without it. It’s so much a part of me now that my friends always make sure I’ve written for the day before we go out: “Linds, did you write today? I don’t want a midnight curfew, we don’t turn into pumpkins because of your blog!” And it’s a topic of discussion between Mr. Possibility and I after we have an intimate chat or we go on a trip or have an adventure he’d rather keep between us: “Hey, Tigar, don’t write about this in tomorrow’s post, okay? Please?”

And so I write earlier, I schedule a few out, I leave out some details here and there, and I do the best I can to keep my commitment to the blog, to myself, to this journey without sacrificing friendships. But always being on deadline (even if it’s one I created for myself) has a way of keeping constant pressure on you. These days, my battle with self-worth isn’t nearly as difficult – minus a few insecurities, I’m pretty happy. I’ve learned how to maintain a healthy relationship without losing myself in the process, and though it is far from perfect, it’s the most honest I’ve been with myself and with another person I’m involved with. I’m not exactly where I’m meant to be, but I’m somewhere and for now, that’s good enough for me.

Most of the time, now, as compared to six months ago, I don’t have something to work through or a task at hand that requires deep thought and consideration. I’m stable and secure, figuring out the ups and downs as they come, and mostly, not needing to write it out to work it out. But because I decided long before I reached this period of self-fulfillment, I vowed to be a daily blogger for a year as a way to keep myself focused on the progression of my 12-step program, I just can’t quit when life is pretty easy. Or when I’m happy.

However – I also can’t live my life in terms of a blog.

I can’t look at every experience I share – with M, with K, with R, with E, with J or N as potential blog material. I can’t chronicle my developing relationship with Mr. Possibility through a dot com, some things, most things are meant to be private.  I can’t end a fun night at 10 p.m. so I have enough time to get home and write before the clock strikes 12 and I miss a day. This blog was started because I wasn’t living my life how I wanted to be, and now that I am, the blog has to develop, not cease.

But how do you stop thinking as a blogger? How do you just enjoy a moment without wondering how it will translate into words or how you’ll describe this feeling, this experience, as beautifully as it is? How do you stop scribbling down ideas when your career is all about ideas?

How does a blogger – a writer – live without working on a make-believe deadline?

Daily Gratitude: I’m thankful for Central Park and all of its beauty and clarity.

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An Idle Imagination

In times past, I’ve never enjoyed idle time. Something about actively not doing anything made me feel lazy, unproductive, and well…bored. If I don’t have a to-do list that’s as tall as I am or a million things to keep my attention and drain my energy, then what am I doing with my life? Wasting away into a quiet oblivion, destined to be a failure that lives in one of those huge, rent-controlled apartments in Greenwich with a half-dozen cats, a garden, bookshelves full of steamy romance novels, all alone knitting and drinking tea? (Well, add in a lover and being the author of a few of those novels and maybe that doesn’t sound too bad…)

But lately with a lot more tim eon my hands and a new reason to explore opportunities, I’ve found myself with more idle time than what I know to do with. My first instinct, of course, is to fill it up with coffee and drink dates, classes, aerobics classes, freelancing, and cleaning sprees. But after a while of filling up my days with time slots and blocking off designated periods to do designated things, it occurred to me that really, idle time with no obligations – except to myself – is a great way to think of new things. It’s a great time to consider things I never took into consideration. It’s a good time to figure out what I want, what I need, what I desire, what’s most important, what’s happening, what could happen – and the differences between all of those.

Idle time is a great way to…imagine.

To stop doing everything just as I did it. Even if my choices have led me in different directions than I expected, maybe I could be making better decisions. Maybe I could be a better person. Maybe I could be happier or stronger or full of more spirit. Maybe I could be a more knowledgable writer who takes greater risks that reap more reward and of course, more shortcomings. Maybe I could be a better friend who slows downs and listens when her friends needs them, who is supportive and more readily available, and who actually returns phone calls, emails, and text messages (I’m sorry). Maybe this blog could be better or maybe I don’t want to blog at all. Maybe I want to live in New York – maybe I want to take a year off and move to Australia for the hell of it and to fully experience going down under.

Maybe idle time gives me freedom to dream and to imagine all of the things my life could have, if I stopped for a moment. If I stopped filling it up with all of the things I have to do because of who I am – maybe who I am is different from the person I imagined. If I stopped being dead-set on one career path and imagined all the innovative ways I could do what I love, make money doing it, and broaden my skill set.

Maybe if I stopped doing because that’s what I’ve always thought got me places and started imagining because that’s what I feel like I doing – I’d imagine myself doing and being something more than what and who I am.

Daily Gratitude: I’m thankful for unexpected opportunities. No matter how scary they may be.

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There’s My City

Driving back to Brooklyn with Mr. Possibility today, we crossed the expressway at sunset, the skyline illuminating its everlasting shine. As he always does, he said “There’s your city.” I turned to him and grinned and then placed my attention back to the place I sometimes feel is mine and at other times feel like it’s not even within my grasp.

Like I did when my father would zip down old curvy country roads in his black Toyota, I rolled my hand in the wind, feeling the pressure and pretending I could touch the building tops. I always find myself reaching and extending when I see New York in the distance – perhaps the view from afar is even more enchanting than the view from the Top of the Rock or looking down from the Empire State.

Stuck in traffic though, I felt a pain that hurts me to admit, but lately, the city has lost its luster. Or maybe, it’s just me.

Yes, Mr. Possibility is accurate by giving the city to me – part of it does belong to me. It gave itself to me many, many years ago when I was a snaggle-toothed seven-year-old, grinning in a pink jacket as I saluted Lady Liberty and giggled at my daddy buying five pieces of New York Style pizza in a single day. I loved it then and I love it now, but like a guy can make you feel when a second date doesn’t result in a third, I’ve felt like New York has rejected me.

With some recent changes and a disappointment I can only credit to myself, I’ve wondered about my footing. I haven’t felt sturdy and stable, but rather wobbly and uncertain, trying to squint into the future, or at the skyline, to try and see  a glimpse of what’s next. I’ve been pulling at anything I have in me to gain some hope, to see the silver lining on top of smog and heat, and the offices of opportunity that have turned me away. And in Mr. Possibility’s car, watching the sun fall along with my spirits, I remembered I was returning to a borough and not my actual Upper West Side pad, which made the city seem even further away than it already did.

I watched my hand flutter in the wind in the passenger’s side rear-view window and I realized I was pointing toward Brooklyn, not toward Manhattan. I was going with traffic instead of fighting against it. I was not claiming or revealing myself to my city, instead I was going with a flow I didn’t want to ride. And so, with Selena Gomez’s “Who Says” blaring in the background, I turned my hand over. I placed my palm toward Manhattan and I whispered a silent prayer to let opportunity and faith find me. To let me rename myself and reroute my path so I can find that joy again, that peace, that confidence I’ve always had in New York. And in myself.

Because if it’s my city, I can’t be turning my back to it or to the wind. I have to take it as it is, even when it’s tough and rough-around-the-edges. Even when it doesn’t give me what I want and when it takes me far from where I expected. If it’s my city, I have to always remember to make it mine…and give it (and me), a little time.