Reflecting on Relationships

There was this boy, Tash, in New York. I found myself thinking about him this morning and concluded that he’s probably one of the most influential people in my life. I didn’t expect it, but something about Tash changed me.

Going into the relationship, I (too soon) asked “the relationship question,” wondering if there was a chance for anything concrete between us. He very honestly told me that while he enjoyed spending time with me and being exclusive, there wasn’t really any reasonable expectation of longevity. Initially, I was hurt by this, but once I accepted the situation for what it was, I was still willing and happy to pursue something—whatever—with Tash.

So we dated. We hung out. We read and talked and watched documentaries. We explored New York and new hobbies.

And about a month into it, I found myself in an awkward situation. I had said the g word (girlfriend), and he nonchalantly said that he wouldn’t mind calling me his girlfriend. He asked if I would want that. I heard him ask. I kept talking, avoiding it as much as possible. He asked again. And again, thinking I hadn’t heard. Eventually the conversation smoothed over into something else, the question unresolved.

When I first moved to New York, I didn’t want to date. I didn’t want to think about boys and relationships and the drama and heartbreak of it all. I wanted to focus on me, to exile myself to a tiny island for six months and see what I came away with.

Tash happened kind of by accident. We were introduced by a mutual friend and hit it off. He taught me about aesthetics and beauty and religion and spontaneity. And I taught him about… I don’t even know. But it worked, we worked. And he treated me better than I’d ever been.

But when he mentioned the whole girlfriend thing, I kind of freaked out. I had become so comfortable with the idea of not being his girlfriend. Having guidelines was fine because I could follow them. I didn’t have to rely on him; I could be my own strong, independent self. I didn’t need him, but I could still find happiness in spending time with him.

It was healthy. For so long, my relationships were marked by codependency. I wanted someone to take care of me and to take an interest in everything I was involved in. I wanted that complete meshing of my life with someone else’s. There is one person, in particular, that comes to mind. I think the world of him and I respect him highly, but I would never let myself be in a relationship with him again. Simply put, I loved him in the unhealthiest way possible. And it didn’t benefit me.

But Tash… I learned to love him simply. I learned to love myself first and him second. And eventually he did become my boyfriend, but not because of some conversation or conscious decision. We just started calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend. there was no grandiose show of affection; just two people admitting that they work well together.

And we were right--there wasn’t any longevity to it. We spent a semester learning about each other and then said our goodbyes when he moved back home. No harm, no foul. I look back on my time with him and still smile. There is no bitterness or resentment, just a spot in my heart for someone that helped make me happy during a particular time in my life.

He set the standard for what I should expect for myself: someone who cares about me, who respects me and my opinion; someone who wants to see me and spend time with me and who doesn’t think of my as just another commitment, a distraction; someone who pushes me to try new things; someone who calls me gorgeous and means it; someone who texts me kitchy-cute (slightly dirty) things or lyrics just because I’m on his mind. And someone who lets me love myself first and foremost.

Going forward, I would never accept anything less.

Tash and me

A Second (Long Overdue) Letter to the "Nice Boys:"

I seldom post things about my personal life... unless they're terribly awkward or hilarious. But this morning, I just have a lot on my mind. And my computer was closer than my journal. So I'm just going to write.

When I like someone, it's usually one of two things: Either I am drawn to something about them and grasp a hold of that detail. Or I'm so blinded by everything else that I don't even notice I like them, until something (3,000 miles, a girlfriend) points out the readily obvious. There are some that straddle the line and don't particularly fall into a category, but the general grouping still stands.

Realizing that someone fits into the second category is the scariest thing in the world, though. Typically, they're one of my closest friends and confidantes. And they know details and nuances about me that I seldom share. I'm comfortable with them in a way that I am not around others and somehow I never fully realize them until its so blatantly obvious that I feel I have to address it.

I can think of very few instances when I've felt this way. The summer after I graduated high school, I spent several nights a week with Friend. We talked about everything from life to religion to law to love; and together we made mundane things--like shopping for a lamp--exciting. I knew from head to toe that I loved Friend, but I never bothered to say anything for several reasons:

• First and foremost, I was leaving. And I didn't want to "dump-n-run," to spill my heart knowing I could jump on a plane and fly away from the confrontation.
• I wanted there to be some sort of longevity. This one's harder to explain... but in my head makes sense. I wanted to have a fair shot with Friend. And I knew that would never happen if I were 3,000 miles away. So I wanted to wait, live my life, and come back to him. If I still felt that way later, than fair shot. If not, well then no harm, no foul.
• I wanted it to be "easy." One thing Friend used to say is that real life relationships shouldn't have to be work. You don't hear stories of people who fought and fought and never were together and somehow lived happily ever after. No, you hear stories of people who met at a reasonable age, shared common values and decided to stick with each other.

Friend ended up doing the dump-n-run on me. Three thousand miles apart, with no history to crutch ourselves on, we never even had a chance. Things didn't work out. And he ended up transitioning into the first category. We talked less frequently and less openly and my worst fear was realized: I lost my best friend.

So naturally, I'm scared out of my wits about coming to the belated realization that I've got another Category 2 Situation (that sounds so legit) on my hands. I can't lose this one in any way shape and form. But I can't let things turn stagnant either. 

About a year ago, I wrote this post as a toast to the "nice guys" of the world. I was inspired by a ventfest in some Midwestern college paper and decided to share a bit of my own thoughts. I had someone in mind when I wrote it. And that someone can probably deduce from various references who they are. For some reason, I can't give him a fake name. It just wouldn't work or do him justice...

I think the "someday" I reference in that post is now. And, as always, the timing sucks. But it's crazy to think about potential. And not his; I used to like guys because they had such promising potential, even if they were straight-up assholes in the present). He has potential, yes. But he also has everything else. And I'm betting he doesn't even know.

It's heartbreaking because the last thing in the world I want to do is hurt him. But the nature of the entire situation means that somebody gets hurt. There is no blame, nor any real resolution. Just hurt.

And while I'm struggling with this whole situation, the person that I typically turn to to talk everything out is the person I'm trying to give as much breathing and thinking room as possible. These are uncharted waters for me.

What I'm Reading: Hilary Winston

I'm writing this post in the middle of April, but won't be publishing it until I'm in the Bahamas (wahooo!!) due to publicity issues and the minor, minuscule detail that the book I'm talking about doesn't come out until May 3. Be jealous.

It's been a goal of mine during co-op to read a lot more than I have since I've been in college. The unfortunate truth about being in school is that academic reading--and just about everything else--comes before reading for pleasure. I keep an ongoing list of books on my computer desktop that I want to/plan to sometime down the road read.

As it turns out, my lack of television, Internet, radio or any other means of cheap entertainment (besides people watching) means that I have been reading a lot since January. Admittedly, some books I don't bother to finish, for a variety of reasons. Some are crap. Some are difficult to read quickly, so I put them off till a later date. There's just something so addictive-ly satisfying about reading a book in a weekend. I feel accomplished and educated and witty. And when that same book makes me laugh until I tear up, all the better.

For anyone who's ever had anything shitty happen in their life, please oh please pick up a copy of My Boyfriend Wrote a Book About Me by Hilary Winston. I literally just finished it and then hopped on a (borrowed. Sorry, Lloyd) computer to write about it.

I mean, anyone who can incorporate "It looked like I shit out an alien shitting out an alien" into a published work has got to be either genius or psychotic. Or both. Either way, I looked psychotic as I was reading-slash-laughing-hysterically in a Union Square cafe yesterday.

Winston recounts the most hilarious anecdotes about her single and dating life, including the humiliating true story about the fact that her ex-boyfriend, Kyle (you can cross that name off of my future potential husband list) wrote a "fiction" about her. Given the content of his book, the only thing that was fiction was a minor anecdote about how he may have once jizzed in Winston's color treatment conditioner bottle. Classy.

Winston starts with her elementary school crushes and the boys who crushed on her, recounts her numerous gay ex-boyfriends, her first loves and her ongoing love of her cats (R.I.P. Emmett). Her stories are both hilarious and instantly familiar. And her background in comedic writing makes this book come off like a raunchier David Sedaris. Maybe funnier. Though I've never spent a night in applying Proactive and cold presses to my cat's chin acne, I get it. And I've probably done worse.

She keeps boxes of her exes stuff, like any self-respecting, emotionally-cutting girl would, and lists (yes, mine are color-coded) of ex-boyfriends.

Winston makes me think back on the hilarity of those first boyfriends, on the we-think-we're-so-grown-up talks over pre-teen sleepovers, on those awkward, post-breakup lunch dates. I would love to sit at a table with this woman and share horror stories. Maybe even start a support group. Or a chat room chain. Something. Someone needs to appreciate the retrospective humor of my life. But I could never tell it like Winston does. Nor would I necessarily feel comfortable using the poor kids' names. She's got to be the coolest fat-assed cat lady ever.

She ends on a sweet tone though. Her book, though full of details and lingering bitterness, is no Taylor Swift revenge ballad. It's just fact. Funny, outrageously uncensored fact. And unlike Kyle's scam, you can find her book in the non-fiction section. If it hasn't sold out already.

The Search for the Perfect 10

In the same book I referenced yesterday, the authors argue that no one should own anything less than a 10. It doesn’t matter which great aunt bought you your perfume; if it’s not a 10, you won’t wear it. So ditch it.

On the way home yesterday, I did a little strolling in and out of stores looking for something celebratory (again, I don’t need a reason to celebrate). But I went home empty-handed. I couldn’t get the 10 concept out of my head.

Imagine what your closet would look like if every clothing item you owned was a 10. It might not be so jam-packed, but the items in there would be quality. They would fit correctly and be timeless. They would go together effortlessly. It’s certainly inspiring and I spent my downtime yesterday looking at various “10” items, many in the triple digits.

But then I got thinking even more (I tend to think a lot). What if I never settled for anything less than a 10? What if I surrounded myself with nothing but the best of the best… Quality friends, boyfriends, primo wine, the best food and flavors, quality furniture.

What if I always gave a 10 on top of that? 100 percent into school and my extracurriculars. Going to the gym, taking a yoga class, painting and sketching again. It’s certainly a challenge, and exhausting. But how rewarding.

I mean, really… Why do we ever bother to settle in the first place? Why do I convince myself that the shoes will feel more comfortable after I “wear them in.” Why do I let myself be battered in a less-than-10 relationship?

Surrounding myself with 10s would be exhausting. It would be expensive. And it would be disheartening when it seems that I can’t find the perfect 10. But how rewarding, too. I’m a fan of quality over quantity, even if I am not a practicing member of the club. But maybe now is the time.

No more settling. Nothing but 10s.

Breakup Guru's Guide for Girls

I’m no relationship expert, nor do I pretend to be. But I still get calls from girlfriends whenever they’re in a boy-related sitch. It always baffled me a little; I mean I’ve read about relationships, and certainly tried my hand at them. But, sadly I have an innate way of sabotaging them.

Retrospect is a beautiful thing. The perspective is very wise, but it’s also a slap in the face. As Cinderella sings, “You don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone.” And oh have I abused boys and relationships without realizing that they’re spectacular until I’m left alone. Again.

The worst is that I do it to myself. I put up walls. I break up with people because I know I should, though I may not really want to. As a Gemini, there are two sides to all my stories. Unfortunately, one side tries to keep me from getting hurt and, as such, ruins my chances of being happy in a relationship, too.

Depressing brain barf aside, I realized that though I may not be a relationship expert, I’m quite the breakup guru. And though I may not have relationship success stories, I do have lots of super awesome single girl stories.

Downtrodden women from far and wide seek out my services to help them overcome the heartbreak. So now, ladies (gentlemen, this post is so not for you), I present to you the failproof guide to getting over it. Hold it dear. After all, I’m a guru.

1. Hide your iPod. Oof, nothing is worse than a mopey, post-breakup girl listening to love songs. No, no, no. No slow country music, no Ben Folds, no first dance songs. I have a playlist on my iTunes that is specifically for times like this. It’s the only thing I let myself listen to. Highlights include “Cheated” by Mike Posner and “A Toast to Men” by Willa Ford and “I Hate College (Remix)” by Sam Adams (“single doesn’t mean I’m looking for somebody”). It’s all fast-paced, pre-gaming music. No piano.

2. Head to the grocery store. This is great for a couple of reasons. First off, it’s a public place so it’s not like you’ll feel inclined to cry when you’re surrounded by vegetables and strangers. It’s also a major distraction; when I shop, there’re way too many lists going through my head to fit any drama. Lastly, though, it’s time to be comfortably with myself and feel inspired. I eat incredibly well that first night because I can go home and set aside the time. I call up girlfriends and make them asparagus (my fave) and something yummy. And stock up on alcohol. Whatever floats your boat.

3. Get angry. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that being angry is perhaps the best thing one can do to get over someone. Anger trumps sadness and heartbreak, and it motivates us to act more primal, to dare ourselves to don something crazy and hit the town. Anger is spiteful. But it’s liberating. In anger, there is freedom. So find some minor miniscule thing (or something to justifiably be angry about) and blow it up. Get angry and let it fill you. You can always apologize later.

4. Be selfish. This is my favorite part; I might even break up with someone just to have reason to indulge. Unfortunately, it’s also the part that many people overlook. Oftentimes during breakups, ladies are concerned about the other person being mean or hurt or attractive. The thing about a breakup, though, is that it’s a breakup. Break. Up. There aren’t two people to the equation anymore. It’s just you, baby.

The benefit of that is that all your focus can be on you. I always say that it’s important to treat yourself well because if you don’t, how can you reasonably expect anyone else to. Breakups are a time to renew one’s commitment to oneself and then take out the credit card.

Shop. Cook a steak. Go on a new diet. Buy a gym membership. Get a pedicure or a massage. The energy from breakups is amazing. Suddenly, you have all this time and money and energy that you’re not exerting on some smelly boy that you can finally splurge on yourself. I’ve never been skinnier than post-breakup. Never had better looking toe nails.

It’s important to note, however, that you’re not primping to try to “win him back.” Ack. If things work out down the line, good for you. But never assume they will. This is a time for you. Enjoy it. Read a book you’ve been putting off. Apply for a new job. Attend a wine tasting class… The list is endless.

5. Find your vice. Another favorite… this is the opportunity to do somethin’ crazy. Die your hair (my preferred method), get a tattoo, smoke a cigarette, dance on a table, make out with a stranger. Whatever. Harness that bad girl that we all have hidden not-so-deeply below the surface and go crazy. As a side note, the benefits of this step are multiplied when the devious deed is done whilst wearing red lipstick and liquid leggings… just saying.

6. Fill your time. I briefly mentioned this in the other posts, but finding something to fill your time with is crucial. One beloved friend combined this step with "Get angry" and started a blog about the breakup process. Another meditates and does yoga. Whatever it takes, find a way to fill your time. Alone time is thinking time is moping time. Not acceptable.

7. Be single. This one is important because there are so many people that jump from one relationship to another. Or, if you’re like me, you keep a couple of back-burner options, people who I can call up and rekindle something with so that I don’t feel so alone. It’s a problem, I know. And I hurt myself and others by doing it, which is why I stress this point.

Be single. It’s a time to revel in one’s awesomeness and stop to smell the roses. I like to tell myself that “happiness is a conscious decision.” And I genuinely believe that. There are times when making that decision is a little bit more challenging than others, but choose to be happy and you will be.

Ever notice that when you finally stop actively looking for someone, you find them? There's a sexiness to being so happy and nonchalant. And there's a strength in realizing that you don't need someone else to make you happy. I was once with someone who thought I was too independent. He wanted me to "need" him. I told him that the fact that I didn't need him, but chose to be with him anyway should say something more, but he disagreed. I broke up with him.

There is nothing wrong with being single, nothing wrong with girls' night outs and cooking for one. Be single. Savor it. You've got the rest of your life to spend sharing toothpaste with someone.

On the Subject of Love...

My dad tells this story... When he first found out that my mom was pregnant with me, he was scared. He loved my older brother so much and was worried that he wouldn't be able to love me the same way. But when I came out in all my perfect glory (Ha! I was blue), he says that he felt like that scene in "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," when the Grinch's heart grows and grows. He says he physically felt his heart expand. He didn't have to sacrifice any of the love for my brother in order to make room for me. But his capacity for love just grew.

Bo and I were talking recently about love. When she first started falling in love with P, she says it taught her that she had never really loved K (her high school boyfriend). And now that she and P have broken up, she is afraid that she won't be able to find that same connection with someone else.

Bo and I disagree on the subject of love. As far as my high school boyfriend goes, I have loved others more since, but to me that doesn't discredit what I had with him. The way I see it, I loved him as much as I knew how at the time. And breaking up with him and moving on doesn't mean I don't still love him. I do, but in a drastically different way. My love for my high school boyfriend is something along the lines of thank-you-so-much-for-showing-me-kindness-and-love-and-being-there-for-me-when-I-needed-someone.

Bo is a one-at-a-time kind of gal, but I love love so much that I drown myself in it, in all different kinds of it. I have numerous best friends... and while I realize calling them all "best" kind of kills the point of the word, they are all best for something. One for grumbling about my past and laughing about PQ losers, one for going out and dancing all night, one for hanging out in PJ's and cooking, one for crying to.

And that's how I am with guys, too, I suppose. And, by extension, love. There's my "half boyfriend," who gives me diversity of opinion and conversation and lots of books, but without any of the emotional attachment or stress that comes with a relationship. There's the hopelessly impossible guy that I can't let go of who knows all my secrets because he's the only one who ever bothered to ask. There's the best friend turned crush turned sadly distant memory who calls me things like "pretentious." And then there are the guys I date whom, in a way, I love too.

You know how the eskimos have a bajillion different words for snow? Well I think that there should be more words for love. Four letters can't possibly begin to encompass the meaning of such a complex term. There are so many different genres: family love, love of friends, love-hate complexity, romantic love, romantic lust, love for inanimate objects... how can loving my mascara be the same as loving my mother? Or a boyfriend?

And why should there be a limit? I'm definitely not advocating polyamorous relationships, but maybe I am advocating polyamory... It's a stretch, but still. Why limit ourselves or our capabilities? Why not allow ourselves to love those we once loved, but learn to love again and in new, more profound ways?

I wrote this song once, my senior year of high school about my high school boyfriend, post-break up:

"This brand new love,
Like nothing I've felt before,
Knowing with all the crap that we've been through,
I'd still always be there for you.
And yes, I know it's not the same
And I don't still think of you that way..."

I think it still holds true.

###

Dating Games Galore

My best friend of 11 years recently went through a breakup... It's an interesting thing to witness because I'm a third party (with a lot of expereince in the breakup arena), but care too much about the girl to be totally objective.

Half the time, I want to hop on a plane down to Georgia and buy ice cream and chick flicks and fix all her problems with some estrogen therapy. And the other half of the time, I want to hop on a plane down to Georgia and slap her in the face for not realizing what I already know--that she's way too good for him... And not in a she's-my-best-friend-and-I'm-biased way, but in a she's-a-10-and-he's-a-4-from-the-boondocks-of-Georgia way. She is truly, genuinely too good for the poor schmuck.

Witnessing her breakup gave me a unique perspective, though. The phone calls, which initially came at 4 a.m. started coming at more and more decent times. And with each melt-down, I could actually hear more and more conviction in her voice. It was incredible... I suppose everyone goes through all of that in the course of a breakup, but in my experience, I've always been the one in the breakup, not observing it. (Come to realize... actually all of my closest girlfriends are "relationship" people. Some have been together for almost 6 years. Woah). So it's been really cool to see it from the other side of the fence.

Today, when I called up my girl to chat, she informed me that she couldn't talk for long because she was off for a date. A date. Granted, a date with someone whom she doesn't remember meeting, but a date nonetheless. And so what if she has no clue what he looks like. He's practice for when she finally gets back out there, right? (sorry, dude)

Anyway, this lovely lady had me thinking today as I was walking through midtown during my lunch break. I just find it ironic that the guys we don't care about are the ones we're willing to text twice in a row and we don't mind if they don't care enough to call us back. Because we don't care either. So we're comfortable; there's nothing invested.

But if and when we actually fall for someone, we have to play by all the rules. We can't seem too eager, we can't call back until two days after a date (do people really follow that rule?), we can't jump right into bed but can't hold out to long, either. I wrote a column about dating games a year ago for The Huntington News marveling at how ridiculous they are. Yet it never occurred to me that only when we like someone do we ever bother to play.

This is War

On a somewhat separate, but related note... When I got back from my weekend excursion to Boston, I renewed a commitment to myself. This summer, I spent a week in the boondocks of the Hudson Valley learning how to avoid my own barriers and how to love myself. If it sounds mushy and cheesy, it's because the idea is. But in actuality, it was an extremely empowering and insightful week.

At this program, we were encouraged to make a commitment and I chose to make one to myself. Fresh from a couple awkward romantic encounters, I decided to take a break from dating and focus on my relationship with myself. I wanted to purge myself of the toxins in my life, which  included attitudes, habits and--yes--people.

At the time, I had a few particulars in mind, but when school started, I lost my focus.

 Now, given the circumstances of this past weekend and the fact that there are so few eligible options in (no)Men-hattan, I'm refocusing and renewing my sentiments. ***

And what perfect timing, given that it's St. Valentine's Day (yes, it's a Catholic holiday, in case you were wondering).

Last night, I indulged myself on french fashion films (Coco Avant Chanel and Le scaphandre et le papillon), ate chocolate for dinner and cleaned. And tonight, I'm going to buy myself some lilies or irises (because boys somehow always overlook those flowers and get roses or tulips, neither of which fall into my top 5 fave flowers... except maybe yellow roses?? Bygones).

I'm going to light the chocolate-scented candle that I stole from the Marie Claire freebies closet and I'm going to clean more. I'm throwing out clothes, I'm de-junking my life, I'm eliminating 100 Facebook friends, doing my long-overdue mending and spending my night in drinking champagne and painting my toenails.

I mentioned Spring Cleaning before, but this is different. This is war. War on all things that don't actively benefit me.

I love me. And that's not selfish or self-centered. It's not bad. It's absolutely fabulously wonderful. And deserved. Because if I can't love me, how can I reasonably expect anyone else to.

Happy Valentine's Day to me (and you).

***It should be noted that sexurity guard, as I've taken to calling him (sexy+security guard), is exempt from my dating-bashing.