Who’s Loving You?

There we sat. Four seemingly well put-together women gathered around a brunch table just steps away from the 2/3 trains at 72nd Street. On our agenda — de-compacting life, careers and —because it was the fall of 2014 — Ebola. But even with the possibility of an infectious, deadly disease looming over our heads, the greater concern at that Upper West Side cafe was not the bug that we were avoiding, but instead, the one that had seemed to avoid us. The love bug.

At the time, it had been almost a year since my last “relationship.” Although we had only officially broken things off that May, the feelings of “butterflies in my stomach” had long since left. I think they got lost somewhere in the Pacific and decided it was best to let new butterflies find me in New York. After two and a half years of having a piece of my heart outside of a drivable distance, I was and still am, totally okay with that.

For my marketing manager – she dated. British businessmen, Swedish models, French stockbrokers, Italian execs. But with all of their beautiful accents, she hadn’t quite found the one that spoke her love language.

My social worker — well she was an interesting case. If I had to give a professional opinion based on my over-consumption of The Millionaire Matchmaker, I would have said that her “picker” was off. Thankfully she had found a great man in Jesus, so while she wanted to find “the one,” her number one kept her pretty occupied.

And finally, my insurance specialist (also my NYC transplant for the weekend). She had a boyfriend — one who she loved and knew loved her, but after nearly five years of being together, she wanted more than an unofficial title. What she wanted was the real deal. She wanted marriage.

In this crazy metropolis our stories weren’t unique. If I gathered 100 NYC women together to give me their take on dating in one of thee most populated cities in the world, at least 95 of them (skewing on the lower side of course) would say the same thing — “It’s difficult.”

We all know it. An article reminds us of it every week. Our parents who call us from the burbs and rural areas of the country bring it to the front of our memory every time we speak. And even our therapists nudge at the idea of us moving for better chances of finding a mate. But even with all of the annoying cues from every nook and cranny of the universe, our awareness fails to keep us from being disappointed, getting frustrated, or sending messages to our Gchat therapist (I service several clients) about being completely confused as to why “it” hasn’t happened.

—

A lot has changed since that October day on the Upper West side, but one question asked during our spirited roundtable remains vividly ingrained in my mind — Who’s loving you?

It’s a question my uncle had posed to my cousin weeks before our meeting, and one that she had then posed to the group. As I sat there eating my breakfast enchiladas and sipping on sangria, I remember the inquiry making its way from the tip of my thoughts to the underside of my heart.

My uncle had a point. A point that I reflect on often, probably even daily, as I navigate life as a single woman in her thirties. While I had found it easy to devote my energy to a man based on the feelings I had for him, I was less inclined to give something a chance solely because of the interest he showed in me. What that’s left me with is a perpetual state of wondering “Who is loving me?”

I honestly couldn’t say for sure.

While I hear it — sometimes from new interests, mostly from former flames, I can’t honestly admit that I ever believe it. The older I get the more I realize that words have no weight without action. And “I love you’s” mean jackshit without the behavior to back it up.

Last night I asked a friend, “Do you think he ever loved me?”

Though my former soulmate often says it, I can’t help but side-eye his entire existence in my life. Yesterday evening he was out on a date with his new interest. Last month he was wondering why I couldn’t “accept our journey.” Two years ago he was pretending he didn’t have a girlfriend though they lived together.

I mean — what type of love is that?

My male friend’s conclusion based on everything I’ve told him — “I can’t really know for sure. But to a certain extent, I’m sure he did. Just not enough.”

And the “not enough” part is what takes me back to my uncle’s question. Because shouldn’t we all be with people who are excited to be with us? Who aren’t afraid to lay their feelings bare? Who not only say that they have love for us, but actually work to show us that sweet affection every day?

My former soulmate is not an isolated case (although I really wish he were). I’ve seen it with other so-called suitors, with my friends, and with countless women who somehow think that a casual “hi” is license for them to tell me their most pressing frustrations with the opposite sex. What I’ve found is that we often look at settling as being with someone we’re “mehh” about even though they have amazing characteristics and treat us like gold. But what exactly would we call the pursuit of someone who doesn’t respect himself or us enough to let our heart go once they realize they aren’t equipped to take care of it?

I always thought that a lasting relationship for me would look like equal parts interest on both sides. But maybe, just maybe, the basis for my “forever” really is about who loves me more.

At 33 I’m still figuring it out. But what I do know, is that the next time I decide to even give up a piece of this precious heart of mine, I’ll need to be able to answer with the confidence of ten mediocre white men the very question I’ve asked myself since that crisp, fall day at that UWS cafe — Who’s loving me?

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52 Minutes Later

God sent him.

And no – not in the way one tends to think when a woman situates her mouth to expel that short, suggestive phrase. But for the same reason God used a burning bush to speak to Moses, he spoke to me that night as if the Almighty himself told him I needed him.

For two weeks prior to our “chance” encounter I felt my heart flipping tricks on the inside – suddenly stopping then restarting with a jolt so sharp I thought it likely to explode. And though I was clear on the underlying upset that caused this malignant sensation, the same pride that stopped me from admitting the obvious, made me too stubborn to acknowledge it was even real.

***

When he pulled up to my location that evening we exchanged the usual pleasantries. “Robert?” I shouted through the half-cracked window of his black Toyota Camry. To which he replied, “You’re going to Jersey, right?”

Indeed.

I was the Jersey girl who refused to leave. Born and raised in the burbs I found my home among the housewives who traded in work for child rearing, men who sacrificed city lives for blossoming families, and the all-around “practicalists” who had no problem acknowledging that a full-time life in NYC was best suited for someone else.

My therapist had long suggested I make a move to satisfy my desire for a love life, but I’d like to think that for “the RIGHT one,” my location could be a hut in Hiroshima. He’d still fight to make it work.

***

“It’s saying the shortest route is 52 minutes.”

“George Washington?” I asked

“No, the Lincoln.”

That’s fine. I’ll take it.

After a crazy day running around the City it seemed like a lot, but he assured me that on a Thursday night coming from downtown Manhattan, it was the best he could do. So I obliged, opting to fall into the comforts of his back seat over arguing my opinion: the West Side Highway to the GWB was way more time-effective. And somewhere in-between my pick-up on Mulberry Street, and our entry into the tunnel, I realized the minutes didn’t matter. See what I wasn’t aware of that misty evening his car arrived in Little Italy, was that the next 52 minutes of our time together would be the very thing I needed to help heal my heart.

Going into 2017 I realized I was overdue for a change. I needed to rid my mind of self-doubt, reclaim my reason for being, and find an inner peace so deep the most negative vibes couldn’t find it. And in the process of deciding how I would accomplish the mission I set forth, it became clearer than ever that success would only come if I let some things go. The first of these would be dating.

At 31 I had envisioned my relationship end-goal for what felt like a lifetime – a beautiful ring, a beautiful home, rose quartz countertops in the bathroom, and Him – no games, no over-the-top wedding, (maybe a honeymoon in Bora Bora) and Him. But it alluded me all-the-more with each year I grew increasingly aware of who I was. And while I honestly was ready to commit to something genuinely beautiful, I whole-heartedly believed that the context of that connection would be centered on a mutual understanding that at some point we would stand before God, thank him for the gift of love, and make a promise to Him, as well as ourselves, that for the rest of our lives we would choose “US.”

But the more I looked around, the more I understood that the sanctity of a holy union had long lost its appeal. And so at 30-plus, while thankful for the experiences of dating, my heart was in a state of disappointment, brought on by loving someone who couldn’t commit to forever.  When I stepped into his black Toyota Camry that evening he spoke to my disheartened spirit in a way that felt orchestrated by the originator himself. Hitting me with one line, in particular, I’ll never forget:

“A man who dates a woman with no intention of marrying her is robbing God.”

Quoting the eighth commandment to support his claim, I quickly found my emotions easing with the theory he presented. As we made our way down West Street I was reminded of the qualities I said I wanted in my future partner, forcing me to admit that I was holding on to a connection that would never quite satisfy my soul. A forever girlfriend I was not. I needed to be with a man who saw The Divine in me. Who understood that loving me would only make him richer, that forsaking all others would only make him better and that choosing me could only join him closer to God. If loving is a choice I wanted him to choose me over, and over again – despite the hard times, despite the setbacks, and despite the flaws I could not fix.

As we continued past the entrance to the tunnel he elevated his assertion by saying, “Men want to believe that women were created for them – NO! Women were created for God, to do His work. So when you lead a woman on or you date a woman with no intention of marrying her you are stealing from God.”

I received that word, recognizing my need to be more deliberate when choosing who I break bread with, who I spend time on, and who I allow to take up rent-free space in my thoughts and heart. But at the same time, I felt the need to defend past decisions by noting that the men of yesteryear did love God. It was me they missed the mark with. And just as we entered Jersey he dropped another gem to refute the notion I presented. Cautioning me that while some men have a “spiritual tone,” they aren’t spiritual at all.

As Route 3 turned into 17 silence washed over the car. I imagine Robert realized his words left me deep in thought, so he broke up my unintended concentration with stories of women he had previously dated. I interjected with my own, joking with him about the probability of finding someone serious in a city known to break hearts and how after two-plus years, things ended with a man I had high hopes for.

He complimented me based on what he experienced during our short time together, confirming for me what I already knew – there’s a man out there who will count it a blessing to have me. Feeding me the exact words required to keep my emotions at bay just as Route 4 split into 208.

I was almost home.

Before we turned the corner to enter my complex he left me with one last little nugget – a parting gift of sorts – just in case there was even a slight chance I would ignore everything he said and revert back to disillusioned daydreams of making it work with a man who had no vision for us.

“You have to remember that self cannot change self. Only divine intervention can do that. So don’t listen to a man who says he’s going to change. Trust a man who calls on God to change him.”

Both my head and heart were in agreement, and as we pulled up to my car that evening I realized a bit of euphoria had wiped over my body. I said good night to Robert. Thanked him for the ride and expressed my gratitude for the words he spoke into my spirit.

Prior to my pickup I wanted to believe that my feelings were on the mend. That after days of restless nights, wrestling with my inner thoughts, I had tackled the unwavering feeling of disappointment brought on by actions far from my control. But I needed his voice that night to qualm my anxiety, reposition my perspective and help me realize that what I was leaving behind could never compare to what lay ahead.

I still have my moments. Our car ride didn’t magically take away the pain of losing someone I loved. But it helped. And while I can’t say for sure when my head and heart will reconcile, I can say that I’m inching closer. Betrayal hurts and disappointment stings, but these things happen.

 

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This Time Was Different

I knew better. Despite what he said. Despite what he did. Despite what he wanted me to believe. I knew, in the way a woman always does, that he had long moved on from the bond we once shared. And while I predicted the day would eventually come where we’d be forced to go our separate ways, the piece of my heart that always saw the best in him hoped he would have handled it differently.

It was a game we played, he and I. He pretended he was committed to giving “us” a chance. I pretended he would actually try, and in the end we’d both pretend that the two of us were never meant to be. It was a cyclical conundrum of sorts. A bit of a merry-go-round of emotions that always led me back to the same place: tempted to see if we had what it takes, but woefully aware of the probability it’d never last.

But this time was different.

This time the merry-go-round stopped spinning before I was ready to get off, and after two years of silly playground antics in the city known to break hearts, it was time to admit that mine had fallen victim.

How did I get here? I wasn’t quite sure. But when I looked back at our teen- like affair, it was painfully obvious that the one thing I always wanted, was the one thing that was always missing. In between his assertions of wanting more and excuses for why he couldn’t provide it, I was left in limbo, hoping that one day he would actually give us – time.

I explained it away, justifying inconsistencies with reasons I knew held no weight. Claiming that both of our hearts were connected in this woven web of uncertainty and fear, that led us to press the breaks on pursuing something much greater. But the truth was, I simply wasn’t his person, and somehow my heart would have to untangle itself from the crisscrossing lines his alternative facts had formed.

It was time to break free. So I did. And just as I opened my eyes to his lies, my rose-colored glasses went missing. No longer did I see the man who won me over with his charm. Instead what stood before me, was a figure I wasn’t quite sure I knew. Caught up in the idea of his stated intentions, I realized I had latched on to what he said, and blissfully ignored what he did.

Was any of it real? I couldn’t say for sure. But the more I looked back, the more I had to admit that the reason we had gotten as far as we did, was solely because I refused to let go. He owned my heart in a way not even I was aware of; toying with it, taking it for granted, mistreating it for his gain, and manipulating it so covertly, I could not recognize it for what it was. All the while I was holding on for dear life, and he had long let go.

I guess it wasn’t in the cards. Actually – time had proven that. And it had also proven that although I made him out to be the right guy for my future, he was best suited to be a guy of my past. In his inability to be honest about his present, I found the courage to admit our time was up.

I can’t say for sure why he didn’t tell me. Maybe he couldn’t muster up the strength to confess he’d moved on. Maybe his inflated ego induced this idea that the truth would hurt me beyond repair. Maybe he thought that if he out-right admitted I wasn’t “the one”, my ego would be bruised forever. Or maybe, just maybe, he feared that if he confessed his need for something a little different, a little simpler, my heart would implode.

Whatever it was, he chose to secretly move on to the woman who offered convenience, with a little less depth and a lot less sophistication. And though I’m disappointed he didn’t have the soul to tell me, the part of me that still loves him, wishes him well.

There was a time when I was convinced we could have changed the ending. That we could have landed on the same page long enough to write an entire book. And now I ask myself, “at what cost?” I had reluctantly played all the games I had energy for. Despite what he said, he’d never give us a chance and despite what my heart wanted, my head conceded the memories of our never-quite-there romance were all she wrote.

He’s the guy I never expected to fall for, but happily watched as I did. Now as I dust myself off, attend to the scrapes, and Band-Aid the wounds his presence left behind, I find solace in knowing that the bruises will heal in their own time. They say love is a losing game, and that’s okay. God promised me something amazing while reminding me that the road to restoration may hurt, but these things happen.

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Eliminate the Noise

She was right. Seated amongst a bevy of tourists breaking from their department store shopping spree I heard my best friend, in not so many words, tell me it was time to start from scratch. And it’s not that I hadn’t tried to rid myself of past suitors in the last few years, it’s just that they, regardless of my words, always found their way back.

I was the sweet, Michelle Obama-esque woman they loved to not love while pretending they were ready. Prolonging our eventual end with fluffy remembrances of fun times and promises to make good on something we had started long ago. What was I to do if failed attempts at keeping them away meant they were ever-present without any real presence?

For me it’s always been a bit of tightrope — playing the role of the bigger person while in the back of my head wishing I could say exactly what’s on my mind. I didn’t get the confrontational sassy gene. That went to my sister. And the you-make-me-so-angry-I-could-fight-you gene went to her too. I, the second child, was left with the unique ability to convey my surface-level thoughts with a halfway-there smile and a tone so kind I can make people think I’m actually being polite. It’s served me well for years, but while an honest admission leaves me in euphoria, its subtle delivery often falls on deaf ears.

***

“Eliminate the noise,” she said, as I sucked down my prosecco-infused cocktail while giving side-eye realness. I knew, as did she, that it was a lot easier said than done. And not because I was holding on to past flames for any particular reason, but simply because I was so over them (ok… all but one of them), it didn’t feel like noise at all.

“We’re fine,” I replied. Assuring her that even in the midst of a 2017 free of dating I could still make sense of talking to a man who continuously told me of his plans to re-connect, settle our “unfinished business” and give me his last name.

The both of us could pretend his move to Detroit was the reason things ended, or that his job in NYC was too demanding. We could possibly even pretend that I was to blame. That my fascination with another man left me incapable of giving it my all. But each one of those scenarios would be deceitful. The truth being that we didn’t work out because the effort wasn’t there. Because at the end of the day dating him felt a lot like being single, and I realized a long time ago I didn’t have to settle.

Our last conversation came days after my cousin’s wedding and ended with “just watch.” A phrase I had heard too many times before from men who insisted their past behaviors were just that – a thing of the past. Insisting that they had miraculously changed into a gentleman who was now well-suited to pursue my heart, and, that if given just ONE more chance, I would see the “new them.” But nothing ever changed. The busy ones remained busy. The liars continued their tired lies. And the ones who never put in any effort continued to listlessly splurt out words that materialized into…well… nothing.

And maybe this was my plight. To be adored from afar, recklessly, and idly, while surreptitiously preparing my heart for the one who would show up and kill the noise with a single date. The one who wouldn’t have to utter the words “just watch” simply because everything he said and everything he did from.the.beginning. aligned perfectly with the vision I always had of him. The one who, for years, I imagined would make his triumphant entry and sweep me away, because he realized what the others did not, that talk was cheap and he was ready to DO.

I’ve long felt him hiding in the shadows, thinking he’s finally shown up, but eventually having to cop to the fact that yet again I’ve met another noisemaker. A man who makes me believe before crushing my dreams, and who with all reckless abandon plays games that constantly leave me on the losing side.

I often wonder why.

***

As we made our way from Stella 34 over to Penn Station, a part of my prosecco-altered mind began to think that my acknowledgment of past transgressions was reason enough to do as my best friend suggested. To just start from scratch, eliminating all possibilities of rekindling a romance, and completely clear my head of the ones whose actions led me to this year, free of dating. Why was I continuing to take their calls? Why was I compelled to respond to their texts? Why did I agree to meet for dinners that always started off on the right foot but would ultimately go left? I didn’t owe them a thing.

One day I’ll figure it out. And one day my polite, surface-level thoughts delivered with a barely-there smile will fall on ears willing to listen. OR… maybe not. I won’t pretend to know how this web called life will work its way out. And that’s okay. After all, these things happen.

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The Discovery

I thought I could take it. Seeing her smile brought on by his face. Her laugh, a reaction to his voice. Her happiness a reflection of his presence. And after months of solid speculation, I thought I could stomach the day I heard him say “I’m with somebody.” But he refused. Deflecting queries of his relationship with reassuring words that suggested we still had a chance. And so instead of the truth coming from his lips to my ears, I had to accept that what I saw in countless pictures and recorded moments was not simply a figment of my imagination or a fabricated story I had created to protect my heart, but actually the truth he never could bring himself to tell me.

My feelings raw, I tried to escape the anxiety building in my body the day my assumptions became reality, but in that moment my heart tingled with brokenness and I hated him in a way I never had before. Seething with the confirmation that everything I wanted he gave to somebody else. Overwhelmed by his blatant disregard for how I’d feel, or deal with the evidence that lay before me.

I guess he thought I was blind. That I hadn’t noticed the flowers he gave her just days after our October meeting or the Christmas tree they decorated together. Maybe I had missed the fact that his “new hobby” – floral arranging – always found a place on her kitchen table, directly under a sign that read, “what I love most about my home is who I share it with.” I guess he thought I overlooked the fact that his friends were slowly becoming hers, that he supported her in a way that I had only dreamed, spent time with her like I had always wished and loved her in a way that I had only hoped for.

In his eyes, my heart was created for his sport, solely existing for his entertainment. And I reaffirmed that with silent tears and unvoiced sentiments. Verbally keeping him at a distance while still remaining hopeful that he would one day find his way back to me, the woman he had met two years prior in a dimly lit bar in Brooklyn, but childishly ran away from with excuses, broken promises and misguided actions. Maybe he was my BIG, and I, like Carrie, had to see our Sex and the City storyline out to the very end. Knowing that when the closing credits rolled we would be together, both confirming that from the very start, “It was always you.”

I’d loved him for two long years. In the beginning accepting his inconsistencies for “busy” and his flakiness for character flaws too far out of his control. Foolishly longing for the day that he would get it together, wake up from his youthful slumber and realize that in this life, even though we fail, it’s okay to try again. I was nothing like his ex-wife. At least that’s what I told myself, while naively reassuring my heart that we could make this love “thing” work.

In the end I was forced to accept that our union was never meant to be. That his inconsistencies were flagrant, his lies deliberate and his actions a direct reflection of how he felt about me. Seeing the flashing videos of his smile matched with hers confirmed that.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll always love him. If ten years from now I’ll still ask myself “what if.” In my next relationship if I’ll wonder how he’s doing or if in this next chapter – the one that excludes him –  there will ever come a time where he’ll pick up the phone to say “I’m sorry,” with no motive other than to offer up a genuine apology for the way he so brazenly betrayed my heart.

All the times he hurt me with ignored texts, missed engagements, missed birthdays, weeks of absence, and lofty tales of “us” actually becoming an “us” couldn’t prepare me for the final nail in the coffin; a weekend trip to the Caribbean – with her. I had tried and prayed tirelessly for well over a year to put this unrequited romance to bed, but I guess seeing her there on an island with him when just last year he was on an island with me made “the end” all too real.

This love thing is hard work. It’s complicated. At times it’s deceitful and down-right infuriating. And it’s not that I ever saw it as anything different, but I just thought by now I would have gotten it right. That I had kissed all the frogs I needed to kiss and I, the Jersey girl with a heart of gold, was ready for “The One.”

My father always said “God gives us free will. But when we choose, choose life. And choose life more abundantly.” So that’s what I choose to do. To move forward from this disillusioned past, live fully in the present and be hopeful for the future. In this life we’ll all have heartbreak. But there’s a point where we must accept, as I have, that these things happen.

 

 

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10 Things I Learned from Spending an Entire Summer in NYC

When 60-degree day temps start to roll in, I take it as my not-so-subtle clue to let go of what was. Dear summer, I’ll miss you, but rest assured that I will forever hold on to the annoying, extremely irritating, somewhat scary but always practical lessons you’ve taught me.

1. Never spend an ENTIRE summer in NYC. It’s not natural, and quite frankly it’s ridiculous. To all those people who told me “it’s okay.” “NYC is great in the summer.” “it will be a nice staycation.”… you sold me on a pipe dream. Summers were made for quick weekend trips to the Hamptons, DC, The Jersey Shore (what can I say? I’m a Jersey Girl) and of course Essence Fest in NOLA.

2. Sipping champagne when you’re thirsty seems like a good idea until it’s not. Even during a mild summer, certain temperatures are just not conducive to such indulgences. I love a good boozy brunch as much as the next New Yorker, but when the sun hits you in just the right spot, problems can arise. Put the glass down.

3. And on that note… Stay Hydrated. It sounds like common sense, but that one time you forget to have a little water before you leave the house, end up standing on the 2 train from 125th to 34th (with your overnight bag in tow) and have to stand through a presentation on kids’ holiday toys… (Gift Guide season comes early when you’re an editor)… that could be the time you pass out, get driven to the ER in an ambulance and end up spending the day in NYU’s ER with a saline drip in your arm. Just saying.

4. Biker shorts really should be worn under every dress and skirt. Yes they are annoying, but no matter how confident we may be with our bodies, it’s just not ladylike to flash random strangers on the street. When that air comes up from the subway grates nobody looks like the portrait of Marilyn Monroe in a white dress. So to the countless New Yorkers I unintentionally showed my ass-ets to this summer…apologies. It happens.

5. Sam Smith (much like Adele) should only be listened to when feeling 100% emotionally stable. Because even then, there’s still a 50/50 chance you could get caught up. I love Sam. He’s great. But he will have you looking like one flew over the cuckoo’s nest if you let him. Not even a pair of $500 dollar Lanvin shades can hide an “In the Lonely Hour” moment… on a crowded 1 train… on your way to work.

6. Never dress casual on a summer Friday. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day, casual Friday’s in the City don’t exist. The week you risk it, there’s a 99.9% chance you’ll get a mid-day text inviting you to a rooftop happy hour, an email for a networking mixer will magically appear in your inbox or the guy you liked but all of a sudden stopped hearing from when the weather got warm will want to meet up for drinks. So always dress appropriately or at the very least keep a sundress and a pair of high-heeled sandals in your desk drawer.

7. NYC summers will make you question your readiness to be married. It’s natural. During hibernation season it’s easy to think that you’re physically and emotionally prepared to handle all the responsibilities that come along with being legally bonded to an amazing man that God hand-delivered to you. And then June hits…prayers to meet “the one” grow scarce, PB&J sandwiches for dinner become the norm, and the thought of spending weekends washing clothes, cleaning your apartment and preparing Sunday dinners start to cause mild (but memorable) anxiety attacks. Not to worry though, you will soon enough be singing “I am Ready for Love.”

8. “Successful” dating in NYC is hard. “Successful” dating in NYC during the summer is damn near impossible. It’s a proven fact that nice temperatures equate to the need to feel free. Free from clothes, free from a demanding job and DEFINITELY free from any relationship drama. On the bright side, NYC is not LA or Miami for that matter… Cuffing season is ALWAYS around the corner.

9. When you’re in your late 20’s you no longer own the night, you just lease it. Oddly enough this bit of insight was given to me by a guy I met on Tinder who parties WAAAY more than I do and is almost 10 years my senior. BUUT while I hate to admit it, he was right (and quite attractive…otherwise I’d probably be offended). Overnight you go from a party-all-night 22 year-old to someone who CLEARLY can’t hang past two glasses of wine. Take it in. Embrace it and be happy for when that text pops up on your phone with dets for the next day party.

10. There are far worse places to be. Don’t get me wrong… I will never (and typically I don’t use that word but I find it necessary in this situation) again spend an ENTIRE summer in the City, but with that being said, there really is no other place like it. If concerts in the park, happy hours overlooking the skyline, weekend street festivals, back”yard” barbeques, Target First Saturdays and free museum Sundays, reggae jam sessions in BK, late-night dinners at La Marina and a 35-foot sugar baby in Williamsburg aren’t enough to keep you busy, there’s a good chance no other place will. After all… it’s New York friggin’ City.

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TODAY Was a Good Day

 

Somewhere in between talking my sister off the “I’m turning 30” ledge and sucking down my mango margarita at Toloache NYC this afternoon, I managed to grieve an entire life I was never meant to live. I, for one, have never been the type to make a huge deal of my birthday. Aside from going on an excursion to DR for my 25th and a few skating rink parties in my prepubescent years, my birthdays have been rather…well…uneventful. “One year older, one year wiser” is how I believe the saying goes, and as a self titled “intellectual thinker” I’ve always welcomed the latter as reason enough to look forward to my special day. But this year… LORD have mercy…THIS YEAR was different. I think if God came down and told me I could trade in a year of wisdom for even two more weeks of 27, I would have said “you know what, I may just take you up on that.” In my head I was okay with being a 27 year old editorial assistant living paycheck to paycheck with no baby, husband or house (did I mention money?) in the foreseeable future. Wrapping my head around all of that as a 28 year old… well it just seemed too much to handle.

A few days after my trip to Paris in mid January, I remember thinking, “omg, oMG, OMG!!! This is not happening. I am not really turning 28 this year.” Ladies and gentleman, this is what psychologists would call “shock and denial.” And trust me– I recognized it at the time for what it was, but before I could even email my therapist for a few sessions on her couch to “reverse” what I was feeling, it was obvious that I was going to have to see this grieving process through to the end.

What followed was intense concern. Granted, I’m not the type of person to stress out over things, ruminate on issues I can’t change or get caught up in feeling bad for myself, but 28 was proving to be a whole different beast. For weeks my mind vacillated between “you’re doing well, you’re on the right track” and “so you’re really going to be a 28 year old editorial assistant, living paycheck to paycheck with no baby, husband or house (did I mention money?) in the foreseeable future?” All it took was a couple weeks of this tug-of-war with my head and my heart before I ended up at despair and depression. (Before I go any further I have to address how AWFUL these words sound. On the same note (and sadly) they are a perfect pairing for how I felt. UGH!) It’s true. Even the horrific acting on the Lifetime network (which I was watching for weekends at a time) was moving me to tears. Thankfully, being the intellectual thinker that I like to think I am, during my last weekend of moping, between a morning of “Black History Month movies” (read: any movie with a black main character) and an afternoon of “we met on the internet and they tried to kill me movies,” I realized it was finally time for me to not only move on to, but to also clearly define my recovery.

In the week leading up to my big 2-8 I made a few promises to myself. 1) I will never allow other people to define how far I go in life. 2) I will stop sitting on the talents God gave me. 3) I will embrace the plan He has set forth for my life and actively work towards the future I envisioned 4) I will make a ridiculously large sign and wake up extra early to spend my morning on the TODAY Plaza for my birthday. Which leads me to “today” (after an extended evening nap I’m a little delayed with my entry -being on time was never my strong suit )… Not only did my sign grab the attention of Al Roker (my favorite TODAY anchor) and producers of the show, it made “national news” (I’m using this term loosely) and was even tweeted by my managing editor (kinda cool).

In the future I still want the baby, husband house (did I mention money?) I always dreamed about in my younger years, but today I celebrate where I am, the wisdom I’ve gained and the amazing experiences that are sure to come my way. It wasn’t my ideal life at 28, but you know what… these things happen.

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