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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