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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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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