This is Life

One thing I’ve figured out in the last 36 years is, “This is Life.”  Today.  Right now.  There’s no waiting for a family, a promotion, a bigger house, another move.  My life started 36 years ago and it continues on every day… for as long as it lasts.

I took some time away from Facebook recently.  I was actually in a relationship.  Long-term.  Like I had plans on Valentine’s Day that actually included getting whisked off to the Caribbean.  No such plans lay in the horizon for me.  Minus a few tears early on, I actually feel alright about it.   

It was good to get away for a bit.  Seeing pictures of soccer moms with their perfect kids and in-unit (which means “in-really-big-house with outdoor space”) washer-dryers sometimes leaves a pit in my stomach.  Seeing pictures of soccer dads with their kids on their shoulders or a baby bjorn strapped to their chests sometimes makes my heart hurt.  After a while, the freedoms I enjoy (not needing a baby sitter on a Friday night while living my fabulous New-York-City-Life) don’t mean much when I prefer to stay in and watch a movie.   The opportunity to catch up on sleep feels less luxurious when I can’t stay in bed past 6:36 A.M. on Saturdays.  My response:

              

  Well, at least I’m pretty.  Like, really, really pretty.

My syntax is as lazy as my solace is weak.  

Still, I have really good stories to tell.  Just last week I had a promising first date.  Tall, handsome and successful, I fantasized about what it would feel like to have another first kiss.  The fantasy, it turns out, will have to wait. 

I left my keys at work, which happened to be in the same vicinity as his apartment.  He ordered an Uber and chivalrously offered to leave me with the car after his stop home.   He opened the door, let me in and hopped in behind me.  As soon as he closed the door, he shook a fist-sized can and squirted one, two, three times into his mouth.  He leaned in for a kiss and I recoiled. 

Confused, he offered me the canister for a quick spray, (as if that was the only thing keeping us from locking lips).

                Me:  No, thanks.  I’m good.

Him:  You sure?  It’s organic?  It doesn’t have any alcohol and it’s all natural, (as if the contents of the canister are what caused me to throw up in my mouth a little bit).

                Me:  Sorry, I don’t kiss on first dates.  (As if that is even remotely true.)

Thinking the ride couldn’t possibly get any longer, I say:

                Oh, I love this song, alluding to what was playing on the radio.  What kind of music do you like?

He spent the remainder of the trip serenading me (as in singing along) with the songs on his iPhone playlist and the air guitar he pulled out of his pocket.  The driver turned off my song.  The bonus round of the date was a Garage Band Concert.  I had front row seats. 

Is it just me, or does every man in New York have a severe emotional problem?

In all, life is good.  It continues.  I go to work and I actually love my job.  It’s not without its hiccups, but my company is legit and work-life is unbelievable.

I’m running again, but in moderation.  Bum knees.  I swim as much as I like except when I get my hair blow-dried.  Then it’s Shower Cap City for a week.  The mayor is black.

I started saving for retirement. 

I’m looking forward to visiting my family this summer in Michigan.  There is nothing more beautiful or serene than when my childhood memories of fresh cut grass and blooming flowers coincide with my reality of a cool evening breeze and dusk that lasts until 10 O’clock at night.  It’s perfect.  

This is my life. 

So, now you’re all caught up…

So… now you’re almost all caught up.

Except for what happened this weekend.

It’s part of why I have been avoiding Facebook.  I saw the post and refused to watch.  Then another.  Then it got to the point when I couldn’t continue to look the other way.

Then I wept. 

I cried tears that burned my eyes.  I held my stomach through the pain in my gut.  I struggled to breathe through the lump in my throat.  The emotional release I didn’t have for the end of my relationship came for a young girl in Texas.

A fourteen year old kid was violently assaulted by the police.  It was only one cop, but eight others stood by and watched.  They were complicit.  I watched the YouTube video like I would have watched a movie.  Disbelieving, I held my breath waiting for help that would never arrive.  When civilians tried to step in, the officer drew his loaded weapon in a threat to kill, an act that is routine against unarmed people of color.

I think about the humiliation, the fear, the physical pain this young woman must have felt.  I have trouble breathing because this girl is me.  She cried for her mother the same way I would have; perhaps the same way your own daughters might have cried for you.

I started this entry with recent anecdotes to remind you, my readers, of the woman you know.  Quirky, emotional, resilient, confident, forgetful, funny, American, proud, hopeful, ridiculous, normal, weird.  So weird.  Guilty of run-on-sentences and sentence fragments.  Multidimensional.  Me.  This is who I am.  But as much as I am all of these things, I am that black girl thrown on the ground in a bikini, held down by the knees of a grown man with thirty extra pounds pressed into my back, carrying a loaded weapon.  My brothers, smart and handsome with a kindness that is disarming, are the black boys handcuffed in front of their friends, spoken to like savages, treated like less than animals.    

I am saddened by how many friends and acquaintances I have that are at best apathetic about what’s happening in our country, at worst advocates of the injustice. 

I was called a nigger on the streets of Boston and my friends felt empathy.  I was showered with affirmation and love.  A social message on what happened felt trite to me then.  It feels even more so now.  This is life.  Today.  Right now.  I have to keep living.  But when you see me laughing, working, dating, running in Central Park and getting passed by moms with strollers, being silly, drinking wine, breathing, know that my heart is breaking.  It’s breaking for those kids in Texas.  They will never believe that the police will protect them.  It’s breaking for Mike Brown, Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, Kalief Browder.  And it’s breaking because if it’s not, your hearts should be breaking too. 

People Like Me

I wish I grew up in a time when someone like Lupita Nyong’o could speak to and for me.  This woman, black like the beginning of time, is absolutely one of the most stunning women to have ever walked the face of this planet.  And she, like me, knows what it is to feel shame over the color that God made us.

I’m perfect.  I mean, my hips are a little too big.  I do this weird ‘gasping for air’ thing, which is really quite conspicuous and embarrassing.  I have a big mouth that gets me in trouble (like, a lot; and not just with my mama).  I haven’t started planning for retirement.  I run the dishwasher when there’s still space on top because the bottom is full of my wine glasses (I’m not sure what this says about me, but I’m pretty sure it says something).  Other than that, I mean, I’m the bee’s knees, the cat’s meow.

This isn’t the first time I’ve made reference to the fact that growing up in Louisville in the late 80's and early 90's as a person of color was challenging.  While no one escapes grade school unscathed, my wounds creep over my shoulders, whispering doubts and insecurities into my ears as an adult.  The racial slurs thrown at me as a child have since transformed themselves in my mind.  You’re not smart enough.  You’re not pretty enough.  You’re not good enough.  Abby, the most courageous of my middle school classmates, was the only one to have ever stuck up for me:

“Leave her alone, guys!  She can’t help it that she’s black.  It’s her parents’ fault.” 

I was relieved.  Finally, someone understood that I didn’t want to be black anymore than they wanted me to be black.  I wished I looked like them; I wished I were white.  I was nine years old.

Fast-forward four years.  I’m a freshman in high school having a conversation with one of my best friends.   I tell her homosexuality is an abomination.  She tells me that someday I’ll have a friend who is gay and I’ll feel differently.  I reply:

That’s such a horrible thing to say.  Why would you ever wish that for me?

Years later, I realized she was gay.  She needed encouragement, I told her she was flawed.  She needed acceptance, I shut her out.  She needed love, I responded with hatred.  How had those words affected that young girl, my friend.  How have those words transformed in her mind.

Someone recently shared with me a comparison that was made between his sexuality and something else that was both offensive and cruel.  It broke my heart.  I was reminded of all the words that cut me deep enough to scar.  More than that, I thought about all the words from my mouth that had no doubt caused others similar pain.  My only consolation to this man was that she would one day wake up and realize she was on the wrong side of history.  Someday, this woman would be accountable for her actions, even if only to herself.  I did not share that she, like me, would need to atone for her cruelness.

We’ve been told it’s okay to shoot and kill unarmed children because the color of their skin scares us.  Beautiful Lupita is in the race of her young life for best supporting actress and the color of her skin matters to people like me.  People hide behind their religion to discriminate; it should matter to everyone but especially to people like me, Christians. 

I have forgiven Abby and I have forgiven myself.  Even though I cringe when I think about those callous words to my friend, they were said from a place of ignorance and I’ve become a better person.  Most of all, I’ve forgiven myself for self-hatred.  I’m quite sure that I’ve made up for it with years of conceit and self-aggrandizement.  

We’re all broken and we’re all breakers, each with varying intensities.  I often wonder what it would have been like to grow up without ever having felt inferior because of my race.  That period in my life fueled me to become better than them; to strive, every day to be the very best version of myself; the version that God intended.  Fortunately, that version comes in a beautiful shade of brown.  If you ask me, it should be genetically reproduced.  I am, after all, perfect; the world could use more people like me. 

My Extraordinary, Imperfect, Christian Life

Before I am anything, I am a Christian. Flawed, imperfect, sinful. Christian.

I live an extraordinary life, blessed in ways that would be in poor taste to list.  If I was on the outside looking in, I might be envious of this life.  My life.  But I’m on the inside looking out and it can be plagued with fear and insecurity and loneliness.  Ironically enough, I know that I am not alone in this sentiment and that many of you, in some way, can relate.

Readers, we left off with my hair on fire, dodging swingers on the train and getting dissed by 30-year old virgins.  What’s happened since then - spontaneous trysts, D-List celebrities, men who barely qualify for the ‘half my age plus seven rule,’ men for whom I barely qualify for the ‘half their age plus seven rule,’ old flames, cheaters, liars and stalkers – is, simultaneously, why I both love and disparage my life. 

Last Sunday, I manage to walk into evening Mass next to a major hottie.  I flash him a smile that says, How you doin’?  He follows me in and sits directly behind me.  I’m wearing yoga pants and my shirt doesn’t cover my rear.  In other words, I’ve got him – hook, line and sinker.  He catches up to me at the end of Mass and we walk home together.  It turns out that we live half a block away from each other.  It’s a sign, an early Christmas gift from the baby Jesus.  Dear Lord, thank you.  Amen.  We talk about everything two people could talk about in the time it takes to walk ten blocks during the middle of the Advent Season, including the undecorated Christmas tree in his living room.

Here’s where things get interesting.

Major Hottie: If you want, you could come over and help me decorate my Christmas tree.  That’s my place, he points.  You can see the tree in the window. 

LG: Eh.  I appreciate that you’re Catholic, but I’m not sure that I feel comfortable going up to your apartment when I don’t know you.  Maybe a drink sometime instead?

He gets my number and we end the evening full of promise.  It’s perfect.

When I arrive at my apartment I decide to keep walking.  I’m too excited to go home and slip into my Sunday routine – pajamas, blanket, Showtime’s Homeland and pinot noir.  Instead, I replay our conversation in my head.  Neither of us had ever met anyone in church before, obviously another sign.  Then I get an idea – a brilliant idea - to be fun and spontaneous and impulsive.  I don’t have his number, but I do know where he lives.  I’m going to surprise him.  In his house.  On a Sunday evening.  Unannounced.  I’ll grab a bottle of wine and we’ll decorate the Christmas tree and it will be perfect.  Everything will be perfect.  Brilliant.

Three closed liquor stores (it’s Sunday, after all) and 45 minutes later, I end up on his doorstep with a bottle of pinot noir (some routines I refuse to change), butterflies in my stomach and a hint of rationale thought.  Dear Lord, please don’t let me get murdered and stuffed in his freezer.  Amen.

I ring the doorbell and he buzzes me in without asking who.  I walk up the stairs and he meets me in the hallway, outside his front door.

Here’s where things get humiliating.

Major Hottie: I’m so sorry.  I’m expecting someone for dinner.  You have to go.  Right now.  I’m sorry. 

Dear Lord, sometimes you can be a real asshole.  Amen.

I leave.  My cheeks are flushed.  My ears are burning.  My heart is sunk. 

The following day in Bible Study I ask for God’s peace to be with me and feel the Holy Spirit guide me.  The lecturer tells us: If you have a question, take it to Jesus.  He will give you the answer.

I walk home through Central Park.  I normally listen to music, but I find myself searching, reflecting on His Word.  I am left with a rare silence in New York.  I can hear my own footsteps, the breath of the runners who pass me, the rhythmic sound of the horse and carriage riding through the park at my pace.

Lord, what do you want me to learn from this time in my life?  And since this conversation is happening completely in my head, I cannot help but add: In other words, I mean just look at me!  Why haven’t I found someone to share my life with?  (No, the irony of this is not lost on me either.)  When are you going to stop dicking me around?

I wait for the answer to come to me like a bolt of lightning, but I get nothing.  I ask again, this time deciding to think through the question like I would an assignment at work.

Lord, what do you want me to learn from this time in my life?

Here’s what I come up with:

1)      Trust in God.

Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your lifespan?  Let perseverance run its course.  How can I testify to God’s goodness if I don’t trust Him?  He has authority over every detail in my life.  TRUST HIM.

2)      Life is a gift.  Enjoy every moment, including this. 

As much as I am afraid that God will not answer my prayers, I am also afraid that He will.  I get bored and distracted very easily.  There will come a time when I feel all these things for the family God gives me.  It’s part of the package.  So when child services eventually comes knocking to ask why I hold my beautiful baby boy under water for minutes at a time, my answer will not be to mute his sweet little cries; instead, to prepare him to become a SEAL by strengthening his tiny little lungs.  Obvi.  You’re welcome, America.

3)      Grow up.

If it was just about looks, you’d already be taken.  Stop fishing for compliments from the Omega.  I know who and what you are because I created you.  So yeah, God thinks I’m hot.  His words, not mine.

One of the many ways that I am blessed is with an incredible group of diverse family and friends.  Not everyone can relate to my Christian faith.  Not everyone can relate to the equally exciting and disastrous dating life I lead.  And not everyone can relate to the bizarre sense of humor I have that makes me laugh out loud at my own jokes.  (To this last group, we are not friends, stop reading my blog, and there is only a slight chance that I will ever hold my baby under water for extended periods of time.)  What I think we can all relate to is the everyday hurdles we face with whatever place we’re at in life.  I turn 35 in a matter of days.  I thought I would be better, have more, want for less.  The greatest blessing in my life is the gift of faith and Christ’s peace that is given to me whenever I pray for it.  Readers, in this holiday season, I pray for that peace to be with you.  Please make room in your hearts to pray for me too.     

The Last Trip

No one understands how I get myself into these situations, least of all me.

I moved out of my downtown apartment last Friday, in preparation for a move to the Upper West Side, one of my favorite neighborhoods in the Manhattan.  My former apartment is by the Freedom Tower, which stands across from the 9/11 Memorial.  At any moment there are dozens of cops, bomb sniffing dogs and surveillance cameras.  It is also right next to Trinity Boxing Club, where I belonged for three months last winter.  I am friends with most of the trainers.  After recently seeing both White House Down and Olympus has Fallen, I’d argue that my old ‘hood is safer than the 1600 Block on Pennsylvania Avenue.

The apartment building, while nice, is kinda boot-leg.  The elevator goes out of service frequently and holding it open with any kind of object increases that frequency.  I have about 25 boxes and bags to put in storage before I move into my new apartment next month. I give myself 45 seconds to shove as many things on as possible when the elevator doors open.  It takes me as long to unload in the lobby.  I finish my move in three trips.  Yes, I am also quite impressed with myself.

The last trip.

I get all the way down to the lobby and there’s a man waiting for the elevator.  He’s tall, maybe 6”2, well dressed, athletic with dark hair and tanned olive skin. Though he is Caucasian, he has a foreign accent that I can’t quite place.  I soon discover that his accent is from the deepest pits of hell and that he is actually Satan.

I try to rush my boxes out of the elevator (whose doors I cannot prop open).  He stands over me as I shift my boxes across the threshold.

Lucifer: Why are you using this elevator to move?  Can you read?  Don’t you see the sign that says ‘You must use the service elevator for moves’ and you cannot hold the door open?

LG:  Not that it’s any of your business but the service elevator doesn’t go to the 11^th floor.  I’m not propping the door open.  This is gonna happen, so just get out of my way so I can finish.

This incites him.  I can see a physical change in his demeanor.  It’s aggressive.  He begins to berate me, swearing and insulting me, getting louder with each breath.  Clearly, I am no shrinking violet, but I am also thrown off guard by the situation.  He pushes past me onto the elevator while I still have a few things left, trying to hijack it along with half of my belongings.  Adrenaline fills my veins like an animated figure in a cartoon.  I block the elevator door with my leg (all the while unloading the last of my things).  This further infuriates him.  I see ripples of violence wash over his face, like a scene from a sci-fi show.  He takes a step back as if to wind his leg.  I brace myself thinking he’s going to kick me.  He kicks a hole in my box instead, screaming obscenities at me.

I.  Lose.  My.  Shit. 

I attack him.  Hard.  I push him against the elevator wall and punch him.   This catches him completely off guard.  I am afraid he is going to take a swing at me but he doesn’t.  I grab the last over-sized box, keeping it between the two of us.  He stays in place and I light the elevator up like Will Ferrell in Elf, pressing every floor until the eighth floor, his floor. 

“Enjoy your ride up, asshole,” I say in the most deadpan voice I can muster.  It’s over.  I start to process the most bizarre few minutes of my entire time in Manhattan.  How is this happening on my last day in the City?  Was this assault?  In what version does he relive or retell the story about what just went down and feel good about himself?      

Before I can organize my thoughts, he comes running down the stairs charging at me.  My heart races.  I am terrified.  He stops inches in front of my face. 

Lucifer:  I’m going to call the cops, you dumb… (I’ll let you use your imagination).  There are rules in this building and you cannot hold the elevator open whenever you feel like.  You’re going to pay for this.

Here’s what courses through my head in the first five seconds:  

I punched this man.  Why can’t I ever let anything go?  The elevator police are coming to get me and throw me into a paddy wagon with prostitutes and drunkards.  I’m too pretty to go to jail.  Someone’s going to try to scalp me for my hair.  Or take my face off.  Jealous bitches.  The pigs will never take me alive.

The sixth second:

I am a woman.  I am alone in a small, confined space with a man who is twice my size.  OK, fine.  He isn’t actually twice my size, but he easily has 40 pounds on me.  I am bullied; my property damaged; my physical safety questioned.

“Get the police,” I snap. 

I leave the apartment building, relieved to be out of danger.  I go next door to let my crew of burly boxers in on the situation.  I am not alone.  They flank me incase he comes back without the police.  It’s just like Michael Jackson’s video, Beat It.*  A choreographed street fight is about to go down.

Lucifer comes back with one of New York’s finest.  I show the Officer my Military Reserve ID to let him know that I’m a veteran and not bat-shit-crazy (shhh… this can be our little secret).  I recount the events shaking, my voice trembling and too aggressive for the police who repeatedly ask me to calm down.  As if.

Naturally, he was at fault.  I could have pressed charges for destruction of property, but ain’t nobody got time for that.  He gets a warning that if he does something like this again, he will go to jail.  I go back up to the 11^th floor to do a final walk through of my apartment.  I see my forgotten cane upstairs (I broke my foot earlier this year).  I grab it like a lost relic, clinging to it for safety.    

I am on the 11^th floor.  When the elevator door opens, he is there.  I know he lives on the 8^th floor.  Is he waiting for me?  Is he trying to hurt me?  Will he follow me off the elevator if I get out?  I lift my cane like a baseball bat. 

LG:  If you come near me, I will destroy you.

Clearly, I watch too many action pictures.  He takes a step back and begins to insult me again.  I keep my cane raised and draw it back.  He gets off on the eighth floor, but holds the door open with his hand continuing to taunt me.  Then he presses every button until the lobby, laughs and tells me to enjoy my ride down.    

When he moves, I get off after him and take the stairs the rest of the way down.  He follows me into the staircase.  I turn and threaten him again.  He stands inside the doorway of the staircase, yelling behind me until I’m out of sight.  I am terrified and run as fast as I can down the eight flights.  I never see him again.

I’m on a plane to Tanzania now, completely moved out of my apartment, technically homeless until my new apartment is ready next month.  I think about the last seven months of my experience in Manhattan; ordinary nights on the couch, salacious stories never to be told - all culminating in an adrenaline-laced rollercoaster.  I’m full of anticipation for the adventure that awaits me the moment I get off the plane.  I hope it is every bit as exciting and only a fraction as scary.  But knowing me, I’d ask you, my readers, if you receive an email from an African War Lord requesting money for my release from captivity, it’s probably safe to assume that it’s not a phishing scam.  Go ahead and send the money.  I’ll pay you back.    

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6B2wtC91_0U

One Day Closer

I moved to New York City knowing that the most exciting moments of my life would find me here.  They have.  So much, in fact, that I think it may be time for a move to South Dakota. 

March 2013

A handsome stranger flirts with me on the platform of the Acela train.  We grab a beer in the café car, talking and laughing for an hour.  He is successful, fun, and works for a bank not far from my office.  I am the most charming version of myself, and I know he is picking up what I am putting down.  My mind races to all the places it shouldn’t: picnics in the park, weekend get-aways, cozy dinners, sex (!) and (of course) having a great story to tell about how we met.  I am… ridiculous.

Imagine my disappointment then, when he tells me: “We are not a match.”

Irritation, shock and self-doubt wash over me. 

LG (Me): “Why”

SHS (Said Handsome Stranger):  “Because you said you were very Catholic, and I met my last girlfriend at a Swingers’ Party.”

LG: “Do you have sex with men?”

SHS: “That’s a personal question, but yes.  It’s a part of our lifestyle.”

LG: “You’re very intuitive.  We are definitely not a match.”

Invigorated by the memory of how great that initial spark can feel, I go home and decide I need professional help.  I activate my online dating profile because that’s just as sexy as meeting on the train.  Right?

I must admit, dating.com is fascinating.  Well, not literally www.dating.com; I just checked and it’s actually an escort service (with which I have no affiliation).  I mean, dating behind a computer screen.  In the loneliest city in the world, there’s comfort knowing that normal, attractive, educated, single people congregate to look for love men congregate to look for sex and women congregate to look for free drinks. 

April 2013

My girlfriend (stuck at work on a Friday evening) stands me up for a Festival we plan to attend together.  I go to the event alone.  Afterwards, I walk home with nothing to do on a gorgeous Friday night in the most bustling city in the world.  I feel pathetic.  I crash my roommate’s date with his girlfriend.  I pull open a bottle of wine and do what amounts to sitting between the pair on the couch during a rom-com.  We play Jenga and I get tipsy.  I graduate from wine to tequila and then… I go online.  Tragedy ensues.

I end up responding to a man who uses every manner of flattery to woo me in an email.  His pictures look great.  He is from Ireland, a former “professional” rugby player (whatever that means) and an investment banker.  I tell him to rescue me from my roommate’s date and we settle on grabbing a beer before he claims he has to meet his friends.  I down my tequila, crush my competition at Jenga and take off in search of adventure in Manhattan.

As soon as I see him, I know he is not the one.  His cheap cologne cloaks him in a five-feet radius.  His Irish accent is more Eliza Doolittle common than Gerard Butler sexy.  Still, I am happy to be off the couch on a Friday evening.  He speaks:

IG (Irish Guy): “Wow, you’re beautiful.”  This is normally enough to make me swoon. 

LG & IG:  Small talk, small talk. 

IG:  “So, tell me about your divorce.”

**Sirens and red flashing lights go off in my head.**

LG: “Nothing to tell, really.  We just got married too young.  What’s your story?”

IG:  “I was very Catholic growing up.  So much so that I was a virgin until I got married at the age of 30.”

**Missiles Incoming.**

IG:  “Then, two years after we got married, I found her in bed with her personal trainer and I guess she was sleeping with the whole town back at home. 

**Eject!  Eject!**    

IG:  “I moved to America and completely distanced myself from anything or anyone having to do with religion or God.” 

**Simulation Over.** 

I make the sign of the cross and chant, “The power of Christ compels you,” over and over like Father Michael in The Exorcist.

LG:  “I am very Catholic.”  And those of you who know me best understand my aversion to pre-marital sex, birth control, a woman’s right to choose and gay rights.  Naturally.

IG:  With a sour combination of condescendence and indignation: “This has no shot of working out.”  He chugs his beer, slams it down and says (angrily), “Good luck.  Enjoy the rest of your evening,” then storms out (like-his-hair-was-on-fire).

This is not a dramatization. 

I sit in the bar.  Alone.  Stunned.  Unbelieving. 

Captain Save-A-Ho witnesses this from the end of the bar and swoops in coming to my rescue.  I indulge it, yearning for validation.  I actually stand up, turn around, and show him my ass asking how a man (who, incidentally, I was not the slightest bit interested in) could turn himself away.  Delight sweeps his eyes and I realize I’ve gotten everything I wanted from the captain.  I bid him a good evening and walk home. 

May 2013

I leave my friends at a crowded bar with standing room only.  My feet are killing me and I am desperate for a taxi.  I see one across the street and run for it.  As I get there, I see a 6’7” tall, universally gorgeous, dangerously sexy man holding the taxi door open while people get out.  Not in the mood to stand one second longer, I get in before he has the chance and tell him we can split it.  The next morning I receive the following text:  “The highlight of my evening was the taxi ride home.” 

Trust me when I say that Lance, the only name that could do justice to this meet cute, is (on the surface) everything a man should be.  Our first date is perfect but there’s no invisible magnet pulling me across the table drawing me into him.  After a few half hearted texts and promises of a second date, I am neither surprised nor hurt when I do not hear from him again.   

June 2013

So, maybe I’m not ready to trade in my life in the Big Apple for the prairie lands of the Midwest just yet.  Manhattan is neither as glamorous as I want it to be, nor as overwhelming as it sometimes feels.  None of this is perfect, but all of it is exciting.  It’s a whirlwind of adventure, suspense, comedy, romance, drama, embarrassment, heartache, and time again failure.  I have no idea if I will meet the love of my life online or out of the pages of a Nora Ephron script.  But I do know that every day that I wake up is either the day that I will meet the one or at least one day closer.  

This Girl is on Fire

She's just a girl and she's on fire

Hotter than a fantasy, lonely like a highway

She's living in a world and it's on fire

Feeling the catastrophe, but she knows she can fly away

                 - Alicia Keys

Yeah.  It was kind of like that.

 My lover got me a ticket to Jamaica for Valentine’s Day.  When I say my lover, I mean my employer.  And when I say Jamaica, I mean Orlando, Florida for a client meeting.  So, maybe I didn’t get whisked off to the Caribbean (this time), but my Valentine’s Day was hotter than yours.  Believe it.

I sometimes wear my hair naturally and for me that means a bunch of curls.  It makes me feel a little spicy.  Like at any moment I’m going to hurt someone with a mere switch of my hips.  The first time I wore my hair naturally as an adult, it was to impress a boy.  He had a crush on a girl whose hair was curly.  She was also Latina, but with one of those really annoying Spanish accents that everyone finds sexy, except me.  It just made me want to punch her in the mouth.  She was a troll and I was fabulous (obviously).  I would make him see this. I would make him choose me.  Short of boiling a bunny, I decided I would make my hair look just like hers. 

What?  That’s not normal?

I had no idea what I was doing.  Out of the shower, my curls look great; at the beach, same-same.  So I imagined all I had to do was wet hair, towel dry and head out.  But by the time I got to work my hair was in a huge fro.  I was going for Selma Hayek-natural but instead looked like a meth addict.  Hot!  I had no rubber band to tie my hair back and no time to run to a convenience store.  So, instead of impressing my crush, I ended up terrifying him.  Honestly, I find it very unfair since he never even found the stash of memorabilia stolen from his office (used forks, dirty Kleenex’ and other such personal objects). 

I digress. 

Present Day. 

I carry extra hair ties in my bag… at all times.  I’ve also learned to wear my hair curly (it requires lots of product).  And I’ve got enough confidence in myself now that I’ve pretty much stopped stalking boys.

… 

Okay, that last part just isn’t true.  But my confidence level does (as you will see) border on the obnoxious.  That’s how all good stories start, though.  Right?

Last week, February 14^th, I walk into a bar to meet a guy I used to date, (but who now (like Biz Markie says) is just a friend), along with a bunch of his Navy buddies.  My hair is curly (product!), my makeup is flawless, my heels are fierce, and my jeans fit like a glove.  I smell delicious and it is literally and figuratively intoxicating.  Everyone in the bar is eating out of my hands. I’m not sure how many years, (or decades if I’m lucky) I have left of this, but for now, in this wonderful, magical carefree time, I’ve still got it and it feels beyond amazing.

So, my friend walks me to the back of the bar and pushes me against the wall (because girls really hate it when guys do this) and he kisses me.  Things get hot.  Too hot.  I begin to have sensory deprivation because nothing is matching up.  The sweet smell of hubris has been replaced with something foreign.  Something awful.  Something burning. 

My hair. 

My long, flowing, thick, beautiful hair.

It’s on fire. 

I am on fire.

I am on fucking fire. 

I shriek a scream so loud it sounds like murder.  It is murder.  My hair… has been murdered. 

My Navy friend, like all good sailors, skilled in the art of damage control, pats the fire out.   I run to the restroom, heart racing, whimpering like a slobbery buffoon.  The product in my hair caught an open flamed candle on the ledge of the wall I was leaned (pushed!) against.   I begin to pull chunks of burning hair out onto the floor and there seems to be no end.  The clumps - melted, charcoaled black clumps - keep coming out.  I have a lump in my throat.  My cheeks are flushed.  My armpits sweat.  I smell horrible.  The whole bar smells horrible and everyone knows who dealt it. 

I run out of the bar humiliated… like all good stories end.

Maybe it was a sign from Jesus to cut my hair.  Or to stop making out in public.  It’s difficult to tell because He does work in mysterious ways.  Six inches later, my hair is still long.  No one noticed my missing locks at work, which is a good sign.  Lord, in this your Lenten Season, if you want me to stop kissing frogs, please throw a couple of princes into the pond.  And might I add (respectfully), when you want to burn a bush in the future, please don’t use my hair.

I’m just a girl and I’m on fire.  I thought you knew.      

Thirty-Four

Today is my birthday.  I am 34.  This day has always felt magical to me, like anything is possible.  On this day, 17 years ago, I wished so hard that I would get kissed for the first time so I could stop practicing on my forearm.  Yes, I was a gigantic nerd, and I never did get that birthday kiss.  But in the last 17 years, I have kissed a lot of guys.  I mean, A LOT of guys (unless my parents are reading this, in which case I have kissed only three).  So I guess that means I’m kind of a big deal.  I am usually remiss in sharing my age; I’ve been 22 for the last twelve years.  But I am still smokin’ hot and being 34 gives that statement a lot more gravitas.  I mean, you don’t get to kiss ten (million) boys in your lifetime by being ugly.  More than that, I’ve got some battle scars from the last year and at 22, I couldn’t have done them justice.  I realize now that what makes this day, Boxing Day (the best thing about Canada), so special to me is more than having one magical day.  It’s about having one more magical year and using this day to stop and reflect; to count my war wounds and count my blessings; to set goals and wish for moments as exciting as my first kiss.   

Thirty-three.

I got laid off from my job this year.  Again.  It was scary and humiliating and frustrating.  I had a brand new mortgage.  I had a brand new surround sound system!  My juice cleanses were cut off.  I stopped shopping at Neiman Marcus.  It was terrifying.

I got my heart broken this year.  In an email.  On Thanksgiving Day.  Which I happened to read while (surprisingly enough) I was with my entire family.  It felt like I got sucker punched.  Through the smiles and jokes I forced for my family, all I wanted to do was crawl into a deep dark hole and cry.  I wanted to shed tears that sounded like a two year-old having a temper-tantrum, with random high-pitched screams and fist pounding and feet stomping thrown in for effect.  I wanted catharsis. I wanted comfort.  I wanted him. 

Those were two pretty hard blows, but 33 was still the most amazing year of my life.

I moved to a new city and made incredible, life-long friends.  I travelled to different countries and to Navy football games.  I saw my first Foxfield races.  I danced until the roof caught fire.  I bought an apartment, on my own, with my own money; and it is the most beautiful apartment in the history of apartments.  I drank my first gin-martini and it was absolutely delicious; I didn’t even have to pay for it.

I fell in love.  However fleeting and painful it turned out to be in the end, it was passionate and fun and beautiful and sexy.  And it gave me the promise for what I am capable of feeling and what someone, someday will be capable of feeling for me too.  As it turns out, that someone is probably going to be Jamie Foxx.  And we are probably going to get married.

Most of all, I got a fresh start.  Again.  I got a new job.  Lots of new jobs, actually.  After just over two months of being unemployed, I had my pick.  Having recently been rejected professionally and personally, it felt amazing to feel wanted again.  It felt magical. 

Thirty-four.

I’m moving to Manhattan.  It’s bitter sweet.  My new tenant came to look around the house and as she was telling me how much she loved it I got a lump in my throat and wanted to shove her out the door, then throw her jacket and purse out after her.  I love the life I had in Boston, but I’m so excited about moving to New York that I sometimes have difficulty sleeping.  That city catches my breath every time.  It is magnificent, electric, seductive; and moving there (again) scares the shit out of me. 

Turning another year older is daunting.  I don’t look quite as fresh or chipper first thing in the morning without makeup as my 22 year-old self.  I carry Tums to fight off Indigestion, my unwanted travel partner.  I worry about how many fertile years I have left and think about when the right time is to freeze my eggs.  I never had a thought of these issues in my twenties.  My thirties, layered with independence, responsibility and lactose intolerance, have been happier and more exciting than the entirety of its previous decade.  Thirty-three, with its highs and lows was truly extraordinary.  Thirty-four, with its wrinkles and achy bones, will be my greatest feat yet.  I am going to be the most fabulous version of myself and take Manhattan by storm.  Not just for today, but for the whole year, anything is possible.  My adventure starts now.