About the time when a bird shat on me.

A bird took a shit on me today.  Two birds, I think.  Explosive shit, like they flew in from the nearby Chipotle.  It landed on my bare arm.  It hit the back of my favorite blouse - emerald green silk that complements my skin like it was crafted from samples of my DNA.  It seeped through the blouse, moisturizing my back like a mud bath on a humid New York City's day in August.  Lastly, it managed to hit three different spots of my black skirt.  Green and white and brown shit; this is what I wore all afternoon.

And I worked three hours later than I planned.

And I felt the weight of -

• all of my anxiety and anticipation, and the stress and the excitement of every detail of every minute of life I have ever lived and every change that will ever come to pass

• biology, working like a tiny dissolving pill in the champagne glass of a model meeting Bill Cosby for a nightcap, seducing my uterus into a rest it will later come to regret

• the laws of physics weighing against my body and making "bra-less" a much less viable option

• the emails I have yet to send

• the TPS reports I need to run

• the life I need to live

• the anxiety... the stress

- pushing down into my shoulders and creeping up the sides of my neck meeting in the soft curve at the base of my skull.

Wine.

Cold, dry wine.

The rowing machine and cold, dry wine.

The rowing machine.  Cold, dry wine.  A spoonful of almond butter for dinner.  My favorite sports bra and Nike tank packed away for tomorrow's workout.  A crisply made bed of cold sateen sheets waiting to be broken.

The anticipation... the excitement.

Multiple birds took a shit all over me today - while I was talking about something real.  I don't know about you, but Nina and I are (jazz scat) feeling good.

On how I lost 12 pounds in two and a half months

I'm not a nutritionist.

I'm not a personal trainer.

But this is my story.  And I'm sticking to it.

I'm not one of those people who loses weight when I'm depressed or lonely. I just eat a lot and stay bundled on my couch. It's a great couch. And I'm my favorite company.

I went through a break up in the middle of May. It was a long time coming so I got over it pretty quickly.  But I'm not an asshole and I wasn't about to stay on my couch (as fabulous as it is) and cry about it. I started filling my time at the gym.  It wasn't crazy; three spin classes a week.

Two weeks later I was dating. Two weeks later I went online for a distraction.  I ended up getting cat phished. If you don't know what that means, look it up. It's actually a great story for another time.  Look for it in, "The Great American Novel, by Lonelli Gonzalez."

I deleted my online dating profile. I don't have time for all that.  I added "walking" to my workout routine instead.

At this point, reader, we are three weeks into a ten & 1/2 week process.

I could say that boys didn't have anything to do with getting me to the gym, but you wouldn't believe me. And that's fair since it would be a lie.  But I'm here for you, dear reader.  To shout from the mountaintop to share ten tips on how I lost 12 pounds in 2.5 months.  The boy stuff is just ancillary.    

1. Go through a break up

This strategy has always been tried and true for me.  So you might be thinking, But I don't want to leave my boyfriend/husband/partner/lover. Well, I question your commitment, but fine. Maybe there's another area of your life that needs some spring/late summer cleaning. A friend of mine packed her life up and moved to LA just to get a fresh start.  It was the bravest thing I've witnessed all year.  What part of your life could use some "tweaking?"

2. Become a morning person

I get my work outs done first thing in the morning.  Whatever comes up for the rest of the day - work, drinks, spontaneous dates with a boy you ran into while walking your imaginary dog in front of his apartment - you've got your work out in already.  Sure, sure. I was in the military and I had to get up at all hours of the morning and night. But it doesn't mean I was born that way. It's a decision that leads to a lifestyle.  You'll notice it also changes the way you choose to eat throughout the course of the day.  

While you're at it, make your bed in the morning.  I don't mean throw your sheets over your pillows.  I mean, put a nice crease in your sheets and make sure you can bounce a quarter off it.  You'll see how making your bed every single day will change the way you face the world.

3.  Get a gym crush

And flirt.  Seriously.  You'll have a much better work out if you've got an audience you want to impress.  And speaking of impressing:

4. Buy new shit

You should be excited to get dressed up for the gym and feel like the cutest version of yourself.  If you have a hot new top, you'll be excited to show it off.  Spend money on the things you want to make a priority.  This could also mean buying new accessories for your bike, getting a new Garmin, or buying a training package at the gym.  And since you are going to the gym, you're not spending money eating out.  Speaking of which:

5. Eat what you want

But only in moderation.  I stopped having grits with eggs and cheese for breakfast at the cafeteria.  That's a weekend meal.  Now I have two hard boiled eggs and banana.  I also drink coffee (who have I become!) but it helps abate my appetite and it keeps me, ahem, regular.  

Sometimes I have a spoonful of almond butter for dinner.  Is it the healthiest thing in the world?  Well, I already told you I'm not a nutritionist.  But it helps me shrink my stomach and the next morning, I see a difference. 

I'm not perfect.  This month alone I've had a Sprinkles cup cake two Sprinkles cupcakes and a cheeseburger Happy Meal.  Stop judging me, you judgy judger.  Avoid binging, but don't think of indulgences as weakness.  Live a little.  I'm just saying after a little living maybe eat like Kate Moss for a meal or two, no? 

6. And this is a BIG one...  Don't drink alone

Oye.  You and the judgement!

Yes, I wish I was writing this with an oversized glass of Sauvignon Blanc.  But I'm drinking an ice cold glass of water to wash down the boring tuna salad I had for dinner.  Forming a habit of having a glass (or two or three) of wine or a beer (or two or three) after a long day of work is really easy.  And really expensive.  Breaking the habit takes a concerted effort but once you do it's not so bad.  Now I put the money I would have spent towards a top that subtly shows off my back.  Which now has muscles.  Speaking of muscles:

7. WORK OUT.  Consistently

I've always loved working out.  But I've fallen out of routines time and time again.  Tips 1-6 on the list helped me get consistent and now that I'm back, I love it.  I live it.  I work out 10-12 hours a week and I have so many endorphins I feel like I'm dancing off the walls.  I am so happy.  Every single day, I'm happy.  I look forward to my work out.  I look forward checking out my progress in the mirror and on the scale.  I look forward to having someone else notice how much weight I've lost.  

Like my hips, I keep my workouts spicy (what does that even mean?).  Weights, classes, spinning, rowing (great for your core), stair master, running, sprint work outs, swimming, elliptical machine.  I downloaded the "Nike Training" app which gives me some tips if I'm not sure what to do in my work out.  When I'm in a rut, I ask the trainers at my gym if they have any suggestions on what I can do.  

If you're ever in doubt, having that dreaded debate: should I go to the gym or should I... (pay my taxes, watch TV, read a book, go shopping, bathe my child, jump out a window)... GO TO THE GYM.  Every time.  Seriously.  Don't make it a choice.  Just go.

8. Talk about it

This will help you be about it.  How often do you talk about Game of Thrones or professional sports/players?  You talk about the things that are important to your life.  Maybe you get a workout buddy.  Maybe you write a blog (copy cat). 

9.  Be naked

This is a big reason I can't have a roommate.  Be comfortable enough with your own body to look at it.  Take a minute to look back at it too.  Know every curve, every mark, every dimple.  Fall in love with your body and be its biggest champion.  Being comfortable naked has a few implications for me:

a. I flex my stomach.  With practice, it's a state of being and it happens even while you sleep

b. I'm more confident.  I'm comfortable with my body.  I loved it twelve pounds ago.  I just love it even more now.

c. I notice subtle changes to my body and it is my biggest motivation to keep going

d. I save time at the gym not worrying about who's gonna see me (thanks, NAPS)

10. And this is what it comes down to...  Love yourself.  LOVE (!!!) yourself.  

This is the one body you have for the rest of your entire life, which, as far as we know, is equivalent to eternity.  Be good to it.  That means be good to yourself too.  I have room for improvement.  But I don't focus on my flaws.  I focus on the way my curves can stop a man in his tracks.  I think good thoughts about myself because I love myself.  Don't be afraid to say that out loud.  It's great to have a cheer squad of family and friends.  But you're the captain of that team.  Earn the spot.       

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.