Clearly my new haircut and 90s childhood inspired my Mother the stylist
“You should wear that,” my mother said as she pointed to a model standing center floor in a 5th Avenue Department Store.
We had decided to spend a Sunday afternoon shopping for spring clothes together. I had one of idea of the type of wardrobe I wanted to cultivate this year. She clearly had another.
“THAT” was a crop top.
A crop top.
My mother, the woman who was constantly telling me that skirt was too short for a woman with legs the size of mine was advocating that I wear a shirt that barely covered my nipples.
“That’s not a shirt,” I told her. “That’s a collar.”
“I saw Kevin today,” she continued, ignoring my refusal to show off my upper abs as she pulled a shirt “my size” off the rack. “He’s gorgeous, of course, and almost done with Law School now. He doesn’t want to move in with that girl, which means it’s not serious. You should call him. Worse case, he’ll have some friends.”
It was a this point I tip-toed away to look at maxi-dresses. I’ll do backless, but I won’t do shrunken. I might be a child of the 90s (we thought crop tops were so cool), but I’ve grown up a bit. I was also not in the mood to discuss Kevin — if this was still the age of arranged marriages, our parents would have has us hitched a decade ago. Frankly, I don’t think this would have worked out badly for either of us.
When it was time to cash in on the fitting room, I noticed hidden in among the many silky floral printed blouses and high-waisted skirts of my choosing were more belly-baring numbers my mother deemed appropriate for the new season.
Was my mother recommending I start rocking this look on Saturday night!??!
“What are you trying to tell me, mom?” I said, handing her back the arm-full of short shirts.
“Well, you know some things to wear when you go out. Maybe it’s time to change things up a bit. Maybe a little less top-shelf and a little more sorority girl? Maybe it’s a less intimidating look. I mean, you go to the gym, don’t you?”
I secretly hoped she was flasking it.
“Take these out and try again.”
She came back with a stunning striped Equipment blouse that fell neatly below my hips.
“Just testing you!” she cried. “I wanted to make sure you hadn’t turned desperate on me.”
I wasn’t sure if I all the way believed she was punking me, but when the only thing I went home with was the blouse she found on the replay, I was willing to forget the whole crop-top incident ever happened.
This Equipment blouse made me willing to forget the whole crop-top incident ever happened.
The first thing I do when I walk into his apartment is take off my watch. Usually, I lay it on a coffee table, next to my phone, which is on silent. Sometimes, I put it in that mystery pocket in my purse so I don’t forget it like I did that one Saturday. I like my watch. It’s a classic silver and gold Raymond Weil that was a 21st birthday present. I take it off as a courtesy – I’m letting him know I’m not in a hurry to leave (and I wouldn’t want the clasp to get stuck on his belt buckle, if things go that way.) What happens next is still to be determined, but whatever it is, it starts with a refusal to acknowledge time.
Between now and when I put my watch back on, there are not minutes or hours.
Time melts away when two people decide to melt together. Thanks, for this Dali.
The world stops for two people in love, or lust, depending on how you want to look at it. A romantic concept, no? Did you know I was that much of an idealist? Clearly, you weren’t there when I cried during that scene in that movie…
“You’ve been going non-stop,” a boyfriend said to me as I plunked down on his couch. “Tonight, you’re here. I want you to pretend you’re on vacation. We’re going to do whatever makes you feel like we’re somewhere else.”
It was probably the last romantic gesture he made before becoming an ex-boyfriend, and it was probably one of the most meaningful. Part of what we look for in a significant other is someone who will share life’s challenges with us, but also someone who will help us escape from them. When the going gets tough, he helps soften the blow. It’s not simply that we need someone to vent to. It’s that we need someone to distract us, to remind us everything is really very good, or that it’s about to be very good.
Tomorrow, I need to take my watch to Torneau for a new battery. The date has fallen behind by two weeks and the second hand only moves in increments of 7 seconds now. If I wait any longer it’ll stop all together. If I were a student on assignment, I’d probably try to make a metaphor here — say something like, maybe my watch is trying to tell me something about this new guy. I only just got the battery replaced, after all. Be thankful I’m not a student on assignment.
The French, apparently, go from kiss to couple faster than a La Mans race car.
“You Americans and your rules of dating!” He said teasingly, before kissing me.
Our conversation of cultural comparisons had revealed that the French don’t date and they don’t play games. They go from zero to first kiss to bonafide couple in 60 seconds flat. Perhaps this is not surprising for a nation home to La Mans and “la langue de l’amour.”
“As far as rules go when it comes to love, I only have one…” I replied.
I’ll come back to that later.
A few days earlier, I dropped into my favorite department store to cash-in on (or drop cash on?) its annual spring make-up event. Double points. Free gift tote with samples. What do you mean I don’t need another red lipstick? Of course I do! Natasha, the facial-care brand representative who had introduced me to the benefits of toner and weekly exfoliation, was more keen to catch-up on life than sell me eye cream. I was happy for the free make-up application and girl chat.
Under the influence of pink ginger ale, I divulged that I had stumbled out of a relationship and immediately into a new fling with a foreign suitor. Her eyes opened wide and she put down her lipstick pencil.
“Just remember, you have a lot of things going for you. Above all you have the advantage of youth — after you turn 30, men will lose interest.”
Pause.
Context: Natasha is hot and exotic. She has a boyfriend who treats her like a queen. She refuses to get married. She is in her 50s and looks 25. Seriously. She is the best advertisement for $500 face cream in the world.
Resume.
The only games I’m interested in playing are ones like Monopoly
“There are lots of rules out there to playing the game, but there are only a few that matter. Here they are:
1. Make him wait a month before you sleep with him. That’s just long enough to become friends so the sex is better. Any longer and he’ll go looking for it elsewhere.
2. Never let a man walk all over you. Be confident in who you are. A man should enhance your life. Not make it.
and 3. Don’t settle for anyone that doesn’t spoil you rotten. You’re wonderful. You’re a princess and deserve to be treated that way. A man that doesn’t pay at dinner will cheat you in other ways. And watch out for French men. They’re fantastic in bed, but they usually have a mistress. I work for the French. I’ve seen it all.”
Natasha’s words of wisdom blew my mind. And not because she had basically told me my prime only lasted two years. No, mostly because other than #1, her rules sounded less like rules and rather mottoes to date by.
We all acknowledge that dating is a game — this is an unfortunate reality that bothers the hell out of me. The only games I like are Monopoly and Scrabble (which I’m terrible at, but play with competitive enthusiasm/optimism). But I think we misuse the word ‘rules’ when we talk about dating. I prefer to think of these things — things like deciding when a couple takes certain steps — as guidelines, suggestions, a roadmap in finding what will make us happiest in the long run. It’s easy to find someone to go to bed with. Less easy to find someone that will make our whole lives better.
My one rule in dating is simple: Follow my instincts. Not just when it feels right, but also when it feels wrong.
Before I sign off, Natasha gave me one more morsel of wisdom and it’s the insight I might just love the most:
“A good relationship is like a good pair of shoes. A good pair of shoes don’t need breaking in. They fit you right and feel comfortable from the first step. That’s what you’re looking for. You don’t need life blisters.”
A good relationship shouldn’t remind you of this Marilyn Minter painting… #artnerd
“If you feel comfortable to go on a date on Valentine’s Day, we could go out then.”
I had planned on avoiding Valentine’s Day this year. Those plans involved signing the lease on my new Range Rover Evoque and going for a kind of joy ride. Heading north a ways. Away from the red mylar heart-shaped balloons and pink doillies bombarding you at every store from Duane Reade to Saks. Perhaps I’d go somewhere I could test my new car’s off-roading capabilities, or take it somewhere where I could get lost on my snowshoes (but not really lost, cuz it’s winter and that would end badly.)
My stomach churned a little bit at his text message. A Valentine’s Day first date with the most stunning and potentially most interesting man you’d ever met? This was bound to go as badly as my snowshoeing without a map plan.
This puppy was my best Valentine’s Present
I am famously neutral about Valentine’s Day. I have a knack for ending relationships ahead of the holiday, and so I can’t remember if I have had a legit Valentine. My mother often comes to my rescue, buying me necklaces, or chocolate, or shapewear to help me turn future first dates into second dates. I’ve also fulfilled the day’s requirements by going bar-hoping with plantonic male friends.
This year, my right hand in the office, my Gallery Coordinator and I agreed to be each other’s Valentine. I’m taking a comp day on Valentine’s Day, so I cheated and gave her a box of truffles on Wednesday.
The best Valentine’s present I ever got was Kasey, my Cairn Terrier. She was a grey-black puppy who I nicknamed my Blue Valentine. She liked to chase feet and sit on my lap while I sat at my desk, writing on my laptop.
When this man asks you out on Valentine’s Day, you say yes.
“Do you think he’ll bring you flowers?” my girlfriend Sammy asked when I told her I’d accepted the invitation from the European PhD who bore an uncanny resemblance to Rupert Penry Jones.
While I’d welcome the gesture, I confessed, part of me hopes he won’t. They’d totally steal the thunder from my new car — I’m a sucker for flowers.
She, like everyone else I’ve seen in the last week, doesn’t believe that I really mean it when I say I’m okay.
No, I’m not okay. I’m great.
They keep waiting for the waterworks to start again, the way they did last Thursday when every inquiry into what was wrong started a lip quiver. Like all good things, a relationship that seemed to be going in a good direction ended. Perhaps, more abruptly than we would have liked, but sometimes, when it isn’t love, you just have to rip the bandaid off and get it over with.
Break-ups suck, even the good ones. Each has its own recovery path and time. Sometimes, there’s the shock of the loss to overcome. Every one is has its mourning period where you remember the good times and come to terms with the fact there won’t be any more. Then there comes the anger – at the ex, at the “system.” Next, you press the restart button and begin your make-over as you prepare yourself for the road ahead.
Being emotional after a breakup gets you pity drinks from friends. Being rational gets you nothing but a “thata girl!”
Sometimes I wish I was more emotional and less rational. Being emotional gets you out of work early and earns you pity drinks from friends. Rational gets you to the restart period faster — 3 days later and I’m already several ab workouts, a manicure, and a date with my stylist in. I don’t think I’m going to cry again.
This break-up came with an unusual stroke of clarity. I’ve decided that the hurt or pain following the end of relationship is the less daunting challenge to overcome – harder to conquer is the fear of the “what’s next.”
For every end of a significant relationship, a significant question lingers.
After the one that got away: Will I ever love someone that much again? So far, No.
After the one I left behind: Will someone ever love me as much as he did? So far, No.
After this last one: Will I ever be as comfortable being myself as I was with him? So far, TBD.
The path to finding love ever lasting is an uphill marathon
The feeling that something’s missing, or that something you had can’t be replicated with someone new — that’s what gets ya down and keeps you there for a while. Makes you swear off falling again. Or lowers your bar for the next person. Or adds another layer of bricks and mortar to the wall around your heart.
Endings are supposed to be new beginnings, but the truth is, new beginnings are hard. First dates are fun and easy. But getting to 4th, 5th and 6th dates — when you start the uphill slog towards trust and a committed relationship — that’s the most testing part of the cross-country marathon that is finding everlasting love.
For now, I’m on the bench for a while. It’s time to treat the wounds and seek the trainer. The course ahead is a long and tricky one. I need to be ready before I get back in the race.
I was in the middle of my whiskey phase. Mad Men had nothing to do with it.
It was late on a November Saturday night in 2012 when I sauntered into my favorite cocktail lounge with an unusually high spring in my step. I nodded with a chirpy hello to the bouncer whose scarred eyebrow and barrel-sized biceps hinted at the fact his day job was cage-fighting coach. I slipped into my favorite corner seat at the bar and leaned across to give the bartender, Kay, my best girl friend’s boyfriend, a warm hello.
He looked at me puzzled. She had called him earlier to warn him I might be coming from a rough night — I’d need taking care of, she suggested. The chipper red-haired girl in the tangerine top didn’t look like she needed taking care of.
“Something strong?” Kay asked.
“Yes, please! I’ll have a Manhattan.”
Seconds later, he slid a martini glass under my nose, a rich copper-hued drink sloshed but didn’t jump over the edges. I was in the of what can only be labeled a Whiskey-phase. Mad Men had nothing to do with it. The Manhattan had replaced the Tanqueray10 martini as my go-to night out indulgence and a Jameson on the rocks was my new dive bar safe bet. All it took was one sip and I knew this was the best Manhattan I’d ever had, was ever going to have. Liquid gold. When he slide a small carafe with the “leftovers” from the shaker (the equivalent of a second drink), I figured I was satisfyingly set for the night.
I was alone on a Saturday night, drinking a whiskey drink and content. Sitting next to me was another loner, and apparently, another regular. Kay introduced the robust and somewhat rotund young man to me as Joe, and since I was already onto the carafe, I was in a mood to chat… and over share.
I was newly single. So I let the Tony Soparno look alike buy me a 3rd and 4th drink… mistake.
Joe was a well-manner Jerseyite who could easily have passed for an extra on The Sopranos — perhaps even a younger Tony Soprano, in the right over sized golf shirt. We talked about the Yankees and our favorite restaurants. Even though his waistline was evident of a life spent mostly eating out and watching sports rather than playing them, Joe was a top-shelf kind of guy, which roughly translates into my kind of person.
“Are you always such good company?” Joe asked, as I neared the end of my drink and in theory, the end of my night.
“I broke up with my boyfriend an hour and a half ago.”
In my head, that answered the question. Isn’t every girl extra charming and cheery after she breaks up with the guy who sent her flowers on her birthday and talked about spending the rest of his life with her?
“Shouldn’t you be crying with your girlfriends, or something? You’re in an awfully good mood.”
I shrugged and took the final slug of my drink (technically, my second, though I had convinced myself otherwise.)
“It’s a relief, to be honest. That it’s all over. I wanted to throw up the whole day before it happened. Now, I couldn’t be in a better mood.”
Wait. The irony is coming.
“You’re not leaving yet are you?” Joe chripped as I began to fumble for my wallet — a perfunctory motion as I knew tonight’s $15 beverage was likely on the house. “You’re newly single. Let me buy you another.”
I looked at my watch — I’d already missed my train and my rule is to never let strangers buy me drinks. But, really, what harm would another drink do? I was newly single, after all. Joe fancied himself a cocktail connoisseur and ordered me what I vaguely recall him calling a Manhattan Perfect. I could be totally wrong, but it seemed to fit because drinks 3 and 4 (Kay and his damn carafe!) were perfectly toxic.
The Burberry trench coat fell victim to one Manhattan too many, but recovered in time for a trip to Prague.
I wobbled out an hour later, convinced I was totally sober and even a little proud for being able to hold down so much whiskey. But as I stood on the subway platform, I realized I was in for it. When I vomited all over my Burberry trench coat and silk jersey tangerine Theory top, I knew I had just been taught a lesson. There is such thing as too much whiskey.
And I had just become that girl who throws up on the last train out of Grand Central.
I vomited two more times — once on the sidewalk at my home station and once again in the trashcan next to my bed — before finally falling asleep. In the morning, the only reminder of the previous night’s break-up and excess was my tangerine top, soaking in the sink, a few bits of undigested orechette and broccoli floating beside it. I might have been sloppy, but at least I clean up after myself.
The purging of my stomach contents so soon after finishing my last sip might have saved me from a hangover, but it also killed my taste for whiskey. And that favorite tangerine top, while the stains are long gone, will always be that shirt I threw up on the night I broke up with the Admiral. At work on Monday, I was greeted with an email from Joe asking to take me out for dinner somewhere I could never afford on an non-profit employee’s salary. Apparently, I had given him my business card. I had been back on the market for less than 24 hours and already I had a suitor. I politely declined.
Last night, I poured a heavy draw of McMallan 12, figuring it was a perfect companion drink on a cold winter’s night dedicated to writing a curatorial essay. With a new boyfriend at my side and the past year behind me, I figured I could handle my first whiskey in over a year. One sip and the room began to spin and my stomach began to turn. Apparently, at least for this girl, it’s easier to recover from a relationship gone wrong than from a bad night of drinking.
This kitty is never drinking Whiskey again…. Tanqueray is still on the table, however.
They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband 