Posts Tagged ‘relationships’

24
Jan
2018

a social life

categories: california, me

I’ve been thinking about friendship a lot lately. Partially because I finally joined the 21st century, Instagram, and am therefore bombarded with images of happy cliques; and, partially because I’ve just moved 3,000 miles away from the place I have called home for the past 15 years. It’s gotten me to this too real place of acceptance and clarity.

In your 20’s everyone is your friend: people from high school, pals from college, work colleagues, friends of friends. You take em all. It’s like a decade of fishing where you don’t throw any back.

Then, in your 30’s you start pruning. Weeding out the emotional vampires and the “all drama all the time” crew. Some of it happens naturally–an illness in the family forces some friends to step up and others to show their true colors. Marriage, kids–some fall away naturally. You switch jobs/careers/partners and you find yourself with fewer and fewer friends. Which is actually pretty great–you spend more time with the people you genuinely love and who genuinely love you.

So, you’re chugging along, happily, with your perfect little crew of good friends. Then, all of a sudden, you make this giant life-change. And, it’s the right thing and everyone supports you but distance. Distance, man. It’s real. Time differences and work schedules, bedtimes and familial obligations and just life. Life in a new place happens. You have to restart your career and re-acclimate your kid. You have to find (or maintain) that inner circle all over again. But, how?

There are a trillion articles about making friends in your thirties. My problem isn’t making friends it’s maintaining friendships. How does one find the time as an adult? How do you prioritize friends over family or over self-care or over laziness and fatigue? How do you balance it all? This isn’t one of those, “how can we have it all” questions. This is just a very real query: how does one find the time and energy to be social in your late thirties–with a partner and a kid and a house and a career?

Where are all those extra hours the enviable #girlsquads on instagram seem to have?

 

19
Jan
2018

depression

categories: me

It didn’t happen all at once.

The pieces seemed small and unrelated–a quilt that hadn’t yet been sewn to make a cohesive thing.

I couldn’t leave the house without makeup.

I didn’t know it was one thing. I chalked it up to the move, to my new job, to my sudden weight gain and physical discomfort.

I watched the scale tip slowly toward a number I’d never seen before, packed bags of too-small shorts for the thrift store, ordered secret clothes online and hid them in my closet.

It seemed like a myriad of things–a response to stressful life circumstances.

I cringed at the bling sound of texts, the flood of my inbox, looking at my calendar would send my stomach into knots and my heart racing.

It never occurred to me to call it something. It never dawned on me that my behavior was becoming distant, dissonant, even to me. My sense of identity, of belonging, my sense of self.

I would fantasize about cancelling engagements, come up with lies to get out of meals, shows, dinners, walks, trips. I didn’t want to see or be seen.

It didn’t manifest in a day–it slowly came over me, covering me like a heavy quilt until I felt cradled by it, enveloped by it, identified with it, as it.

I’d talk about wanting to get better but sink into self-doubt and confusion trying to name what I needed to get better from.

Friends started commenting on my inability to sit still–a paper was misplaced and needed to be straightened, a crumb was in sight and needed to be swept.

I stayed up at night–every creak of our old house sent shivers down my spine. I knew it was an intruder. I scanned the room for objects that could be used as weapons. I slept with the bathroom light on.

It never occurred to me that my growing social anxiety and paranoia could be related. That my low self-esteem and my desire to binge-watch t.v. could be interconnected. Pain masked by habit, fear disregarded as a side-effect.

I knew people with depression. That wasn’t me.

I’m a normal person. I exist in this world with the same number of problems as anyone else, probably less. I’ve got a great partner, a wonderful kid, a job I like.

 

21
Jan
2016

how do you choose

categories: california, new york

One life from another? One path, one career, one place to call home?

I’ve never been one for metaphors. I’m sort of a you-get-what-you-see kind of a gal. I’m all easy-to-understand colloquialisms. Direct. Simple, even. Literal. I lack mystery, I lack intrigue. I don’t write poetically, I don’t even know how to. I end sentences with prepositions. And start them with conjunctions. I’m not eloquent and that’s okay.

Moving back to my hometown is so bittersweet. On the one hand, it’s exactly what I want and I can’t imagine a better life than the one I can lead there. On the other hand, leaving New York somehow feels like some intense failure. Leaving New York without having accomplished…I don’t even know–some level of success, fame, fortune, something!

I have not lived in my hometown as an adult. Ever. So, realistically I have no idea what to expect. It’s possible that we will be earth-shatteringly, ridiculously, unbelievably happy there (I hope!). But, it’s just as possible that we will get there and be like, wait what? What the fuck is this?

You weigh these giant things (housing, transportation, family, education) and make pros and cons lists and try to imagine where you and your family will be happy and inspired. And, then you just jump. You stop thinking about the lists, you stop concerning yourself with all the things you’ll leave behind and focus, instead, on all the things you have to look forward to.

Then, in a state of total confusion and anxiety, you remind yourself that it is not wise to focus solely on what will be better or else you doom yourself to disappointment and depression. For, it is true that you will be overjoyed by the ease of grocery shopping. But, you will be equally dismayed by the non-co-op prices that will keep you from ever buying spices or fancy cheeses again.

And, so. Life. Life at its very best and its very worst. Present becomes past and future becomes present. And, past becomes present in my case. If you get what I mean. Oh, it’s all so confusing and a jumble of emotions. And soooo muCH STRESS! Just gobs and gobs of it. No matter how much you plan ahead. No matter how far in advance you begin the process of packing up your life and purging your past. No matter how many outings you make in preparation for the big goodbye. No matter how many farewells you amass. It will never be enough and it will always feel like too much.

And, so. You can’t win. Or, if you look at it in a different light: you can’t lose. If it will never be enough, stop trying to make it so. And, then magically, the stress sort of falls away. We will be back in New York–this is not the last time we will be in this city. And, in fact, coming back as a tourist allows much more room to do all of the things you want to do when you are stressed out and working too hard and overburdened by a crazy life. Tourists have all the time in the world. Nowhere to go and everyone to see. So, tea at The Plaza a la Eloise will have to wait. The famous Brooklyn Pizza off the J street Q train can happen next year. Whatever. It’s fine.

For now, it’s all about getting out and enjoying the process (as much as is humanly possible). And, let’s not kill each other in the process, husband. Okay? Because wow, people aren’t kidding when they say moving is tough on a marriage. All those big decisions and two people–each with their own attachments and ways of dealing with stress, each with their own expectations and ways of communicating. And, wow. It’s not easy. It is, in fact, quite difficult.

 

04
Jan
2016

processing

categories: me

It’s amazing to me how much bitching is required in order to process crap situations or encounters. Conversation after conversation retelling the same slight, emphasizing your side in the way only you can, which is to say: without any understanding of the other persons (possibly totally legitimate) perspective. In my head, I am like, so evolved–a skillful communicator, problem-solver, capable of being unemotional, objective and compassionate all at once. But, really, I’m mostly just wading in a pool of toxic emotions–a place where envy and self-doubt reign supreme–where judgments, misunderstandings, inconsistencies and pure acrimony live amongst dread and apathy. This is an image of myself that just doesn’t fit with the one I have in my head. It’s discouraging to upset the portrait of this joyful, optimistic, driven and contented person. The thing that is even more difficult to grasp is the fact that in reality, I am both. Perhaps not all at once. But, certainly I am one thing in one moment and another under contrasting circumstances.

Upon playfully teasing my hubby about his snoring it came out that the reason he gets so defensive when I report the behavior is because being “someone who snores” just doesn’t fit with his own self-image. I laughed at first but then it made complete sense to me. There are all of these things–the way we look, the way we respond to situations, where we work, what we wear, how we speak–that define the version of ourselves we have in our heads. When someone on the outside challenges one of those things–however small the detail may seem to them–it completely breaks down that self-image. “But, I’m quirky, eccentric, unpredictable! It’s a good thing, right? Right?” I found myself saying during an argument where my husband scolded me for something or other I had said–something that seemed lighthearted and funny and joke-y and me. There are things about myself that I believe. I believe them wholeheartedly and any attempt to undermine the me-ness of me is an attack on who I am at my core. In my head these things are unchangeable and factual and permanent. But, they’re not. We grow, we change–slowly sometimes, more quickly other times–sometimes without even realizing it. Our “higher selves” exist as an idea, a goal–as someone who would have, should have, could have said something more intelligent, less reactionary, more eloquent.

I’d really like to meet this idealized version of me. The version of me who always knows the right thing to say, who always looks put-together, who is kind but strong, intelligent and funny, self-assured and self-aware. This is the version I could use right now. Because if life is a mountain–with highs and lows and everything in between–then I am in the river basin looking up, paddling against the current in a starless sky. And, she’d sure as shit know what to do.

26
Nov
2015

gratitude

categories: me

I am thankful for…more things than I can possibly list. Here are a few from today:

  • husbandhead–who continues to love me even when i’m a total nightmare
  • my brilliant and hilarious kid–i don’t know where you came from but i’m so glad you’re mine
  • my sisters–i could not be in this world without them
  • my totally rad in-laws–lucked out there
  • my ridiculously, incredible, loving, supportive friends–the family i chose
  • great food
  • red wine and whiskey
  • pecan pie
  • candlelight
  • my (mostly) good health
  • fall
  • a great cheese platter
  • warm and loving people who make me feel warm and loved
  • perspective
24
Nov
2015

tides

categories: new york

The thing about change is that it has big effects on your body and brain. Lots of mountainous highs, followed by riverbank lows. Storms of confidence followed by buckets of self-doubt.

Relationships are fascinating, right? Because, you never know if your perception of the thing is totally different from the other persons. It’s impossible to tell if the idea you have of a person (particularly those on the peripheral) is even remotely accurate. Or, maybe people and relationships are just far more fluid than I like to believe. Perhaps bonds are formed and broken and reshaped and remodeled more often than I am aware. Maybe I’ve just been living in a relationship bubble. Believing that the world is stationary, that people are mostly static.

Clearly they are not.

Boundaries shift and new ideas emerge.

This is all a very dramatic way of saying, I thought I had a great relationship with my landlord. For two years things have been better than perfect. No problems, no drama, nothing. Just pleasantries and professional transactions.

Now that we are moving, now that we are no longer his tenants, we no longer have this bond, this rapport, this ability to be cordial and friendly. Now, it’s just how much can I screw you over without you noticing? How much money can I get from you before you put up a fight.

And, here’s the thing. It’s never simple. It’s never cut & dry, like, screw him–he’s in the wrong! No, it’s taking all these various components into consideration and weighing the present circumstances (losing half a month’s rent) with future ones (losing a reference) and figuring out which one will be more costly in the end.

It also turns something that should have been simple and smooth into something ugly. Now, we have to seek legal advice and research tenant rights. Now we have to figure out if fighting or hoping for the best will ultimately be a better option for us–for our finances, for our emotional well being, for our egos.

I love so many, many things about New York City. But, one thing I will not miss for one tiny millisecond is the real estate bullshit. It is a racket. A seedy, disgusting bullshit of a situation. Where no one wins and everyone is miserable.

I guess a final fuck you from New York was inevitable. Let’s go out with a bang!

25
Aug
2015

on grief

categories: commune, family

The funny thing about missing someone is that the sadness creeps in when you least expect it.

Last night I scoured the iTunes rentals for a fun Sunday night movie. On the hunt for a cheesy rom-com, as always. I love a good preview, so even after finding a few promising candidates, I continued to browse. About ten seconds into the preview for Salt I found myself tearing up. What is wrong with me? I thought. The Chris Farley documentary certainly, and rightfully, had tugged at the heart strings. But, an action film with some appalling rotten tomato score?

“We have to rent this,” I told my husband. “This is exactly what I want to watch tonight.”

My mom loved action films. And, that affection has definitely been passed down to me. Car chases can feel a little snoozy to me but otherwise, I am all in. I love the good guys beating the bad guys. I love a really well-delivered, cheesy one-liner. I love the exceptionally planned, choreographed fight scenes. The cinematography, the beautiful women, the exotic locations. I love the way vengeance is always a huge part of the plot line and how there’s always some super messed up character who’s flaws both get them into trouble but also, inevitably, help get them out of it.

I love the predictable arc, the (mostly) bad acting, the explosions and the being on the edge of my seat. I love the plot twists and the inevitable happy ending. I’m telling you, action films are really the best genre out there. They’ve got it all: mystery, romance, adventure. You cry, you laugh, you can experience every emotion in the course of two hours.

My mom and I used to stay up late watching Lethal Weapon, Die Hard and Beverly Hills Cop over and over again. The originals and all subsequent sequels. We’d re-watch all the Bond films and the variety of actors who played him over the course of the decades. Speed, Terminator, Total Recall, Enemy of the State, Bad Boys, Air Force One…she’d have loved the Bourne trilogy. Oh man, that would have been really fun to watch with her.

I don’t quite understand what it was that drew my uber-intelligent, sophisticated mom to the genre. Perhaps it was for all the same reasons I like it. Whatever the case, it was our special thing. Something we could do and enjoy together. Just the two of us.

Four of us girls had rooms in an upstairs space originally designed to be my father’s art studio. It had once been a giant, cavernous hall. When they built an entire barn (complete with a recording studio, library, three offices and a bright, open-plan painting space) to house my dad and his many obsessions, he graciously gave up his indoor studio so that five of us could move out of one room. The floor was divided into four tiny, strangely angular but glorious abodes. We got to choose which room we wanted based on age. I had third pick. I chose the “triangle room.” There was only one right angle in the entire space. And, it was full of small, unusable corners. It was amazing and I loved every inch of it.

There was a little lounge area — a living room of sorts — at the top of the stairs. It was probably about a 4×8 foot space. We’d squeeze in there, mom and I, squished up against each other on a beanbag on the floor, staring up at our small television screen perched (rather precariously) at the edge of the stairwell. There weren’t a lot of shared spaces amongst the kids and adults. This was a modest, carved-out space where we could just be. Together. Away from the chaos.

Inevitably, she would get called down for one reason or another throughout the course of the movie. Often, she would get into trouble because they couldn’t find her and no one thought to look up in the kids’ area until it was too late — dad had already lost his temper. She needed to (immediately) call so and so back about a painting sale, check the status of a bank account with her name on it, write a letter to my grandmother explaining why we needed more money, reach out to the local shops regarding donations, cold call the celebrity names (and numbers) we’d finagled out of a friend…there was always something that she needed to handle. Something only she could do. For whatever reason. And, someone was always in a rampage about it.

She would obediently head downstairs to put out the fire. Then, she’d sneak back upstairs, knock on my door and say, “Wanna watch a movie?” We’d put on a film — knowing she’d be called away half a dozen more times before the credits were rolling — and lay back, me eating a bowl of buttery popcorn and pretending, the both of us, that we were some normal family.

19
Aug
2015

seven things i love about my husband

categories: family, me

1. He is the most honest human on the planet. Almost to a fault (not like, ugh, I wish he was a liar but, maybe a teeny white lie wouldn’t hurt…?). He is good and he is ethical (maybe it’s a journalist thing?) and he will always adhere to his moral compass. Even when it is so very tempting to be bad.

2. He is hilarious. And witty. It’s not immediately obvious because he is so well-mannered but he is a total goofball and the most fun person I have ever known.

3. He is up for anything. He is adventurous but practical, which is the best of both worlds because it means he dreams big and plans accordingly. I don’t think I have booked my own flight in ten years. If we get divorced I will be seriously lacking in holiday-planning skills. I will live out my days as a couch potato.

4. He is scary smart. Like, so intelligent that sometimes I get a tiny bit self-conscious about my vocabulary (or lack thereof) and the way I stumble through sentences and forget words or just lose track of what I’m actually trying to say. But, then he tells me that I’m brilliant and I know he really believes it because he is ALWAYS honest, even when you don’t want him to be, and so I feel better.

5.  He is really good at making the people around him feel loved. He tells me every day how much he loves and appreciates me. He calls out all the things I do and doesn’t ever take me for granted.

6. He lets me be me. He loves my idiosyncrasies and never makes me feel bad about the parts of my personality that I see as faults or flaws. He finds it adorable that I don’t know common American phrases. When I say things like, “Happy as a crab,” he cackles. Then listens when I defend my position because, really, crabs DO seem much happier than clams.

7. I love watching him with our daughter because I know that she has the best father in the whole entire world (kind, patient, hard-working, intelligent, hilarious, creative) and I am so grateful that he is the person I chose to create a human with. We are so lucky, she and I.

 

13
Aug
2015

relationships // present

categories: me, new york

You’d think I would have learned my lesson about matchmaking. I’ve had a few epic fails that should have forever discouraged my efforts.

Perhaps I persevered because I assumed it only applied to romantic endeavors. Well, as it turns out, it is just relationships in general. Just, matching humans with other humans that I am bad at.

This past weekend I attempted to link two of my favorite couple friends. I thought, we love these people. Why wouldn’t they love each other? We all have kids about the same age, we’re all fairly liberal-leaning, we’re raising our kids in similar manners, we are somewhat similar in income levels, no one is too snobby but we’re all a bit snobby in just the right ways 😉 Everyone is in a committed relationship that works for them. Perfect, no?

I pictured renting a house by the lake in the Adirondacks every fall, a winter cabin in the Catskills where our kids would build snow people and drink hot cocoa. We’d all take turns going out on date nights, we’d drink wine and make elaborate, decadent meals. We’d be the dynamic six! Raising kids, working hard and still making friends in our thirties!

Well, best laid plans.

Perfect, dream world, fantasy stuff. That’s what that was.

Turns out my super-awesome friends who I adore and want to share do not so much adore one another. How this could be true, I do not know. They are all — all of them(!) — wonderful people. Like, friends forever folks. But, then again, my two best girlfriends are friends (in air quotes) who, I am quite sure would cease to even attempt to maintain the illusion of friendship if I were taken out of the equation.

Why is that Sex and the City foursome so incredibly difficult to actualize. Who are these people who like each other all exactly the same amount? Four besties. Who has that? I have all these wonderful friends but I get them in a room and my teacher friends don’t know what to say to my college friends and my musician friends have no clue how to interact with my mommy friends and then add my husbands friends (who have now become my friends) into the mix and it’s just a shit show of awkward exchanges and crappy small talk.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m guilty of it too. I go to my husband’s friends’ weddings and I have no clue what to say to people. I use my daughter as an excuse to get out of any conversation that isn’t going well. “Oh, darn. She’s gotta go potty. Talk later…” or “She’s getting so tired, I’ve really gotta get going. Great to meet you…” I mean, it’s bad. Who am I? What have I become? I used to pride myself on this social crap. I was the queen of banter. The master bullshitter. I could hang with anyone. Rich, poor, liberal, conservative, old, young. I was the puppet master. Now I use the cheap, I’m sorry, my mouth is filled with hors d’ oeuvres so I can’t talk to you, excuse. Or the, I see you coming for me so I’m going to duck into the other room to grab my phone which is probably, no, definitely ringing. Silently. But, I am expecting a call. So, I’ve definitely got to grab this, trick. The eye aversion, what a delightful chandelier. The, I see someone I actually know beeline. The, excuse me I need to ______ (use the bathroom/get a drink/find my husband) line.

I have no idea what happened. It’s not for lack of confidence or a lack of topics to discuss. It’s not because I don’t find the people interesting or because I think I’m better than anyone. It’s just pure laziness, I think. Really. Honestly. It’s the, I am so fucking tired and the last thing I want to do is chit chat, reality of adulthood and parenthood.

And, so maybe this is the problem with my couple friends. It’s not a wedding reception but it’s kind of the same idea. I already have friends. I’m already stretched too thin between my job and my kids and the few friends I do have so why would I make time or put forth any effort to extend my circle to include people who’s company I may (or, more likely may not) even enjoy? I get it. It’s a bummer. But, I get it. I feel the same way. I just have selfish motivation for creating these bonds. All I want is a damn cabin in the woods and a few friends who get along to split the cost. Is that really too much to ask? Sheesh.

10
Aug
2015

missed connections

categories: me, new york

Remember when those ads were a thing? Before twitter or really, any social media? Friendster was pretty big amongst my friends. But, Facebook was still just for Harvard kids. I knew people who loved to read those ads for entertainment. Some of them were really sweet. Some were raunchy. Others were sad and desperate. Most of them seemed pretty innocent — but I’m sure that was my naive early twenties talking.

Anyhow, the morning after my first sleepover at my boyfriend’s teeny, tiny apartment on the Lower East Side, I met up with two of my girlfriends to discuss the sex over coffee at Kate’s. Was it good? What positions did you try? How drunk were you? You know, the normal girl-talk, post-coitus convo. So, we’re blabbing loudly. And, laughing and drinking copious amounts of coffee. And this handsome, rotund, bearded (before beards were cool) dude sitting at the table next to us tries to strike up a conversation. We sort of humor him and talk for a few minutes. Turns out we’re both from Northern California and that we both listen to Neurosis. We’re both musicians and thinking about starting bands. It’s casual, innocent, and short-lived.

The next day, I’m back at my boyfriends apartment and we’re trying to figure out where to go for breakfast. He suggests we head over to Kate’s on Avenue B. I say, sure but I’ve just been there. And, I start telling him about breakfast with my girls. The great food, the strong coffee and the the two dudes sitting next to us. “Wait, what?” he asks. For a moment I think he’s pissed. But, he’s definitely not the possessive type. Is he stoked? Maybe he’s seeing me as desirable to other men and that’s exciting?

“We talked for like five seconds. It was nothing,” I say.

“Hang on,” my boyfriend says picking up his laptop. “Holy shit.” He says a few minutes after opening his computer and typing in something. “I knew it!”

“What?” I ask innocently.

“You’re a missed connection. Ha! I knew it. You had to be.”

“No way,” I say in disbelief. “That can’t be. I was having breakfast with Rach and Laney and literally talking about…”I pause to think about how best to phrase it, “you.”

“Hmm.”

“We were talking about you. How much I like you and stuff. He must have overheard a lot of it. Our conversation seemed totally innocent. He’d just moved to the city and was just trying to make friends…”

“Right,” my boyfriend snorts. He’s not jealous. Just amused. He’s enjoying this and I am too. I’m thinking this looks pretty good to a new boyfriend — you’ve got me but other people want me, so don’t you forget it. “You were wearing a faded, black pixies t-shirt and had a sexy septum piercing,” he reads. “You hailed from Northern California, have impeccable musical taste and a laugh that lights up the room. I wanted to ask you for your number but I’m pretty sure you weren’t interested…” he pauses to look up at me, eyebrows raised. “If you are, give me a call,” he continues.

“Damn. You vixen you,” my boyfriend says half mockingly, with lust-filled eyes. “You don’t have conversations like that without a guy wanting more. You don’t let the perfect girl slip away,” he says with a crooked smile as he pulls me in close to him. His warm breath against my cheek, his hand gently sliding up my back. He leans down and I am tingling, almost buckling at the knees as his lips get closer. “I mean, I think you should probably call him,” he quips and gently pushes me back with a huge grin.

“Dick,” I say. “Maybe I will. We’ve certainly got a lot in common. There’s..” But before I can finish the sentence he’s grabbed me and wrapped me in his long, lean arms, and pressed his soft lips into mine. He smells like soap. And pine. Of musty, salty sweat. And, I know we will never think of this bearded, missed-connection-guy again.

And, we will not be making it to the diner for breakfast either.

 

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