Whirlwind Life

Tags

acceptance, adult, beautiful, city, confidence, ED, growing up, happiness, Hope, Life, love, millennial, new girl, new york, NY, NYC

When I was fourteen years old, New York City began to make my hair fall out. Lots of it. Clumps of it. 

It made my hip bones jut out at an angle sharp enough to bruise whoever hugged me. 

It made my collar bones look “Kate Moss chic.” But really, I looked like a heroin addict. 

When I was fifteen years old, New York City gifted me a love-hate relationship with coffee. It would keep me awake at early morning photo shoots. It would fill in all the gaps in my stomach, so that food wouldn’t dare enter.

New York City promised me I could be as beautiful as I dreamed to be, but that beauty had to fit into a sample size zero dress, extra-small top, 24-inch jeans, and size 7 shoes. After all, a model is just a hanger, and these are the only acceptable sizes to showcase in a catalogue. 

New York City taught me that getting your period is no excuse when you’re on the job, and expected to stand in a white bikini for hours on end with no break, so the photographer may capture that perfect Brooklyn bridge twilight. It taught me that we aren’t in the business of selling bikinis. We’re in the business of selling dreams. Faulty ones. 

When I was sixteen, New York City showed me that smoking cigarettes is an easy way to fill up any space that the coffee may have forgotten. 

It gleamed in the background, as I poured over my AP history notes between shots, wondering how late the shoot would go, and if I would have enough time to cram in that last chapter before tomorrow’s exam. 

It gave me a high-five when I made the honor roll, got a 5 on my AP Exam, and got booked by a department store all in the same day. 

When I was 17, New York City had seeped into my veins. I would go to college here, if I ever made it out alive. 

It was a drug I couldn’t get enough of. Every weekend was spent drowning in its intimidation, as I walked from casting call to casting call, hailing cabs and riding subways like those chic models in magazines. 

It introduced me to clubs and bottles and models, while my friends back home were playing flip cup in their basements and getting greasy eggs at 24-hour diners. 

At 18, New York City laughed in my face when I couldn’t make the choice between an ad campaign and prom. 

It rolled its eyes at me when I rescheduled a booking for my graduation day. 

It chuckled at my diploma and aspirations to attend college because my job as a hanger was to be pretty and look skinny and sell an image that can be perpetuated for years and years to come–engrained into the minds of young girls, so that they, too, get sucked in when they are of age. 

It gave me countless friends, took away a few more, introduced me to the power of wearing all black, to the perfect ristretto, to a hatred of my body and softness and shape and curve. 

And when I was hesitant, when I took a moment to reconsider my relationship with New York City, it shut me out, kicked me away, cut me off, and told me never to come back. 

So obviously, I did. I went to college far away, I lived in Boston after graduating, and then, when the opportunity presented itself, I turned down moving to Miami because I wanted to experience New York City through the eyes of an adult. That same city had seduced me years ago, when I was young, impressionable, anorexic, angry, fiercely determined to be nothing less than perfect. 

But when I changed, when I became an adult with a wholesome life–a career, friends, family, self-respect, dignity, confidence, and happiness–New York City welcomed me back and showed me its other side. I had only experienced its darkness, its ruthless ambition that tears apart little girls and turns them into monsters–tall, skinny, wide-eyed, cigarette-smoking monsters. 

Today, I am experiencing New York City’s openness. Every street, every neighborhood, every corner is filled with acceptance. It is the perfect city to get lost in. To not fit into. 

It lets you stand out, it encourages you to be yourself. 

It supports you with its depth of culture, its vastness. 

It keeps your soul alive by offering you an endless expanse of options. 

It lets you embrace anonymity, even during its horrible rush hours, in its crowded streets, packed subways, and during overflowing happy hours. 

It gives you a chance to form relationships with people you never before fathomed meeting. 

In one breath, it lets you live the high life, and in another, it grounds you with its widespread homelessness. 

It teaches you how to distinguish between a good slice of pizza, and a great slice of pizza. And it tells you that it is okay to eat another slice. 

If you let it, New York City will run through you veins, seep into your head, tear apart your bad thoughts, and tell you that you don’t need to be a certain way, in order to be beautiful. 

It will add a little pep in your step. 

It will show you beauty in everything–a random compliment from a kind stranger, the look of awe on a person experiencing Times Square for the first time, or that perfect moment when the sun comes up over the Brooklyn Bridge. In that moment, the city is at its quietest. And if you close your eyes, take a deep breath, and let its expansiveness comfort you like a blanket, you can picture yourself being the only person in this city. You can tell yourself that the sun is coming up just for you. 

In that moment, you will experience an unmatched feeling of content. You will realize that your own company is enough. You are enough. 

And if you decide you want something beautiful, something positive out of life, this city will bend over backwards to make it happen. 

  

Read Receipts in the Millennial Dating World

Tags

dating, iphone, Life, LOL, millennial, millennials, relationships

The birth of the Read Receipt was inconspicuous enough. It started out in our work email, with easy opt-out options, and was meant to slightly increase productivity. Today, the Read Receipt is everywhere, oftentimes as a default, poking its devilish head into all parts of our lives, from the mundane, to the professional, to the very personal.

Though most people will tell you otherwise, the Read Receipt is no longer just an alternative to responding with “k”. This is the excuse that most people will give you when you ask why they have Read Receipts turned on for text messages– that it saves time and energy because they do not always have to respond. In some cases, that is absolutely true.

For example, I leave my iMessage Read Receipts on, and my official explanation to people is that it makes it easier for me to enjoy my off-duty time outside of the office. That’s true. Personally, for the way that I do work, Read Receipts come in handy when I get a dozen messages asking if I read a particular email. Depending on the context of the conversations, my Read Receipts let my colleagues know that yes, I have read that email. It keeps me from having to validate their requests with a response, which ultimately opens the door for more work-related banter at 8PM on a Friday night. 

Since turning on Read Receipts, I get less chatter and repeat text messages throughout the day, “checking to see if I got this.” There’s a real benefit.

But if I’m being honest with myself (and the rest of you, I guess), there’s more to my Read Receipts than professional convenience and productivity.

I first turned on Read Receipts when I saw that a mentor of mine, someone I truly aspire to be like, had them on. When I asked this person about it, they gave me the same explanation that I gave you above. It seemed like the cool thing to do. The person with Read Receipts on is too busy to respond to all their text messages. That’s not to say that everyone who has their Read Receipts on is trying to come off aloof– some people are legitimately busy and/or cold– but that’s part of the perception.

Long before there were smartphones or text messages, this perception still existed as a fundamental part of the way we play games with each other. This is most true in the beginning stages of dating a Potential Love Interest (PTL), where two people are figuring out where they stand, and what they mean to each other, and how much importance they want to allot to one another. Read Receipts, when used, have now become a fundamental part of that process.

Just like people say that they have Read Receipts on as a convenience, most people that I spoke with for this post said that they don’t like playing games. Everyone says that. But that’s mostly because we’re using the term “playing games,” instead of being more honest about it: we’re protecting ourselves.

You don’t do a cannonball off of the high dive to start a relationship. You wade slowly into the emotional deep end with someone, gradually peeling back layer after layer. This is why most people try to look their best on a first date, and why first dates aren’t spent watching Netflix and eating ice cream. We “play games” as a way of controlling the development of a relationship, so that one person isn’t outpacing the other when it comes to being vulnerable.

We’ve been doing this for centuries, but the Read Receipt is a very powerful new weapon in this game. So powerful, in fact, that companies like Facebook and other chat services have turned on Read Receipts as a default, forcing us to confront the knowledge that sometimes, people just don’t care about what you have to say. Some folks, those who are perhaps less tech-savvy than your average Millennial, don’t even know that they might be subjecting people to this.

And still, there are others, like myself, that choose to use Read Receipts in one of the most personal forms of written communication– text message. That said, I am not always the carefree, confident texter that my Read Receipts might suggest.

Sometimes, if a PTL is taking a while to respond, I will read the message and let my phone sit there for a few minutes. And to take it a step further, I’ll purposefully not open the text message if I really want them to think I’m de-prioritizing them, opting instead to read the message through the preview function on the lock screen, or in the Notifications Center.

A week ago, I would have been ashamed to admit this, but I often read a PTL’s message on the Notification Center of my phone, and intentionally don’t open it for a while so he doesn’t see I’ve read it and not responded. It’s because I’d rather he think I have better things to do than be glued to my phone.

The thing about Read Receipts that puts them on a slightly different level from some of the other games we play is that they are an unusual kind of confirmation. When you screen a call, or don’t respond to a text message (with Read Receipts off), the other person can imagine all kinds of situations in which you might not be able to respond. It hurts, but it’s an indefinite kind of pain with a variety of explanations and excuses that could remedy the situation instantly.

Read Receipts don’t leave much room for a comforting imagination. So if you’re crossing the Read line, using those little bastards for productivity or protection or convenience, be aware of the weight they bear. We’ve never had such an effortless way to make people feel ignored, and with an abundance of screens slowly sucking away the empathy we feel for one another, it’s worth remembering that.

  

The Connotation Behind “Sexy”

Tags

acceptance, love, self love

Sometimes, I feel like I want to ban the word “sexy.” Like, take that shit out of the dictionary, and impose a fine whenever someone uses it. Which is pretty funny because I am super sex-positive, and I definitely want people to feel good about their bodies and secure in their sexuality–however it manifests itself. But man am I ever fucking tired of how we use that word to shame girls and sell them on a bunch of gross, patriarchal ideas about how they should be. Take this picture, which was tweeted/posted by Floyd Mayweather, and has been making the rounds over the past few years: 

 

First of all, this is a man who has been charged with two counts of domestic violence and battery. Why would anybody think that what he has to say about women is even a little bit valid? I am not really down with anyone advising women on ways to dress or behave, in order to specifically please men. However, I am definitely, one hundred percent, NOT down with someone who hits women, telling women how to behave. Talk about classic abusive behaviour. It is impossible to get anything out of this, other than “Maybe if those women had dressed better, and been quieter, and more ladylike, I wouldn’t have had to hit them.” I guess that, according to him, they were asking to be disrespected. This whole post is basically an apology for abuse.

Second of all, women are not fucking products that are trying to advertise themselves. They are for-real people who get to dress however they want. I cannot believe that I have to say this, but the way I dress is not an advertisement. It is some clothes that I put on my body because they make me feel good.

Third of all, how I am addressed should not, in fact, depend on my attire. It should depend on those addressing me recognizing that I am actually a person, and that, alone, makes me deserving of their respect. Can we please stop putting the responsibility on women when it comes to respect? It is not up to us to gain men’s respect. It is up to men to recognize our personhood, and stop throwing out ultimatums on when they will or wil not respect us.

Saying that respect is conditional on how a woman dresses means that respect can be revoked at any time, based on some arbitrary decision about what crosses the line from ladylike to slutty. It is putting the power right back in the hands of the oppressor, and it does no good, whatsoever.

Speaking of respect, this morning, I came across the following lovely tweet, which describes a sentiment that I hear far too often:

“You know what looks really hot on you girl? Self respect.”

You know what is the best way to make a girl feel like she is respected? Shame her for what she is wearing! Seriously, allow me to demonstrate how much respect I have for myself by flipping this dude off forever. Because fuck him for trying to control women, under the guise of concern. 

Fuck him for making women feel less-than, under the pretence of trying to build up their “self-respect.” 

Fuck him for implying that the only reason women might want to be self-respecting is so that they can be more attractive to men.

See, here’s the thing–while all of these posts seem to say that women who dress modestly and behave nicely, and are self-confident are totally more attractive than any other women, what they are really saying is, “being sexy is the most important thing for you to be, and please allow me to define what sexy is.” It is not even a little bit empowering to tell women that being modest is sexy. It is just reinforcing the idea that we only exist to please men, and that we should dress and act however they want. It is saying that being attractive to men is the best and most wonderful thing that women can aspire to. It is exactly the same shit we have been sold all of our lives, only re-packaged as obnoxious concern-trolling about women’s self-confidence.

Fuck. That.

If you really want to empower women, why don’t you try to build up their self-esteem, instead of lecturing them on all the ways you think that they are failing? Instead of telling them that no one will respect them, based on the way they dress, why not instead list all the things that you value about them– that they are funny, smart, capable and brave. Absolutely no woman ever will gain confidence by being criticized for her appearance. No woman will gain “self-respect” by having someone else list all of the ways that she is lacking, physically. And, fuck yes, I want women to feel like they are worth more than their appearance. But how in the world do you think you are making women believe that they have more value than just being sexy, when your whole message hinges on what is and is not sexy?

Fuck sexy.

Fuck telling women how to be sexy.

Fuck “confidence is sexy,” because shaming women for not being confident enough will achieve the opposite of what you apparently want.

And while we are at it, fuck “Consent Is Sexy.“ Fuck the idea that we need to sell consent to kids by making it all shiny and pretty and “sexy.” People should not have consensual sex because it is waaaaay hotter than other kinds of sex. People should have consensual sex because otherwise, they are rapists. Consent is not a fun, new thing that you should try out in the bedroom. It is the way you should be living your life, all day, everyday. Consent is not sexy– it is a human right.

So fuck “sexy” being used as a marketing tool.

Fuck men who want to control how women behave. 

Fuck all the not-so-cleverly-disguised ways that patriarchy asserts itself. 

Fuck the idea that women only ever dress in a certain way to attract men. 

Fuck. That. Noise.

And to any women reading this, I want you to know that it is great to feel sexy, whatever that word means to you. It is even great to dress in a way that you think other people might find attractive– that is a very normal thing to want to do. We dress in ways that our partners find attractive because it makes us happy to make our partners happy, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. There is nothing wrong with wanting sexual attention from other people, and dressing “sexy” is for sure a tried-tested-and-true way of achieving that. It is good to feel sexy. Seriously. But I also want you to know that it is not required. I want you to know that you do not have to feel or be sexy, and that sexy is not the be-all-and-end-all of what you should accomplish. And I want you to know that you are funny and smart and capable and brave. Because you really, really are.

/rant
 

Growing Pains

Tags

dating, Faith, growing pains, growing up, happiness, happy, Life, live, living, love, relationships, twenties, woman, women

I haven’t written in a while. I suppose my life has been in overhaul; a little maintenance, a little renovation, and I think I’m ready to come back, guns blazing. You see, every 6-8 months, I find myself in a place of conundrum. It’s part of growing up. I question everything around me–each relationship, friendship, responsibility, commitment, my health, both physical and mental, and where my life is headed. 

The last few months have made me question my relationships, more specifically. I frequently mention how I consider myself to be extremely friendly and outgoing, yet I let very few people in. My close friendships are few, but strong enough to provide a titanium safety net. When I am dating someone, I hold them to the same standard I hold the friends I am closest to. After all, if I cannot find a best friend in a companion, that relationship will most certainly have a short shelf life. 

Yet in this blur of combining relationship and friendship, I found myself contriving something that simply was not working–not for lack of feelings, but for lack of organic ability. Cosmo magazine tells us that if someone really wants to be with you, they will do everything possible to make that happen. Girls grow up holding on to this bullshit fairytale concept, and they turn into women who project this same bullshit fairytale concept onto the men they date.

The reality, however, is that relationships are complicated. Physical attraction often brings two people together, chemistry keeps them together, and some form of intent, combined with timing, combined with an inexplicable force makes those same two people want to remain together. But sometimes, that inexplicable force is missing. Sometimes, everything is there–each ingredient, each piece, the chemistry, the feelings, the sex, the intimacy, the friendship, all of it. Yet it simply feels inorganic. So you find yourself in a tough spot where you are either forced to contrive a relationship because it makes no sense to give it up, or you take a step back and reevaluate. 

When I found myself in that spot, I asked myself one very simple question–what is it you want most from this person? Admitting the truth to yourself can be infinitely more difficult than anticipated. What I wanted most from this person was a friendship–a friendship we had begun to develop, but one that was faltering because we were trying so hard to be something we simply were not. Part of me wanted more because I hate the idea of giving up on something good. But the wiser part of me understood that sometimes, a friendship with one person is much more valuable than any other relationship with that same person. 

So while this relationship has flourished from romantic to a welcomed platonic, another one has faltered in a way that has me questioning my faith in people.

From a young age, my dad taught me not to want perfection. He told me I should want only to be a very good person. 

And in my twenties, a time when I am wired to second-guess everything from my career to my coffee order, if there is one thing I am extremely confident of, it is that I am a good fucking person. I work hard, I am ambitious, I have a big heart, and I give a lot of myself to those whom I love. I question very little when those who love me are in need, and I reach out with a helping hand, even when it is not asked or expected of me. 

But therein lies the fallacy of being a good person. I can sometimes be a bit too good. I can sometimes give a bit too much. I can sometimes expect too little, or nothing at all, in return. I was taught that the strongest friendships are those in which you offer the best of yourself and expect nothing in return. I was taught that good friendships are not contracts–there are no expectations, aside from loyalty and trust. So in that regard, I have found myself taken advantage of by someone close–someone with whom I have shared many a cherished memory, life experiences, laughs, cries, late nights drinking wine, and early mornings spent hiking and philosophizing on life. 

The cut runs deep when you already have a small number of people you call friends, and the gash bleeds endlessly when it is someone you have put on a pedestal. 

The great thing about life in your twenties, however, is that it moves at such a fast pace, a really great thing often precedes or follows a really bad one, and if you continue believing in people, putting yourself out there, and keeping yourself from getting jaded, the good far outweighs the bad. 

Six months into this year, my blessings colossally surpass the loss of a great friendship. My career is at an all-time high, new opportunities are on the horizon, my relationship with my family is stronger than ever, my friends are true godsends, I have the means to give back in the form of charity and community outreach, and I have the good judgement to let all of these amazing components of my life ground me so I never fly too high in the clouds. 

“‘How is it so easy for you to be kind to people,’ they ask. Milk and honey dripped from my lips, as I answered ‘because people have not been kind to me.'”

  

Your Writing Voice is the Deepest Possible Reflection of Who You Are

Tags

Depression, family, feel good, friends, happiness, Life, love, new, new year, overcome, reflection, support

I have always known exactly what I want out of life. As a kid, it meant winning a spelling bee, as an adolescent, it meant killing the SAT, in college, it meant getting a perfect GPA, and as an adult, it means being the absolute best I can be at my job. But as an adult, my hunger for being the best does not simply stop at my career. I want be the best friend I can be, the best daughter I can be, the best sister I can be, the best person I can be. I have always had very little regard for what my “best” might look like, compared to others, because I have only ever competed with myself. I have only ever outdone my own previous standard. I have refrained from stepping into competition with those around me because I have truly believed that my happiness should stem first, and foremost, from within.

But I am not perfect. In fact, I am the furthest thing from perfect. I have this one tiny little thread, barely visible, but poking out, none the less. When you yank at this thread, I unravel.

Last year, around this time of year, I had come completely undone. Spiraling into a depression so deep, not even I recognized it, I could never have fathomed that a full year later, I would be happier, more fulfilled, more at peace with myself and my life than ever before.

I can easily put all of the blame for my unraveling on one person, one set of events, one bad relationship, one slap in the face, one shove to the ground, one chokehold, one faint memory of my head being banged against the wall, the one time I was pushed out of a moving cab, that one vase he threw in my face, or the one time my hair was pulled on so hard, I couldn’t move my neck for a week. But I will not.

My unraveling had a lot to do with a terrible set of events. But it also had to do with my sky high-ego, and my inability to reach out for help. In my quest to be the best, to appear calm, and cool, and collected, and poised, to be the friend everyone looks up to, to be the daughter who makes her parents proud, to be the badass sister, or the powerhouse first year associate, I let myself disappear. I continued playing every role in my life as if everything within me was perfectly fine.

But nobody knew that underneath the black dress and the black mascara, and the black patent leather pumps, there stood a girl who was half human, half duct tape. She was taped together and haphazardly stapled into this costume she donned for the world.

Underneath, there was an entirely different story. I refer to this version of myself in the third person because this girl is not who I am today. But this girl is very much who I was one year ago–afraid, fragile, shaky, broken, unable to even look at herself in the mirror. She went days without eating. When she would eat, a simple slice of pizza would take her an hour to consume. She would sit at a table with her closest friends and smile, and laugh, and giggle, and crack a joke at all the appropriate intervals. But she had no idea what was going on. She would hug her parents, but instead of transferring warmth and comfort, she would pass along a wave of frigid air. She would lay under the covers for hours, blinking, thinking of nothing, wanting nothing, being nothing.

At one point, she had truly convinced herself that she was nothing, that she wanted nothing out of her life, that she deserved nothing. It was at this point that she realized she needed help.

Asking for help was the most difficult part for me. I had always been someone my friends and family looked up to. I waited until rock bottom to reach out because I was deathly afraid of letting them down, of letting them see this very broken version of me. I could not have been more wrong. In the last year, I have learned that the people who love you the most will give you medicinal amounts of tough love, hugs, chats, inspiring words, late-night talks, and whatever else you need. They will rally and come together, and go far, far out of their way to make sure you are alright. They will tear down your front, take all your broken pieces, sew them back together, and drink wine with you while you heal.

If you allow it, you will find love in the form of cheesy Whatsapp messages from your mom, roses from your dad, and Yankees tickets from your brother. You will find support in the form of wine and magazines from one friend, goofy Facebook posts from another, and cupcakes from the rest. You will find success in the form of teamwork at your office, a high five from your boss, a smile and a nod from a partner, or a night out on the town with coworkers. You will find encouragement in the form of surprise visits from friends you haven’t seen in a long time. You will find comfort in a cup of tea when your nightmares wake you up and leave you shaking. Mostly, you will find hope when you realize how lucky you are to have an incredible group of loved ones to pull you back up when you fall.

Depression is debilitating. It and you live in a form of mutual dissonance. As intimidating, and demanding, as exhausting as it may seem, you have to bring yourself to take that first step toward cutting the tension. I could have spent all of last year in a downward spiral. I could have unraveled, then disappeared. I took a leap of faith. I filled my life with all the things that make me feel whole. I cut out everything that does not.

I have never been happier.

Big Nose, Big Personality

Tags

acceptance, beauty, body confidence, confidence, dating, happiness, Life, love, men, relationships, self love, sex, slut shaming, twenties, women

Big heart.

But before we get to the heart, which is often the most intimate of things to understand, the most frequently misunderstood, and the most excruciatingly difficult to expose to another human being, let’s have a little chat about the nose. Specifically, mine.

You see, for as far back as my memory serves me, I have been aware of certain socially constructed traits that make a woman “beautiful.” This includes clear skin, luscious hair, fuller lips, piercing eyes, a youthful glow, a frail stature, a tiny demeanor, glowy cheeks, and a small nose.

Growing up in a town where every second person got a nose job, Botox at 18 was the norm, and most people had a trainer, I figured I would probably get a nose job, too. I was made to believe that my nose was something I should be self-conscious about, something I should want to change. My parents would never say no. They just wanted me to be happy. When I modeled, the photographers loved my nose. It was a “weird angular flaw” they felt did wonders for the camera. I hated this flaw.

But in the last several years, I have built a confidence no amount of photoshopped models, magazines, societal ideals, and men can shake off. I like my nose. I like that it is big, kind of sharp, and pretty long. I like that the bridge has a tiny bump on it. I like that if I look dead into the lens of a camera, straight ahead, you can see that it is slightly crooked. I don’t contour the shit out of it. I don’t apply highlighter on the ridges to make it appear smaller. I embrace it.

I also like that, despite only being 5’6 (by exaggeration), I have a tall stature. I wear stilt-like heels on a regular basis. I enjoy towering over other women. I enjoy looking men in the eye. It doesn’t bother me when a guy I find attractive isn’t half a foot taller than I am, though at the moment, he is. I have come to realize that the more you leave social constructs of beauty or physical expectations behind, the more you are able to accept yourself, others, and the world around you. You are able to conceptualize your own idea of beauty, void of a social bias.

But therein lies an issue that a lot of women face–having a sky-high confidence level that leaves men shaking in their boots. In a patriarchal society, a woman with an untouchable sense of self esteem is often just that–untouchable. She is deemed “cocky,” “a bitch,” “a feminazi,” or “self-centered.” But when a man has that sky-high confidence, “he’s such a guy, UGH!”

You see, I am not the type to beat around the bush or wait for a guy to make the first move. When I like him, I tell him, I share my expectations, I tell him when it’s over, and I tell him when I’m bored. I am secure enough in myself that I do not need to rely on “signs,” “clues,” and “hints” to tell me what a guy is feeling. I just ask. Maybe that’s not charming. Maybe that is intimidating. Maybe it is aggressive.

But it is me. It is who I am, how I operate, and how I deal with every facet of my life–head on. I am not emotionally demanding, though I recognize an emotional bond is key to a successful relationship. I am not needy, save for when I whine about being too cold or too hot (hello, I’m a woman!). I do not emotionally latch on to men, nor do I stand for it when they do. I expect relationships to be balanced–to include equal parts bonding, time spent together, time spent apart, time spent with friends, family, coworkers, and alone. I expect them to be intimate–not on display for the world to like, comment, retweet, and favorite on social media. I put enough of my life out there for the world to view. My personal life is that one aspect that should only be mine and my significant other’s.

Yet, somehow, being so sure of what you want leaves you void of what you want because men are simply not used to dealing with women who communicate openly. Perhaps that is why they absolutely lose it when they find themselves with one of us. They don’t know how to act. They tweak the fuck out. As an example, last week, a guy my friend was casually dating texted her at 11PM on a Thursday night, asking her if she wanted to watch a movie. She replied back with “it’s a little late to start a movie, so let’s cut to the chase. My place or yours? I need to plan my workday tomorrow, accordingly.” He replied back with “oh, uh…wow, umm…” You get the deal. He expected an implied “yes” or a “no,” some kind of masked back and forth interaction, and she just said it like it was. She hasn’t heard from him since.

My guess is he probably thinks she’s a “slut.” And if that is the case, this guy is completely clueless to the fact that women want it, need it, and enjoy it just as much as men do. Some of us just aren’t ashamed to be open about it.

Great Expectations

Tags

connections, dating, family, feeling, feelings, friendships, happiness, home, Life, love, relationship, twenties

I often discuss the trials and tribulations of dating in your twenties, typically bringing light to the idiocies displayed by most people our age. Those who know me really well will agree that I am possibly the least romantic girl in the world. Or maybe my idea of romance is not simply the commonly accepted idea of romance. I do not like men buying me flowers (it is a privilege reserved only for my dad), faking some GQ version of themselves to impress me, and I especially do not like traditional gestures like dinner and a movie. I cannot stand this awkward back-and-forth dance when you first start dating a person–waiting hours before responding to a text, playing hard to get, or pretending to like someone less because you are afraid to like them more than they like you.

I despise the fluff, and I especially disdain the drama that rises from making dating more complicated than it needs to be because to me, at the core of it all, I first need to befriend someone–really get to know them, in order to decide if I can even pursue anything serious with them. So by that logic, I treat most men I am dating with respect and dignity, the same way I would any of my other friends.

But being a somewhat withdrawn, unromantic girl often gets me in trouble. Even when I like someone, I can seem as though I do not. I reject most traditional forms of expressing feelings, and so often times, my feelings and my actions tend not to correlate, and it can leave people confused.

But recently, over brunch and a few mimosas, while joking around about how cheesy I find flowers, my friend Tina made a comment that really resonated with me. She said that true love is her dad waking up early on winter mornings and starting the car for her mom, so the car will be warm by the time she gets in. And that really got me thinking about the various ways in which my parents have expressed their love for one another. Or how they have expressed their love for my brother and I. I came to the realization that I am bred to reject traditional notions of love, romance, and expression because I wasn’t raised in a household where saying “I love you” was the most expressive form of conveying the message.

I was raised in a household where my dad would make the morning tea, and wait as long as it took my mother to get dressed and come downstairs to take the first sip of his tea. That, to me, is the patience associated with love.

My grandparents, when my mother was only 6 years old, decided that Sunday evenings would be their time together. Between running a household and raising three children, they didn’t want to lose the romance in their marriage. So since 1972, every single Sunday, without fail, they make breakfast for dinner. Even on vacation, even when they are visiting us in the US, no matter what, they have stuck by this routine. That, to me, is the tradition associated with love.

When my dad found out that my ex boyfriend raised his hand at me, I remember seeing in his eyes a sadness so deep, I wish I never would have burdened him with that knowledge. The very next day, without telling anybody, my dad flew down to his family home, and threatened to kill him–in front of his parents. That, to me, is the rage associated with love.

As a teenager, I put my parents through hell–therapy session after therapy session, several trips to rehab, and a vicious rejection of food and nourishment. I made them feel helpless–as though they had failed their respective duties as parents. And when I was finally ready to get better, to take charge of my life, they supported me with encouragement I no longer felt I was deserving of. That, to me, is the forgiveness associated with love.

Love is my mother replacing the regular cookies in the kitchen with homemade oatmeal cookies, and hoping my dad won’t notice. It is cooking whole wheat pasta, and lying to him about it so he doesn’t realize he is eating healthy.

Love is occasionally telling on my little brother, even though he’ll get mad at me. It is giving tough love, even though it temporarily makes you the bad guy. It is sacrificing yourself, making difficult compromises, offering more than you even posses because you love someone that much.

It is a feeling so deep, no words can adequately justify it. But actions can. Traditions can. Memories can. I cannot simply date someone and form this feeling immediately. It takes a long time and whole lot of investment to develop. It is fostered in an inexplicably strong connection to another human being. It is a feeling I have never felt for anybody outside of my immediate family and a few close friends, and I am absolutely okay with that.

I Don’t Owe You Shit.

Tags

awareness, domestic abuse, relationships, violence, women

A few weeks ago, I wrote this post as a means of bringing light to the fact that domestic abuse isn’t necessarily characteristic of just the angry, violent, macho-type men. It can be anybody. It can be someone who loves you, or claims to. It can be someone kind, gentle, and quiet.

I want to share this incredibly powerful account of one woman who has a story very similar to mine. That is all.

“She’s Kind of a Bitch”

Tags

Balmain, career, consulting, fabulous, feminism, feminist, halppy, hard work, Life, love, office, success, women, womyn, work, work hard

For some time now, I have been busting my ass on an investment proposal for a new client. I kind of looked at this project as my big “comeback” at work, after a quieter summer, and before my busy travel season. So in between long hours at the office, bringing work home with me, pulling team all nighters, and drooling on my laptop on Sunday nights, I found myself thoroughly exhausted and spent–depleted of energy, enthusiasm, and even a little bit of drive.

Then, something amazing happened. A couple weeks ago, my boss called me into her office and acknowledged my hard work on this project. She followed that up with a proposal of her own–I could present the investment proposal to the client, myself. It would be daunting. From having sat in on proposal meetings before, I knew how tense the environment could get. I would be bombarded with questions, grilled with imaginary scenarios, “what ifs,” and market discrepancies. I would have to know this proposal inside out, I would have to know the pits and the peaks of each strategy. Each penny would have to be accounted for, and if the client did not find this proposal suitable, it would all fall on my shoulders. I took the chance without the slightest hesitation, much to a competing coworker’s dismay. In his eyes, he was more qualified to present, had been on the team for a longer period of time, and most importantly–he is a man. He felt he would have better command of the boardroom than I would.

On the appointed day of the presentation, the boardroom got just as contentious as expected. Tensions were flying high, and my team and I were fighting against some pretty tough odds, hoping our client would buy into the proposal. So towards the end of the meeting, as I made my final pitch and summed up the company’s projected valuation, that same coworker cut me off mid-presentation. As I began passing out packets with the sum of all the information I had presented, he held his hand up, as if to say “stop,” and cut me off my train of thought. After slighting me in front of an entire boardroom, he then continued to sum up the proposal I had spent weeks slaving over.

I could have let it pass, but I did not. I knew that an aggressive course of action on my part would have an impact on team dynamics. I went for it, anyway. Promptly after the summation of the proposal, we broke for 30 minutes, so the client could decide whether to sign with the proposal or not. I saw my colleague dash towards the men’s room the second we stepped out of the boardroom. I followed him. I stood outside the door for 5 minutes. Then 10 minutes. Then after 15 minutes, I walked right in.

He stood by the sink, texting on his phone, clearly biding his time so he would not have to face me. I had so many harsh words for him, so much rage, but I knew that this was not the appropriate environment to show that rage. Without a quiver in my voice, and with a composure I did not know I possessed, I told him “You will never ever slight me again. I do not disrespect your work. You will not disrespect mine. Feel free to take the rest of the afternoon off.” He was stone faced. I then walked out of the men’s room, and over to the boardroom receptionist, informed her that my colleague was no longer attending this afternoon’s meeting, due to a sudden illness, and called the board to commence.

At the end of the day, our client ended up signing our proposal, but that is neither here nor there. That is not what my post is about.

It is about taking chances, no matter how ballsy. My boss could have called me out on kicking a colleague out of a board meeting. But she didn’t do that because she knew my actions were justified. At 47-years-old, she has given twenty five years to this company, and seen her fair share of sexism. She was testing me. She wanted me to experience disrespect because she wanted to know that I could push through it with dignity. She wanted to know I would not have a meltdown. She offered a wink and an acknowledging smile that said it all. It said she understood what it is like to be 23-years-old, to put your nerves aside, and your job on the line to give a presentation that could very well end your career before it even takes off. Or, it can catapult your career to the top. She knew it was a crap chute, and that I would either sink or swim. She knew what it is like to spend 2 hours talking to a room full of men. She wanted me to know.

I walked into my office this morning and found my favorite bottle of wine on my desk. I also found a sorry note from my colleague. As I walked towards his wing to say thanks, I overheard him conversing with another coworker in regards to the previous week’s events.

“She’s kind of a bitch, but she has balls. I respect that.”

Later, my boss called me into her office and checked in with me about the same incident. She told me when she was my age, there were no female partners in the entire company. There was nobody who truly understood the trials and tribulations of being a woman in a male-occupied company. Today, we are 40% female, we earn the exact same wages as our male counterparts, we lean in, we work together, and we look at one another as equals. But every now and then, something shitty will happen and it will test our ability to act with charm and grace. As she handed me the most fabulous present a boss can give her employee, she told me to “always act as fabulous as you look.”

Running Circles

Tags

boy, confidence, dating, girls, happiness, happy, Kanye West, Kim Kardashian, Life, love, men, relationship, twenties, women

Every couple weeks, the girls and I will cook up a storm (more likely than not, order a pizza), drink an inappropriate amount of alcohol for a weeknight, and debrief on life–career successes, career failures, new moves, switching contraceptives (ugh), skincare, makeup, hair, life, sex, sex, and relationships.

Last night, things got uncharacteristically emotional when we came upon the topic of being treated poorly by men. It got us all particularly riled up. While I am of the belief that there is absolutely no viable reason for a man to treat a woman poorly (and vice versa…see this post), I really really don’t see reason for any one of my close girlfriends or I to be treated poorly by men. I don’t hold this belief out of any kind of bias, or any kind of partiality to the girls whom I love so much. I say it out of sheer cockiness (for good reason), and pride in the fact that very few women are as accomplished as the ones I am lucky enough to call my best friends.

While I can endlessly brag about T being a corporate lobbyist, L being a higher education assistant at Harvard Business School, or K being an administrator at Mass General, these aren’t the sole qualities these women posses. They posses hearts of gold, beauty, charm, class, unmatched intellects, style, swag, auras that set them apart from basic biddies, balls bigger than those crossfit assholes, and most importantly, confidence.

Yet, when it comes to dating, the well-rounded woman gets the short end of the stick. The well-rounded woman is seen as intimidating. Most men find her unapproachable because they automatically assume that she is:
1.) Out of their league
2.) A bitch

But the thing is, a woman who is confident in herself–physically, mentally, emotionally, and professionally–does not give a flying fuck about leagues. She cares about a connection. She cares that you are ambitious, that you work hard, that you are funny, and sweet, and that you are maybe kind of a dork. She cares about your personal interests, even if they don’t align with her’s. She cares that you are not one-dimensional. There are facets to your personality. She finds that sexy. She likes that you are the life of the party. But she also likes your ability to say “no,” stay in, and wind down on a Saturday night, instead.

She doesn’t pay attention to your wrist piece. She doesn’t bother with what kind of car your drive. She cares that you treat your mother and your sister like princesses. She loves that your dad is your best friend. She thinks it’s cute when you’re shy around her. But when you muster up the courage to make moves, make plans, to surprise her, or to coerce her into hanging out with you, even when she’s had a busy day, she finds it so sexy, she can hardly keep her hands off you.

But therein lies the problem. It is 2014, and men no longer make moves. They text you, then disappear. They “like” your pictures, but don’t compliment you in person. They take you out to dinner, then expect sex. It baffled me
when a coworker said I was “lucky” a guy was taking me out to dinner last week. As if that mediocre dinner at a crappy New American joint is “going above and beyond.” As if that is the absolute best he can do to impress me. I enjoyed neither the company, nor the dinner. I slapped my card down on the table, the second the bill arrived. He didn’t even budge.

You know what’s going above and beyond? Using thought. That is going “above and beyond.” I would much rather eat at a food truck, goof off, walk around the neighborhood, and call it a night, if that means I actually get to experience you, as a person–not some GQ version of what you think you should be.

I am not expecting you to be Ryan Gosling. I have a 24-inch waist, C-cup breasts, and an enviable career. If I wanted Ryan Gosling, I would go for him. But if I am exerting my time and energy on you, NEWSFLASH—I WANT YOU! I just want to expend the [tiny amount of] free time I have on a normal human being with an enjoyable personality. But in 2014, that is a helluva lot to ask for, apparently.

So I have a few messages for all men. And I’m sorry the good ones have to hear it, too, but you can thank the bad ones for having ruined it for everyone.

1.) Take me out to dinner and try to impress me. But I’m not a gold digger, and I can very well take myself out to a fancy dinner (in fact, I do it all the time!). Put some thought into it. Soup is my favorite food. I know, for a fact, that the best soup in this city costs $4, and comes from a sketchy truck. I would much rather throw on a hoodie at midnight on a chilly evening and venture out to grab some food truck soup, than get dressed to the nines for a dinner at a steakhouse. Plus, I’m a pescaterian. What the hell am I gonna eat at a steakhouse?

2.) I don’t need your compliments or praise to feel better about myself. Besides, I dress for my own pleasure. However, you should still compliment me. If you’re thinking it, say it. Because when I think it, I say it.

3.) Stop bullshitting around. While women are huge offenders of the “wait x amount of time before texting him back” move, men are, too. But I am not one of those women, and you shouldn’t be one of those men either. If I am free, if my phone is within reach, I always, always reply back. I don’t intentionally wait 35 minutes to say “sure,” or “OMG, yeah” to seem busy. If I am busy, my response will indicate that. So should yours.

4.) I always put my friends before a guy I am dating. But if I start to like him enough that I really want to invest some time getting to know him, I let the girls know that I’ll be sitting out Saturday brunch to hang out with you. They don’t ridicule me for it, and they almost always encourage it. Your friends should do the same for you.

5.) Being an asshole isn’t attractive (at least not to a woman of substance). I will befriend an asshole (some of my closest guy friends are notorious dbags), but I will never date one. You’re not the kind of guy I bring home to my parents. Plus, assholes are usually mediocre in bed.

6.) I might be attracted to your 6-pack, your chiseled bone structure, the way you’re dressed, the way you talk, and how great you look when you take your clothes off, but trust me, that will only last for about 15 minutes. If you don’t have a brain to go with that, or if you have a rice cake personality, I’m kicking your ass to the curb. You see, rice cakes are versatile. You can dress them up in all sorts of ways to make them taste good (avocados, hummus, peanut butter, Nutella), but at the core of it all, nobody actually craves a rice cake. They’re boring without the jazz. And you’re boring without a personality.

7.) Stop trying to act cool. It’s not cool. I’ve dated everyone from dentists, to lawyers, to consultants, to investment bankers, DJs, models, and pro-athletes. Believe me when I tell you that you are the absolute coolest when you’re not trying to emulate Tucker Max or Dan Bilzerian.

8.) If you find yourself in the company of a well-rounded woman:

– a woman who can throw back whiskey, just as easily as she can sip a grey goose martini
– a woman who can rock Cavalli on a Saturday night at the club, then Converse sneaks at the dive bar for Sunday football
– a woman who out-earns you, and doesn’t date you for free meals and drinks
– a woman with a thriving career
– a woman with a diverse set of interests
– a woman who can party all night long, but still buckle down at work the next day
– a woman who gives back to her community
– a woman who loves her family
– a women who loves herself

You had better understand that she can run circles around you. I don’t care if it is cocky or self-important, but if there is anything being happily single in my twenties is teaching me, it is that I will absolutely not expend any kind of energy on a man who does not give me the importance I deserve.

So gentlemen, if you claim that your balls have dropped, if you think you have something to offer, if you like us, step up to the fucking plate and swing.

But just a little heads up, in Nam Nam’s world, you don’t get three strikes. You get one!