a not-such-a-valentine's-day-story.

she sat in the cool, dark theatre. surrounded by strangers. a book on her lap, waiting for the play to begin.

she had come to see him. in the play, on the stage. come to see him, tell a story.

but she was sitting so close. and wanted so desperately to move, just a little. wanted to be further away--wanted to make it harder for his eyes to light upon her during some great scene or important moment. didn't want to be privy to a moment in which the fourth wall broke.

perhaps it was that she knew they were breaking. maybe that was the real impulse to move, to run, to escape to the light beyond the theatre.

but she stayed, marveled as the words of the playwright tumbled around in the actors' mouths, and then  sat across from him at dinner.

and when things were good, there was nothing she liked more than sitting across from him, sharing his space, being close enough that his laughter could land on her--she had forgotten that all these many months later--she had thought she had nothing nice to say. and that that was the real tragedy. that she had fallen for the markers of a man and not the man himself. but she had forgotten that without him ever even looking her way she could feel his awareness, his enrapture. total and complete. and it felt good.

life and its many shades of grey.

because for all the warmth he aroused, he also stirred something deep and sad within her. and he didn't want to know that. to touch that. to taste that. so he'd flirt with the bartender as she sat quietly on the adjacent stool. or so it seemed.

in fact, it all seemed a bit ridiculous now. the few extra blocks she'd walk out of her way in those first few months after it unraveled--charged both by the dread and hope that she might see him. or the now untouched bottle of perfume in bottom drawer of her dresser. she couldn't stomach the scent; he had so liked it.

she ran into a friend recently. a friend who had sat in the same cool, dark theatre on the same winter-swept night. and watched the play with the same tumbling words. said friend asked about the guy, remarked that her own attendance at the play had sparked a series of messages between the two, culminating in their own ill-fated date.

and there it was.

she had sat in the theatre, worried that his eyes would find her too easily. what a needless worry. for in fact his eyes had found someone else that night.

yes, yes. it all seemed a bit ridiculous now.

space. and his silence.

there have been two boys (two men, i suppose) that i have cared for. deeply.

two boys (men) who i think of.

though, not often.

not anymore at least.

but two nights ago i dreamt of one. and then today i thought i saw the other.

my mind must be sorting. figuring out where to place these two phantom figures.

and because the cup of the subconscious runneth over (so to speak), i (against my wishes) find myself thinking (consciously?) about both. with one i talk and argue and laugh and with the other we begin in silence.

and that silence is enough. always it is enough.

and so it goes. the two daydreams. the words and banter and laughter v. absolute quiet.

and the thing is, every time--every. single. time. the quiet wins. there is such peace, such love in a world where no words are needed.

image via flickr: eylul aslan

this is just to swoon...

oh for a man with some deep-set eyes.

the simple truth.

she met him on the saddest day of her life.

it was never meant to work. never meant to carry forward.

it was just that, on that day, she needed a hand to pull her from the deep.

and palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss.

she was over men. over the idea of it. or maybe just overwhelmed by the idea of it.

she was tired and exhausted and intimidated into exhaustion.

wanted nothing to do with dating or meeting or having to smile.

didn't want to feign a certain level of interest.

suddenly loneliness didn't seem quite so lonely.

but preferable. safe.

but oh how she longed to feel a boy's hand in her own. just that. that simple act. the warmth and touch. mutual touch. and innocence.

yes, that was it, she longed for the innocence.

for the time before. when fingers intertwined was enough.

more than enough.

oh to go back to a time when the holding of hands was everything.

not quite closure.

she sat in a chair just a few feet from his.

she fingered the wine glass in front of her.

watched as he joked with his friends across the table.

listened to their conversations. smiled.

the bar was crowded. joyous in it's teeming capacity.

everyone knew everyone else.

the atmosphere was one of celebration and beginning. the start of something.

she felt so full with it all.

and yet.

she eyed the packet of cigarettes in front of him.

he hadn't smoked when they'd known each other.

he would turn to ask her a question, and she couldn't find the man she'd once cared for in his eyes.

she felt as though she was sitting next to a stranger. couldn't equate this person with the man she'd gone on all those dates with, the man she'd had countless daydreams about.

she knew what he was doing. well, she thought she did.

it was protection, this closing off. she understood.

he was perfectly polite. perfectly kind. it had been nice of him to include her. but he was so far away. the three feet between them belied a far greater distance.

had she hurt him? was that was this was?

she was having two experiences at once. she was enjoying her wine, enjoying meeting new people, laughing even. and yet, the person she had come for was changed in a way that she couldn't quite touch.

there was no sense of any history. any past.

and because the man sitting next to her was not the man she had loved she wondered if that man had ever existed. perhaps not.

and just like that, with that one thought, all the memories of the two of them together became memories of her alone. without. how quickly he dissolved from the images her mind paged through on slow, yawning afternoons.

it was then. and only then that she first felt her heart break. and oh how she hated that phrase. heart. break. but there it was.

never had she felt so alone. in the midst of the crowded bar. among friends and new faces she was unspeakably, unutterably alone.

she had loved him. just a little. or started to at least. she hadn't meant to hurt him. certainly not that. but mistakes are made.

so she finished her second glass of wine. kissed him on the cheek. and walked out. alone.

worth.

he was older. dated often. jewish. born and bred in this city of skyscrapers.

i was--well, am--still young. an inexperienced dater (to put it mildly). catholic. from a city situated on bayous.

so many differences.

if i had known these things--if he had known, perhaps it wouldn't have begun.

the age alone made it difficult.

but i liked him before i knew. and when i did know, well, then it became just a number.

i asked him early on if he'd ever been married. ever proposed to anyone. those were the things that seemed important. he said no, asked if i needed to know why not. nope. not important, i said.

later, without prompting, he said, i'm not a settler. and never had more perfect words been spoken. and i loved him for that perfect, unprompted response.

and yet. that became the thing. the thing that nailed me in the end.

it was when i realized i was just another girl not worth settling for that my heart began to break.

perhaps, that's too simplistic. but that's what i felt.

i miss him. and i think about him. more often than i'd care to admit. certainly, more often than i'd care for him to know. but maybe the hardest thing has been coping with the knowledge that for him i just wasn't worth it. which becomes am i worth it? which of course, yes, yes, i know that i am.

but it's never about knowing so much as feeling, is it?

and for a while there i felt...unworthy. mediocre. like the kind of girl you can't bring home to mom.

don't get me wrong, i was not looking to meet mom. i just wanted to feel... i just wanted to feel. i don't know. better than that.

the ego takes a hit. and it's coming back to yourself that takes some time.

but a week ago when american pie came on the radio it stirred the low-country girl in me. and i shimmied around my room chasing the sunlight and laughing at my oddities. and the journey home to self trucked right along.

but it takes some time, this truckin'.

it surely takes some time.

he (chekhov) insisted it (the cherry orchard) was a comedy.

{myself as anya with our lovely varya in chautauqua theatre co's production of the cherry orchard directed by ethan mcsweeny}

i went to look it up the other day.

the scene from the cherry orchard that i can't stop thinking about.

and there it was. page 382 of the plays of anton chekhov (the paul schmidt translation).

it's about ten lines long. takes up half the page.

it looks like nothing, this scene.

and yet, that was the scene that brought me to the wings each night. that was the scene i couldn't bear to miss.

the proposal. or rather the not proposal.

you see lopakhin goes in to propose to varya (who knows he's coming in to propose to her) and yet, it just, doesn't. happen.

but it's so full. the scene is so pregnant with the space around the words. with possibility. promise.

and so i would watch each night. from offstage. knowing how it would end. and yet hoping that maybe this time--maybe this time it might go just a little bit differently. that if varya turns around just a little bit sooner or if the final line comes just a little bit later--that it could all end... better.

i remember saying to the lovely gentleman who played our lopakhin (and who i was just ever so slightly, oh you know, just a little bit, in love with) just this once, actually do it. just this once propose, and let's see what happens.

and yet he didn't. he couldn't. and the emptiness that immediately follows the unimaginable fullness of those ten-or-so lines broke my heart night. after. night.

i've been doing this recently. standing in the wings of my own memories. watching the scenes replay. attempting to find the one variation that might just change it all. and thinking that if i can just get the actor playing yasha to call out for lopakhin a little bit later (or whatever my equivalent of that is) perhaps...

but chekhov was a genius. he knew what he was doing. and so i'm gonna choose now, in this moment, to trust that.

the kiss.

it had been so long since she kissed someone, she wondered if she had forgotten how.

because surely this was not how it was meant to go.

wasn't one person meant to go for the top lip, the other the bottom?

she couldn't figure out what was happening.

well, okay, she knew what was happening. sort of. she just couldn't figure out what she was supposed to do.

standing right there on 78th and Amsterdam, kissing.

she almost started laughing and gave up. she thought if she just disengaged, turned around, and walked away, she might be spared the embarrassment.

but eventually they figured it out. reached a tentative meeting of minds. and mouths.

she loved that he turned around right there on the corner--as if driven by his own wonder and curiosity. loved that he had to take his glasses off. loved that he was suddenly a boy, transformed by his own excitement.

because never had she felt more beautiful.

and so when it all ended, she would laugh about just how uncomfortable that first kiss was, but choose to remember that moment when he could just no longer wait--that moment when a grown man became a boy. and she began to fall.

so blogging and morality...

i asked the questions. mulled over all your gorgeous and insightful and contradictory but still valid responses and this is what i came up with:

i don't know.

that's my answer.

i don't know.

the decision of what to share, how much, to what extent--it's personal. and it's day to day.

that's about as much as i know.

i'm gonna have to assume that guys google. facebook stalk. use technology to dig around a little.

the next time i enter into a relationship i'm gonna be really honest. and upfront:

i write. i write about my life. and if you choose to play a part in my life...well, continue at your own peril.

if he chooses to read the blog. great.

but he has to tell me.

because the blog has to then be a discussion--something we talk about so that i'm sure he gets the whole story. straight from the horse's mouth. otherwise we run the risk of him reading it--thinking something's about him when it's not. (and this situation played out in about a thousand other variations).

he has to give me a chance to explain some things: just because i write about love and marriage doesn't mean these are things i necessarily want right now.

the blog can never substitute for face to face conversation.

(actually, on that note i'm doing away with all texts and phone messages as a means of conveying anything of any import. because what is life but one massive game of telephone tag, anyway? and the technology is just one more degree of distortion. you know? i might even transport myself back to the 1800's when letter writing was the truest form of courtship. everything that needed to be said could be. on paper. in ardent language. because, let me ask you this, how can like or lust or love be talked about using anything less than ardent language? but i digress.)

the point is. the blog has done so much good for me. i really like the blog. and my mom's right and so i don't think i'll ever again change something i've published because some guy takes offense to it.

but i have to learn that the blog is not my first form of defense. or communication.

and because i tend to go quiet when i most need to say something, i can get myself into trouble. holding it in. getting it out only later by taking pen to paper (or in this case fingers to clickable keys).

some things need to be said. aloud. face to face.

so, okay. i will try that. and if it means i carry around a little spiral pad and golf pencil and sit there across from him and write what i cannot say, well then, so be it.

because i'm working on it.

the point is, at the end of the day we must answer to our own moral standards. and share that with which we are comfortable. and go with the gut. and realize that sometimes we'll fail, but such is life. and hell, it's worth a go.

retail therapy?

i was meant to meet the roommates at anthropologie yesterday. we were going to peruse the home goods section. take advantage of the sale.

i arrived early.

wandered over to the jewelry.

found a pair of earrings that i liked.

held them up and studied my reflection.

thought, wonder if he'll think they look beautiful on me?

(because this is what happens when i like a guy, shopping suddenly becomes an attempt to see things through his eyes as well as my own).

remembered that not only would he probably not care, he'll not see them.

he'll not see me.

so not therapeutic.

c-jane inspired post edit:

so glad i didn't get those earrings yesterday. found a much better pair today.

see, patience! (and metaphor).

andy, andy..

naomi and i happened across this little warhol number when we toured the national gallery on tuesday.

i thought it a bit ironic, considering.

but it gave me a little chuckle. and hey, i'll take it.

lot's wife

on our first date i wore a navy scalloped skirt. i wore makeup. eye-makeup. concealer, even, which would have been a great comfort to my mother.

and i thought, what am i doing? i was so nervous. but so damn excited.

i entered the restaurant and asked the girl at the front desk if there was a man waiting for anyone. she pointed to the other side of the u-shaped counter in the bar.

i exhaled. audibly.

i had met him only two nights before and while i knew i thought him attractive then, i couldn't remember what he looked like. i feared i wouldn't recognize him. wouldn't be able to pick him out of a crowd.

but there he was. sitting at the bar. and yup, he was cute.

and god i loved how i felt as i walked toward him.

i always loved how i felt walking toward him.

it was the walking away that was hard.

when i called to tell him that i couldn't do it anymore i tried to make it very clear that it was not that i didn't want to. i just couldn't continue in this fashion. and oh how i listened for the moment of hesitation on his side, for the moment that he would fight me. fight for me.

it did not come.

but i had his book. and he had my earring. and such things needed to find their way home.

i offered that he leave it on his stoop and i would carry out the trade. he said such a thing was ridiculous. we could get a drink. be adults about this.

but somehow the drink didn't happen. and because technically it was i who chose to end things, i swallowed this and accepted the short window he provided in which to do essentially what i had suggested in the first place.

i found myself swallowing a lot over the course of our brief courtship. and never failed to be surprised (even in how it ended) by the extent to which he could disappoint me.

my mother told me to let the earring go. to just let it go. ask him to put it in the mail, realize he probably wouldn't and make peace with that.

but the thing was, he had all my secrets. i'd be dammed if he got the earring too.

and so i went. and bumbled there at the bottom of his doorstep for about two minutes.

and then i walked away. and never have i understood the story of lot's wife so well. we look back because we want to know that we're not alone. and oh how i didn't want to be alone. but i didn't. look back, that is. i gathered every remaining shred of self-worth and dignity and walked away without turning around.

(and cried as i did so).

i know i did the best possible thing. the relationship was unequal and unhealthy. he was selfish and i was overzealous. he was not the right guy, and i was not the right girl. and so i walked away. and i didn't look back.

and yet i wished all the while that he'd come up from behind, take my hand, and say let's try just a little bit harder for just a little bit longer.

because for each of his flaws i have my own. i know this.

but he did not.

i lack imagination. in life, i mean. i can't ever imagine things changing. or meeting someone else. and yet i know these things to be certain--more certain than anything else. but my horse-blinders are big, dark and all-encompassing.

perhaps the thing to remember here is that in walking away from him, i am walking toward someone else.

happy.

before you read: this post

is really a continuation of this.

i'm sitting in the kitchen now.

it's cool in here. spring air kissing the countertops.

i'm waiting for my water to boil. for pasta. i'm having pasta. with a little oil, cheese, and avocado.

and i'm happy today.

can you believe that? that i'm actually happy today? isn't that just so perfect and ridiculous and funny, and so exactly the way life is.

do you know the greatest cause of pain is the avoidance of it--the railing against, the attempt not to feel it.

i awoke this morning feeling lighter. because i was honest. with him. with myself. and compassionate towards the two of us and towards whatever tenuous thing we had created.

i liked who i was when i was around him. that's how it began. that was the first feeling. he created a space in which i felt comfortable to assert my independence and confidence. to be sexy and light. and attempt humor. he quieted my mind.

i made so many mistakes along the way. misinterpreted so many comments. expected so much.

but today i feel again like the person i was when all of this began. like the person he allowed me to be. (i have to remember to thank him for this).

only today do i understand what it is he wanted. and oh how i'd like to go back, retrace my steps, and try again.

ah, life!

i'm chuckling as i write this. because this is life. and i'm finally finding my head above the water long enough to laugh about it.

point to the blog.

i was a little bit in love with him that very first night. standing at the end of the bar, scruffy beard, glasses, leaning in to be heard over the din of the restaurant.

it felt so easy. as if we'd been sitting next to each other at dinner parties for years.

but we hadn't. it was new--and the juxtaposition of the new and old--easy and not--set my stomach aflutter.

i can't remember the details of that first night, only how i felt.

certain things, yes. but for i who remember almost everything, the loss of memory held its own power, it seemed important.

and so i held on to my idea of it--to his deep set eyes, and the gentle brush of his fingers.

i've been trying hard to remember of late. or perhaps, to imagine. just how i felt the first time i saw him. what he thought when i sat down atop the barstool.

because i'm quite sure that whatever he felt that night has long since passed. but the thing is, i'm just ever so slightly--just a little bit--in love with him.

and so i clung to what i thought could have been.

he was busy. this much i know. and i attempted patience. but before long i discovered the line between patience and the pursuit of a man not interested to be small, thin, and unforgiving. and there i was on the unenviable side where pride came into play.

and i am too proud. this much i know. and not patient, but we've covered that.

and yet i'm a little bit in love with him. and how to say that?

and because i couldn't--because i can't, i do silly things like fall apart on the subway.

or in church this morning. or in the cab ride home while my mother listens and my father inquires as to how i can afford said cab. (i can't).

my brother once told me the blog is more interesting when i'm unhappy. i'm the girl who doesn't get the guy and for the sake of the blog i can't be.

well, blog, today you win.

(for the sake of kindness,

and because i want to be

classy about this (and stress

that this is only one piece of

one side of a story) please

refrain from commenting in

any way about the guy.)

he's just not that into you? or he is, but he just happens to be a guy?

i have a girlfriend who makes me laugh all the time.

when in our first year of college we both fell in love with boys who were anything other than meant-to-be, her friends gave her the book He's Just Not that Into You and she was an immediate convert who then went on to proselytize the importance of recognizing when...

well, when... he's just not that into you.

but lately. said friend's he's just not that into you advice has stood in direct opposition to my mother's advice--my mother who tells me to be patient and to relax. that men think differently--see things differently.

and while neither has completely illuminated the male mind for me, they've both shed a little light on how a female's age and experience influences their opinion of said mind.

experience. i guess that's the point. i just have to have the experience.

ps: there was a great article in the ny times magazine (i think?) on the new book by neuropsychiatrist louann brizendine, The Male Brain detailing just exactly how different the male brain is from our own--why it is they can't not look at the big tits in the tight t-shirt. i can't find the article online (i'll keep working on it) but i did find a great interview she did with elle. i particularly love what she says at the very end:

The thing that is awesome to me—which I see in my office with couples who come to me—I’ll ask her, “How do you know he loves you?” and she’ll say, “Because he wants to talk to me.” But when I ask him, he’ll say, “Because she wants to have sex with me.” Women don’t understand that men feel loved when you want to have sex with them—and if you reject them, it means you don’t love them. And if a man can’t verbally empathize with a woman when she feels unloved—they’re like ships passing in the night. That, to me, speaks volumes. Remember Beauty and the Beast? It’s from the song—first she gives a little bit, then he gives a little bit. That’s how you can start to see things from the other person’s point of view. That captures what’s been going on in my office for 25 years.

just a little something to think about.

dear crush,

Dear Crush,

If you think I don't know your name. If I don't say hello or goodbye. If my eyes dart to the floor every time you look in my direction. If I scowl or pretend to ignore you. If I act like I'm much too good. If you wonder why I'm friendly and charming with everyone but you...it's because I like you. It's because my whole body gets warm when I see you. It's because I'm actually shy. It's because you've missed the countless sidelong glances I've thrown in your direction. And because I am completely terrified that if our eyes were to ever meet, it would all be over--that in that instant I would unwittingly confess to the thousands of little lies that kept you from knowing just how hard I might (and maybe want) to fall for you. 

signed,

the girl you think has a crush on your friend.

image found at ffffoun (of course).

I guess I should confess...

that I'm in need of a really good cry. It's not that I'm sad. Because I'm not. I just feel something welling up inside of me and I could use a little release.

that I even resorted watching to One Tree Hill in bed last night to try to get that "really good cry"...

...and then drinking a smirnoff (because I didn't have wine) and taking a hot shower (because I didnt' have time for a bath

that I started playing footsie with Ned about a few days ago thinking it would end there, but it didn't. 

that I'm may never ever escape Ned.

that I discovered the exact location of that really good chlorine whiff on 5th ave. It's 54th street in case you want to know.

that I fell asleep in Sheep's meadow today and it was so good that I forgot where I was. In fact I started to get chilly so woke up to turn off my ceiling fan, only to realize it was the breeze and I was napping in a public park. And that I had no shame about that. 

that I'm blogging right now from Rockefeller Plaza (thanks to someone's free wi-fi), while I kill time before my job starts at the Met. I should be preparing for my auditions. But I'm not. Or exercising. But I'm not. 

that I've become addicted to blogging, most especially right now anything to do with the Nielsons. I go to Nie Nie and C Jane Enjoy It and wonder at their strength and faith and the glorious writing and then I stare at those gorgeous pictures of Stephanie and her children and wonder if I've ever met someone so beautiful. And I find myself praying for people I don't even know. And I don't pray much. 

that I hate having to ask people for gifts (aka money) over the phone...even if it is for a good cause. I get it...no one likes the pushy phone calls, no one likes to give money away...but it's my job and I love the people I work with. So please...have patience with telemarketers and fundraisers...they're just trying to make a go of it like everyone else.

that I can't understand why not one man offered me his seat on the bus this morning. I stood there for an hour. Chances are I would have refused, but really--is chivalry actually dead?

that I just realized I actually have to do something other than this...oh damn, the real world beckons and I am forced to answer. 

Sometimes...

...nothing beats a man in a good suit.

Our very own "Sex and the City" lunch date...

Can you believe in all my trips to the city as a girl growing up, then four years of living here I had never actually been to Bloomingdale's? Though I do remember reading about it in the Babysitters' Club book series (Stacey's father lived so close that she said she could smell it--gosh I wanted to be her when I was a girl!).

Cheersing our gorgeous lives post-college!

The food was delicious--I got the salad, sandwich, fro-yo combo.

We took a lot of pictures. Poor Matthew, our waiter, had his hands full with us.

Vic and I decided we're going to apply for a Fulbright Grant together. Watch out world, we're gonna make a documentary and change the way Americans think about food.

Naomi is as good at taking photos as she is at looking beautiful in them.

Speaking of gorgeous: Carolyn enjoys a little coffee flavored fro-yo.

Double trouble.

My own yogurt before I dig in--so pretty.

It's pretty tasty too.

So yeah, I kinda liked it.

We had a blast. Talked about careers, our lives, skiing, vespas, Utah, boys, living in NYC like tourists, love, becoming clucky (you're gonna have to ask Vic for an accurate definition of this), shifting priorities, and a little more love. Only one thing was missing...

Girl, Chi-town is fantastic, but we need you to complete our circle. Come back!