Monthly Archives: September 2012

Soulmates, Serendipity, and Other Thoughts on Love

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Love and other dumb stuff. And, yes, I do own this pathetic book.

I don’t believe in lists. Wait, I take that back. I believe in lists such as a grocery list scratched on the back of my electric bill. I don’t, however, believe in lists such as “The 57 traits required in my Perfect Man.” Such things only turn you in to an unrealistic sociopath, also known as Julia Allison on Miss Advised. So, I was surprised today when I read “Signs You’re Dating a Keeper” and found myself smiling like an idiot by the time I reached number 32, hopeful that I would one day find someone who embodied all of those traits (most importantly 4, 7, 8, 17, 29…and, well, 9.)

I sent the list out to my Twitter hood and obviously anything about dating, relationships, or ess ee ex is usually met with a response. Moments later, I was in a conversation with one of my male friends about whether or not it is actually possible to find someone whose life curriculum vitae included all 32 traits. Our dialogue got me thinking about whether there really is a perfect person out there for us and how much finding that person is left up to fate.

It’s almost my bedtime and thus I am far too tired to examine rhyming philosophical questions such as “Do you believe in soulmates and the role of fate?” The word soulmate is trite and appears on too many people’s Tumblr accounts. And, even if I find some perfect gent, calling him my soulmate, to his face or behind his back, would only make me a complete tool. But, do I believe there’s someone for everyone? Yes. Sure. I do. Because I am young and impressionable and not too scathed in matters of the heart.

But, more than stale words like soulmate, I believe in delicious words like serendipity. For anyone who missed that 6th grade vocabulary test, serendipity is an adjective meaning “come upon or found by accident; fortuitous.” (Or a 2001 film with John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale…that, too.) I believe that this life has a way of working out and that the love, abstract and personified, that will change our lives will come around when we aren’t even considering it. There’s all this talk about timelines and my eggs and quite frankly, the only eggs I ever want to discuss are the ones used to fuse my Saturday morning pancakes. Other than that, everyone can shut up.

There aren’t any timelines. I promise modern science has proven that no one will spontaneously combust if unwed by age 30. So, I am learning, with constant reassurance and enthusiasm from my friends (because even sarcastic biatches like me have insecurities), that patience is, indeed, a virtue. Grabbing the low-hanging fruit from the male apple tree only results in rotten teeth and incomplete relationships. So, I have learned to leave my fate up to Aphrodite and God and all the other love powers that be. Sure, I’ll be kind and semi-loving and not a complete jackass if a guy looks my way. (Well, on my good days.) But, I’m not wearing extra make-up to the gym or rejoining the online dating realm or seriously believing any of my DC metro area friends will respond confidently to my ridiculous texts of “If you know any eligible bachelors in the DMV, holla at a playa.”

And, isn’t that what’s theoretically perfect about love? That it comes in to our already content lives and, when we least expect it, makes them more amazing? It comes and turns us inside out, giving us amensia to what our life was ever like without it. It’s beautiful and it’s messy and it’s inconvenient. It makes us stay up until 4am with a burning cell phone pressed against our right ear. It makes us laugh and cry and yell and laugh some more. It’s perfect.

And, it’s serendipitous.

So, serendipity, do what you do, baby.

But, no, really, if you know of any eligible bachelors in the DMV, holla at a playa.

Xoxo,

Tyece

 

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I’m Going to Write About Being Single for the 179th Time and You Can Thank the Bookstore for That

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I wasn’t going to write about being single. I just poured my heart out in 569 words about how having a boyfriend would be nice and I thought hey, I’ll take a hiatus and write about some other stuff like, oh I don’t know, how much I love the suburbs. But, then, on another one of my exhilarating Friday nights I visited the bookstore and stumbled upon this:

Ifyou can’t make out all the titles thanks to my iPhone camera not being quite so up to par, just know some of them include “Attached” “Toxic Men” and “Find a Husband After 35.” I’m sorry, um, what the eff? 

I wanted to scream. Right there in the middle of a quaint little bookstore with some lady 10 feet away from me talking about how much she loves being a kindergarten teacher, I wanted to scream WHAT IS THIS!? Instead, I snapped a photo because 1) such moments are worthless to me if I can’t blog about them later and 2) contrary to popular opinion, I’m not a raging lunatic. 

You aren’t supposed to judge a book by its cover, or in this case its spine, so I shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. For all I know, these books are filled with life-changing gems  that will guarantee me years of happiness and reassurance that I will never again mess up my chances with the opposite sex because of my proclivity to spit fire at unsuspecting victims. But, I doubt it. 

And, really, the significance of the books doesn’t matter. The problem is that these are even written in the first place. Why, oh gawd why, are single women made to feel like there is something wrong with them?

 I’d like to think I am the unofficial poster child for single women now that I have spent the past 11 months being completely and utterly and wonderfully single. You know those girls who say they’re single but they’re just in some unofficial random hook-up thingy that’s a sad excuse for a relationship? Yeah, not that kind of single. I mean me, myself and I on some metaphysical spiritual journey looking for meaning and peace and solace in my life. Or, just fed up with random nothingness hook-ups and finally patient enough not to settle. Either/or. Probably both. 

I get it. We can’t escape our singlehood even if we grabbed a cape and tried to fly out of this bitch. We’re reminded of it when we get on Facebook and somebody’s engagement gets 75 likes but our measly little blog post gets three. Yeah, I said it. We’re reminded of it when the cute couple in front of us holds hands in line at the grocery store and we’re thinking, “Carrying these groceries up three flights of stairs is going to be the highlight of my night, obviously.” We’re reminded of it in real life, on social media, and damnit, even in the bookstore. But, I’d like for us all to take a collective breath in, pause, and just let it out. It. Is. Ok. 

I understand that this whole existence thing is supposed to be about finding someone to share your life with and getting married and making babies and all of that. And, I love that. I even smiled at some little kids yesterday; I’m learning how to find families endearing and not a complete deterrent for visiting Ikea. But, the 25 or 30 or, probably in my case, 40 years that come before that wedded bliss are not pointless. There is something to be said for living in the here and now. Enjoying your life for what it is and not hating it for what it isn’t. Learning how to appreciate your own company. Filling your life with people and purpose and beautiful little things instead of just letting some empty void sit there and grow mold while you hope someone comes along to fill it.  

You are enough. Put it on a t-shirt. Name a blog after it. I don’t know, do something so you neva eva forget it. Maybe even write a book. Looks like those are popular these days. 

Xoxo,

Tyece

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Own a cookbook. The first step.

There are times when I am convinced I have my shit together. I pay my rent. I read CNN. I remember to send a birthday card to my college mentor. 

And then I get on Pinterest. And all of that confidence-boosting adulthood activity is shot to hell. 

Pinterest used to be in my nightly social media line-up until it fell off, probably during an angsty ”rah rah I am a single woman hear me roar; f*** these photos of wedding gowns” kind of night. Nonetheless, I typed in the familiar URL a few weeks ago in an effort to find economical ways to create a headboard for my old bed in my soon-to-be new apartment. 

Knew it. I should’ve just gone to Joann Fabric where they wouldn’t have nibbled away at my self-esteem. I didn’t even get good headboard ideas, thank you very much, Pinterest. Instead, I looked at savory pictures of healthy salads with fancy names like “Creole Tomato Salad Topped with Feta.” In turn, this made me go and grab the cumbersome copy of “The Best of Cooking Light” off of my kitchen counter where it has been collecting dust for the past six months. But, compliments of Pinterest, I was fired up and ready to cook a real meal! 

Ten minutes later, I dialed Pizza Hut. 

Here’s the thing. If you are ever far too convinced that you are finally getting a hang of this adulthood thing, go on Pinterest for a humbling reality check. As you mind-numbingly scroll through Audrey Hepburn quotes and photos of perfectly manicured coral colored nails, you’ll remember that you, my friend, have flaws, too. At least according to the world through Pinterest. 

I would like to believe Pinterest isn’t real life. It can’t be, can it? The only people who have time to make a snowman from a tomato paste can are soccer moms in the middle of Grand Rapids, Michigan. For the rest of us mere mortals, let me explain a few things. My version of cooking a legitimate meal involves salmon with a garlic/basil marinade and salad from a bag on Sunday nights. (The key word of legitimacy in that sentence is marinade.) I will never have the willpower to get up at 5am and do a thigh pyramid workout. I don’t have a blender and thus have no intention on attempting to make a colorful cocktail; grab me that bottle of Yellow Tail instead. Oh, and my favorite–those photos of “loungewear” that includes a gold bracelet, leggings, oversized sweater, and leopard print circle scarf. I’m lounging right now in a beat up peach t-shirt and leggings with a hole on the side. The latter is lounging; the former is a full blown outfit. 

In the end, maybe we’re all a little bit like Pinterest. People see the end result and it looks 100% and put together but they never see what it takes to actually get to that picture perfect photo. 

During my scrolling, however, I did discover Pinterest was good for something. I found this quote. 

“If someone breaks your heart, punch them in the face. Seriously. Punch them in the face and go get some ice cream.” 

Thank you for that wisdom, Frank Ocean. All is suddenly right with the world. 

Xoxo,Tyece

Confession: I Love the Suburbs

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On May 4, 2011, my dad and I flew to Massachusetts for one day in search of my future and first real life residence. We hopped in our economy sized rental car and headed out to Allston, a Boston neighborhood known for its eccentricity and overwhelming amount of college students. I was going to be an adult and I was going to live in the city, damnit, because that is what adults do. They live in cities, take the train, drink overpriced lattes at the Starbucks on the corner, and eat dinner at restaurants with swanky one word names like Bella or Flybar.

To this day, I have sympathy for Matt, the real estate agent who hopefully showed us around, marveling at how I only had to pay an extra $100 dollars to secure a parking space behind the building. WHAT A STEAL. Not. Some may argue that I should have scoped out other fancier Boston neighborhoods (as I heard on a regular basis from my wonderful coworkers) but to those people I say, hey, you see those rocks? Go kick em.

After Matt showed us three apartments, we bid him farewell and drove to good old Framingham, Massachusetts where a whopping 34.5% of the population is somewhere between 25-44 years of age. I was 21. Nonetheless, I remember the calmness swooping over me as we drove in to town and I spotted a Target.

I signed a lease less than an hour later.

Fast forward eight months after I signed the lease on my overpriced Framingham studio to searching for an apartment in Texas and it wasn’t even a question. Dallas? Psha. Try Plano, home of a Chick-fil-a on every corner and a strip mall on every street.

My list of residences is now Framingham, Plano and soon-to-be Manassas–all places that sound like the geriatric treatment center of American neighborhoods. But, you know what? I love the burbs. Effing love them.

You may say I’m crazy or a 75 year old inhabiting a 22 year old body. And, to that, I say, you are probably correct. But, from that moment in Framingham where seeing Target assauged me like no other, I realized how much I like love the suburbs. I am obsessed with franchises. I spend hours perusing the aisles in Target and, when feeling brave, Walmart. I like space, everything from personal to parking. (Am I the only one who gets really sweaty when struggling to find parking in a city?) I also part time live in my car, that houses everything from an Ikea catalogue to emergency eyebrow razors because sometimes I drive in to work on Monday mornings and realize my s*** is messed up!

It’s not that I don’t like cities. I do. I promise. Just not to live. For me. I like for cities to be close enough for me to reach out and touch  and then run back to my comfy suburban existence after that day/weekend/whatever. I have wondrous friends who live in cities, everywhere from NYC to DC to LA and I think they are all great people. But, I think we should all (self included) get over the assumption that living in a city makes you any cooler or cultured. Hey, there are assholes living in cities and the burbs and there are really colorful characters living in the cities and the burbs. It’s all about finding what works for you, boo.

In an effort to proclaim to the world that I was a free spirit, during spring break 2010, I got a tattoo of the word “Free” in a place that is for me to know and you not to find out. I now like to think the tattoo is less about being a free spirit and more about being free to do whatever works for you, even if that means adopting some grandmotherly ways like moi. (Of course, that’s just a botched justification for a whimsical tattoo but it’s the best I can come up with tonight.) Two years later, I have accepted the fact that in the classified life ads, I’m really just a wannabe free spirit seeking structure, stability, and security. And, hey, I’m OK with that.

Xoxo,

Tyece

 

Somebody That I Used To Know: A Blog Post

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A friend of mine pointed out via Twitter yesterday that I was a little attached to Gotye’s  I was caught red-handed. I’ve been hooked on the song ever since Blaine belted it out to his older brother in a heart-wrenching albeit awkward tribute to their severed brotherhood. I’ve tweeted the song’s signature lyrics at least once and also plastered them on my Tumblr blog, a much less cool blog than the one you’re currently reading. Yes, it’s true. More than Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” or Rihanna’s “We Found Love,” Gotye’s lyrics are a bit haunting and far too personal.

Music has an uncanny ability to make our minds and hearts swivel back to the good old days and reminisce about love lost, no matter how much we know we have progressed. And, that’s what happens when I hear the song. “Now you’re just somebody that I used to know.” Because, in the end, that’s what it is when two people are together and then they are, well, not. It’s simple. It’s raw. It’s real.

I may later kick myself for writing about you as my writing is one of the most important things to me in the entire universe and memorializing you on this blog feels like a regression of sorts. But, it’s 11pm, I had a glass of wine, so damnit, I’m going to write this.

You were my life’s greatest natural disaster. You came through, tore everything apart until it was unrecognizable, and left. My existence would never look or feel or taste the same once you exited. I used to mourn this fact but now I’m eternally grateful for it. I could think back to the good times or the bad times or just the ordinary times. But, two years stand between then and now. And, that’s what’s so eerie. Two whole years. The last time we caught up it was in that prescriptive, maladroit way that old lovers do, as though they are incapable of holding an adult conversation without littering it with “I love you” or “I miss you.” And though we promised one another we would remain friends, we never did. It wasn’t the first promise we broke but something tells me, it was probably the last.

Two whole years. There have been graduations and broken hearts, cross-country moves and new jobs. Friends have passed away; nieces have grown up. You have a year left of law school. I had the hardest year of my life. You may be engaged. I’m…well, not engaged, that’s for sure. There was a time when you knew everything from the grade on my latest midterm to the name of the parlor where I got my second tattoo. We shared everything and now we know nothing.

I tell myself it is better this way. Or, at least it feels better this way. I needed this space to stretch. To mess up. To navigate the lightless caves of life and come out scathed but so much better. There wasn’t much of a friendship in our future because to be friends, liking each other is probably a requirement. And, I’m not sure if we ever liked each other or if we just fell hard and long and fast, ignoring the flashing red flags and repercussions. Nonetheless, you cross my mind and I’m hit with the reality that we are two different people now with two different lives.The intersection that once brought our paths together turned in to a fork in the road. 

Now you’re just somebody that I used to know.

And, maybe I should whisper a quiet prayer of gratitutde to the heavens for that.

Xoxo,

Tyece