If every time I met a cute, funny, smart, nice, emotionally stable, 30-something man with a girlfriend an angel exploded into a fireball and someone gave me a nickel, I would have enough money to buy a fancy angel graveyard with marble headstones. That is how frequent — and how tragic — this experience has become.
The only type of 30-something guy I meet more than the cute, funny, smart, nice, emotionally stable and totally taken type is the cute, funny, smart, nice, emotionally unstable, completely single, and totally confused type. Taking the #3 spot is the single douchebag, but we don’t care about him (unless I get desperately horny and then I might sleep with him). Keep reading »
For fans of NCAA basketball, March Madness is the culmination of the collegiate sport year. But for me, a former gymnast—mediocre in skill, but a gold medalist in mania—April is what I live for. See, April is women’s college gymnastics month and this year the National Championships were held in Gainesville, Florida, the home of the Gator chop, a choreographic staple in every Florida floor routine. The Championships took place April 21st and 22nd, but aired on CBS this weekend. I watched in awe of all the scrunchies, the hip-hop-“inspired” performances, the eye glitter seemingly applied by a Texas pageant mom, and the women flying through the air and toward the vault and eventually their futures outside of the gym. Keep reading »
On Thursday night, I came down with the flu and it hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt fine at work that afternoon, but by the time I got home, my head throbbed, my throat swelled, my body ached, and every single ounce of energy has been sucked out of me. It literally took enormous willpower just to climb out of bed to go to the bathroom. Ugh.
Unfortunately, it only got worse on Friday morning. On top of the other super-fun symptoms, I had this strange experience of my forehead burning up while the rest of my body had the chills. At one point, I was shivering so strongly my teeth were chattering! When I took my temperature, it was a hundred and freaking five point three. (Brain damage starts happening at 107.6)
Being sick is never a pleasant experience. But I’m really glad that this time, my boyfriend was there to take care of me. Keep reading »
I don’t come from makeup-wearing stock. In fact, I could probably count the number of times Mom wore makeup during my childhood on two hands. And, despite more than a decade of trying to jump on the beauty bandwagon, I’m right there with her now, barefaced except for special occasions. Keep reading »
Monday was my birthday. I turned 28. That would have sounded old to me when I was in college or even as recently as when I was 26. Today, it sounds perfect—young, in fact, and exactly where I want to be. During lunch on my birthday, I took a walk near Central Park and got to thinking about how much my outlook has changed and the route that got me here.
Two years ago this June, my whole world turned upside down. During the course of a few weeks, my boyfriend of over three years broke up with me, I had to find a new apartment (a result of the breakup), and I started my first full-time job in New York City. Since I’d allowed my world to revolve around him, I had very few friends in the city. The friends I did have were so amazing that it still makes me cry in gratitude; nonetheless, this was a breakup of ugly proportions—one that involved a lease, money, each other’s families and the kind of shattered expectations that led to deep bouts of pessimism, sadness, fear and nostalgia. Keep reading »
“Thanks, but my mother’s dead,” I heard myself snap.
From the horrified look on the saleswoman’s face, it was clear I should’ve come up with a more tactful response when she steered me towards the Mother’s Day cards. After all, it wasn’t her fault my mom died; this lady was just doing her job. Keep reading »
I moved to New York City on July 1, 2001, a few weeks after graduating from college. That means it’s almost my nine-year anniversary in this city and next year’s anniversary will make me officially a “New Yorker.” But I think that if you lived here on September 11, 2001 and stayed, you get to call yourself a New Yorker regardless of how long you’ve had a 212, 917, 646, 718, or 347 area code.
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There comes a point in every relationship when two people become so cozy together that they start to create their own private, little world. One person’s neck becomes a perfume shop, a place where you could bury your nose for hours. The other’s chest becomes a bedroom piece as essential to sleeping as the bed itself. This list could go on; this list could get dirty. But perhaps what’s most notable about the birth of your tiny couple nation is the genesis of your own tonally driven dialect of sweet, soothing sayings, otherwise known as baby talk.
Of course, baby talk should never be used within earshot of anyone other than your partner. (If you do happen to employ baby talk outside of state lines, you should be immediately deported.) When used in the confines of your relationship, though, it can be a really positive thing—until you overdo it, and the sweetness turns sour. Keep reading »
I want to start this confession with a disclaimer: I have a boyfriend who I have been dating for two and a half years. It is a relationship that I have poured more love, commitment and concern into than any of my previous ones put together, and he does the same. He listens sincerely to all the problems I unload on him, even when it’s the same stale series of issues over and over again. Our biggest fight has only led to about 10 minutes of oh-so-mature silent treatment. We even have embarrassing nicknames for each other that I know better than to publish here. I know I am lucky to have this sort of relationship and I cherish every moment of it. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Even though Jake Gyllenhaal is my “Get Out of Jail Free” exception, if he came calling in his “Prince of Persia” regalia, I know I couldn’t act on it. Now that has to be love.
And yet, I’m jealous of you—you giggly new couples with your adorably awkward first dates and timid hand-holding. Keep reading »