My Sweetness,
Remember that day I responded to your profile? There were so many of them and then with somewhere between searching for someone who didn't smoke and want kids I found you. A year has passed since then
My whole world has changed for the better now that you love me. When I think of you, I can't help smiling from ear to ear. (What must people be thinking when they look at me?) Because of your example, I find that I am much kinder to people. I'm happy. I'm so full of love that it is reflected in everything I do. I treat my co-workers with more thoughtfulness. I've even become a considerate driver!
I love the time we spend together. Each weekend I look forward to seeing you. I never feel more at peace than when we simply hold hands, watch the sunset, and whisper how we feel. I love listening to your voice.
I want you to know you can always depend upon my love. It is alive and true, and grows stronger each day. I promise I will always love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.
We are perfect for each other: our zest for life, our stubborn determination, and our looking at the world with a cockeyed sense of humor. Aren't we glad that we both enjoy onion rings with mustard, the front-row in roller-coasters, and "short" Monopoly? Then, of course, there are my peanut butter and banana sandwiches--I think you're actually starting to develop a taste for them now! Most importantly, we share love. We're good for each other in so many ways, and we always find ways to lift and encourage each other.
Cole Porter couldn't have said it any better...
You're the Nile! You're the Tow'r of Pisa,
You're the smile of the Mona Lisa!
I'm a worthless check, a total wreck, a flop!
But if baby I'm the bottom,
You're the top!
Monday, December 23, 2013
PERSONAL/LOVE LETTER: DEAR LOVE
Dear Love
I've just been sitting here recalling what my life was like before I met you. Life! That's a joke. Eight months ago life meant going through the motions, monotonous movements, no joy, no sadness, no ups, and no downs--just one long stream of tedium. Then one day you responded to my profile and there you were--beautiful, happy, intelligent and incredible. Suddenly, I came alive--and I've been alive ever since.
It happened that very first time when I read what you wrote to me--I fell in love with you. How do I know? Because the feeling never left me and it has grown ever since. I think it always will. The lights went on. Instantly, life was exciting; colors seemed brighter; songs crisper; tastes more enjoyable. I ceased walking and began leaping. I realized that there is a whole wonderful world ready to explore--with the right person.
With you, I am at ease. I don't have to try so hard to talk about movies or music or politics or books (who would have thought I could find someone with those interests in common?). I love being with you when we split a caramel sundae, stroll the park hand-in-hand without having to force a conversation, and cuddle up in front of the TV. Simple pleasures. I'm content and happy when I am with you.
I love you. From the depths of my heart, I love you to an extent that I never thought possible, and I know I always will. I cannot imagine life without you now. I want my life to be your life. I want to spend every minute of every day with you. I want to experience all that life has to offer--the good and the bad--with you at my side. I want to grow up and grow old with you. I want to hold you in my arms and never let you go. I want to feel the warmth of your kiss and whisper words of love into your ear. You are all that is good and beautiful; you satisfy all the longing that was in me--body and soul. Tell me I will never again be relegated to a colorless, mundane world.
As I sit here in the quiet of my room trying to compose this letter and express feelings that poets have struggled to say, I am reminded of lyrics that might say it best: "Who knows how long I've loved you? You know I love you still. Will I wait a lonely lifetime? If you promise to, I will."
My sweetie, please don't make me wait a lonely lifetime. If you promise to, I will.
I love you.
I've just been sitting here recalling what my life was like before I met you. Life! That's a joke. Eight months ago life meant going through the motions, monotonous movements, no joy, no sadness, no ups, and no downs--just one long stream of tedium. Then one day you responded to my profile and there you were--beautiful, happy, intelligent and incredible. Suddenly, I came alive--and I've been alive ever since.
It happened that very first time when I read what you wrote to me--I fell in love with you. How do I know? Because the feeling never left me and it has grown ever since. I think it always will. The lights went on. Instantly, life was exciting; colors seemed brighter; songs crisper; tastes more enjoyable. I ceased walking and began leaping. I realized that there is a whole wonderful world ready to explore--with the right person.
With you, I am at ease. I don't have to try so hard to talk about movies or music or politics or books (who would have thought I could find someone with those interests in common?). I love being with you when we split a caramel sundae, stroll the park hand-in-hand without having to force a conversation, and cuddle up in front of the TV. Simple pleasures. I'm content and happy when I am with you.
I love you. From the depths of my heart, I love you to an extent that I never thought possible, and I know I always will. I cannot imagine life without you now. I want my life to be your life. I want to spend every minute of every day with you. I want to experience all that life has to offer--the good and the bad--with you at my side. I want to grow up and grow old with you. I want to hold you in my arms and never let you go. I want to feel the warmth of your kiss and whisper words of love into your ear. You are all that is good and beautiful; you satisfy all the longing that was in me--body and soul. Tell me I will never again be relegated to a colorless, mundane world.
As I sit here in the quiet of my room trying to compose this letter and express feelings that poets have struggled to say, I am reminded of lyrics that might say it best: "Who knows how long I've loved you? You know I love you still. Will I wait a lonely lifetime? If you promise to, I will."
My sweetie, please don't make me wait a lonely lifetime. If you promise to, I will.
I love you.
PERSONAL/ LOVE LETTER: DEAR LOVE
Dear Love,
You've brought me so much happiness and joy that I can scarcely contain it all. I'm sure beams of light radiate from me wherever I go. I noticed a few raised eyebrows at work when I started coming in bright and early (on time, every time!), smiling and energized, humming some love song I heard on the radio while driving in. My medical assistant wanted to know what's up with me, but they don't understand I am filled with secrets that cannot be shared or even expressed in words. So I just told them that I'm seeing someone and it's the real thing this time.
It's very strange because, even when we're apart, I feel that I'm still with you. I remember what it's like to hold you, to kiss you, to make love to you, as those delicious sensations never really leave me. We respond to each other so naturally and completely I believe the gods must have created us to complete each other's existence. Ours is a union that reaches beyond the mere physical into mystical planes that take my breath away. You are part of my very being now and I could never be complete or whole without you. Tell me I will never again have to return to that mundane existence I knew before I met you!
This morning I woke at dawn, still wrapped in the memory of last night, repeating over and over that line from that old Hollies' song: "Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe and to love you." I know what that means now because I know how that feels now. Tell me we can always be together!
I love you.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
ARTICLE: NY TIMES> HOW I FOUND LOVE AND COMPANIONSHIP ONLINE By SUSAN HOGAN
How I Found Love and Companionship Online
By SUSAN HOGAN
I am in my late 50s and should be a better shopper by now. But the word “sale” still seduces me and although men are not exactly on sale on Match.com they are, in effect, for sale. Match.com is ubiquitous with millions of registered singles and although it is easy to weed out the ones with certain politics, geographical areas, and the ones who have been on Match.com for years, I am easily seduced by a reasonable photo and a humorous profile.
There are around 700 presumably available men within 50 miles of me, but many cannot use proper grammar or capital letters correctly. Sometimes there are so many errors in their profile paragraphs, I am unable to read them. O.K., I admit it; I am an English teacher, but still ... One man wrote, “nice to meet you, your nice.:)” Even if I ignored the smiley face and the homonym error, how could he say, “we met?” Some ask questions in their profiles such as “I think people take themselves too seriously, don’t you?” Many men write that they are “working on” themselves. I was unsure what that meant and had a visual picture of hammers and nails, until a friend suggested that their first marriages ended because they were real jerks, and they are trying to do better.
I joined Match.com about three months ago, have been on nine first dates, and I am beginning to feel discouraged. My first date was with someone who turned out to be vaguely hostile. We met at an attractive restaurant in Lenox after two weeks of sending witty messages back and forth. Unfortunately, in person he was humorless and disagreeable. He didn’t smile at me even when we shook hands. He said I was out of touch with the country’s politics because I grew up in Boston, which he called “a bastion of elite intellectuals.” I said that I grew up in a working-class section of the city and that neither of my parents had gone to college. He pretended not to hear this. But looking back, I realize there was nothing substantive in the correspondence. We had just ordered drinks and I was thinking that this might be a bad idea since he hadn’t yet smiled at me. At one point I said, “Well, this isn’t working out all that well.” I thought about leaving then, but thought that such outright hostility on my part might be unwise. I didn’t want this guy following me home.
It takes about five back-and-forth emails before a meeting is arranged. Then it is best to choose a cafe. If there is a next meeting, then it is usually dinner.
Most of the time I get discouraged very quickly and wonder why the men look so little like their photos and why in person they lack the pizzazz apparent in their emails.
The next worst date was at a cafe in Albany. He was in the restroom when I arrived so I ordered a latte and sat down. We shook hands —his was still wet from the restroom — and then he went to the counter and came back with a tea and a rather large chocolate cookie wrapped in plastic. He unwrapped half of it and began slowly taking bites. He didn’t offer me any and went on to say how much he hated the Capital District and was planning to leave. He told me he retired at age 55 from the New York City school system and had worked there just to put in the time. I felt sorry for his students. At this point only 10 minutes had passed and I began looking at my watch and thinking of an excuse to get away. I was wondering if there was some way to program my phone to ring, and I could pretend it was my daughter who needed me home. I wondered if he would remember that my daughter was away at college in another state. Still, it would be better than nothing.
Driving home after a bad date is a complicated experience. I feel relief at getting away, but this is mixed with a bit of anger at myself about the clues I must have missed in our communication. Often I wear disposable contact lenses on the first date and driving home I start calculating how much money I wasted. Aside from the Match.com membership, which is about $30 a month, I figure each date costs me about $27. Never mind the two hours of life I will never get back.
I was widowed quite unexpectedly three years ago. My husband and I had a long marriage and we were married young enough to grow into our quirks together. People become more of who they are as they age, so what may be a fairly mild quirk at 30 grows into a full-blown neurosis by 55. Trying to date a 60-year-old man is daunting if not impossible.
The concept of “Dutch treat” (is that term still used?) is an awkward one. There is a definite protocol here. A friend told me when he started dating in middle age that he thought women would be insulted if he picked up the check. He said it would be seen as chauvinistic. I’m not sure how young women handle this check business, but even though I offer to pay for myself, I expect the man to say, “That’s O.K., I have it.”
One of the most enjoyable topics of conversation is Match.com itself. I revel in hearing about bad dates. The ones who didn’t show up. The crazy ones, the ones who have food issues.
My 30-year-old niece is also on Match.com. She has it a bit easier; she lives in Brooklyn and works in Midtown Manhattan. She meets men before work in a Starbucks next to her office. She is already dressed well and if the date doesn’t show up or is unbearable, she takes her coffee to go and skips into her mega office building
Here in upstate New York everything involves travel and parking. There is really no such thing as an easy date.
Last Thanksgiving I was surprised to hear my niece telling me I was doing it all wrong. I should not be the one to make the first contact. I should never answer a man’s email on Saturday night since this implies I am home. She told me men want to hunt and I was to be the “prey.” This is not a concept I find very appealing.
About two months into my Match.com subscription I began looking for a dog. After a few inquiries I found the site Petfinders.org, which is a colossal clearinghouse for small rescue groups. It is probably larger than Match.com. Unlike the dating site, there is no fee to join, but the adoption costs can climb quite high, to $300 to $500. There are filters for the type of pet: cat, dog, farm animal and then more filters for age, size and breed. Some of these organizations wouldn’t even consider me because I work during the day and don’t have a fenced-in yard. In my emails I often have to sell myself. Unlike the process of looking for a boyfriend, in these emails I am encouraged to discuss my past relationships. I am asked how many dogs I have had and most important how the relationships ended. Death by old age is the only correct answer.
Women run most of these sites, and many of them use the first person when they describe the dogs in the profiles. “I am a happy boy, completely house trained and looking for someone special to love. I am neutered, and once I find my special person, I am very loyal.”
I eventually found a 2-year-old dog and like many of the men on Match.com he appeared younger and thinner in his online photo than he is in reality. Our first date was less involved since it was agreed that he was to come home with me after the first 10 minutes. The wariness came later after he was already living here. He certainly offers me loyalty and companionship, but is terrible in restaurants and stuffs himself on stale popcorn at the movies.
By SUSAN HOGAN
I am in my late 50s and should be a better shopper by now. But the word “sale” still seduces me and although men are not exactly on sale on Match.com they are, in effect, for sale. Match.com is ubiquitous with millions of registered singles and although it is easy to weed out the ones with certain politics, geographical areas, and the ones who have been on Match.com for years, I am easily seduced by a reasonable photo and a humorous profile.
There are around 700 presumably available men within 50 miles of me, but many cannot use proper grammar or capital letters correctly. Sometimes there are so many errors in their profile paragraphs, I am unable to read them. O.K., I admit it; I am an English teacher, but still ... One man wrote, “nice to meet you, your nice.:)” Even if I ignored the smiley face and the homonym error, how could he say, “we met?” Some ask questions in their profiles such as “I think people take themselves too seriously, don’t you?” Many men write that they are “working on” themselves. I was unsure what that meant and had a visual picture of hammers and nails, until a friend suggested that their first marriages ended because they were real jerks, and they are trying to do better.
I joined Match.com about three months ago, have been on nine first dates, and I am beginning to feel discouraged. My first date was with someone who turned out to be vaguely hostile. We met at an attractive restaurant in Lenox after two weeks of sending witty messages back and forth. Unfortunately, in person he was humorless and disagreeable. He didn’t smile at me even when we shook hands. He said I was out of touch with the country’s politics because I grew up in Boston, which he called “a bastion of elite intellectuals.” I said that I grew up in a working-class section of the city and that neither of my parents had gone to college. He pretended not to hear this. But looking back, I realize there was nothing substantive in the correspondence. We had just ordered drinks and I was thinking that this might be a bad idea since he hadn’t yet smiled at me. At one point I said, “Well, this isn’t working out all that well.” I thought about leaving then, but thought that such outright hostility on my part might be unwise. I didn’t want this guy following me home.
It takes about five back-and-forth emails before a meeting is arranged. Then it is best to choose a cafe. If there is a next meeting, then it is usually dinner.
Most of the time I get discouraged very quickly and wonder why the men look so little like their photos and why in person they lack the pizzazz apparent in their emails.
The next worst date was at a cafe in Albany. He was in the restroom when I arrived so I ordered a latte and sat down. We shook hands —his was still wet from the restroom — and then he went to the counter and came back with a tea and a rather large chocolate cookie wrapped in plastic. He unwrapped half of it and began slowly taking bites. He didn’t offer me any and went on to say how much he hated the Capital District and was planning to leave. He told me he retired at age 55 from the New York City school system and had worked there just to put in the time. I felt sorry for his students. At this point only 10 minutes had passed and I began looking at my watch and thinking of an excuse to get away. I was wondering if there was some way to program my phone to ring, and I could pretend it was my daughter who needed me home. I wondered if he would remember that my daughter was away at college in another state. Still, it would be better than nothing.
Driving home after a bad date is a complicated experience. I feel relief at getting away, but this is mixed with a bit of anger at myself about the clues I must have missed in our communication. Often I wear disposable contact lenses on the first date and driving home I start calculating how much money I wasted. Aside from the Match.com membership, which is about $30 a month, I figure each date costs me about $27. Never mind the two hours of life I will never get back.
I was widowed quite unexpectedly three years ago. My husband and I had a long marriage and we were married young enough to grow into our quirks together. People become more of who they are as they age, so what may be a fairly mild quirk at 30 grows into a full-blown neurosis by 55. Trying to date a 60-year-old man is daunting if not impossible.
The concept of “Dutch treat” (is that term still used?) is an awkward one. There is a definite protocol here. A friend told me when he started dating in middle age that he thought women would be insulted if he picked up the check. He said it would be seen as chauvinistic. I’m not sure how young women handle this check business, but even though I offer to pay for myself, I expect the man to say, “That’s O.K., I have it.”
One of the most enjoyable topics of conversation is Match.com itself. I revel in hearing about bad dates. The ones who didn’t show up. The crazy ones, the ones who have food issues.
My 30-year-old niece is also on Match.com. She has it a bit easier; she lives in Brooklyn and works in Midtown Manhattan. She meets men before work in a Starbucks next to her office. She is already dressed well and if the date doesn’t show up or is unbearable, she takes her coffee to go and skips into her mega office building
Here in upstate New York everything involves travel and parking. There is really no such thing as an easy date.
Last Thanksgiving I was surprised to hear my niece telling me I was doing it all wrong. I should not be the one to make the first contact. I should never answer a man’s email on Saturday night since this implies I am home. She told me men want to hunt and I was to be the “prey.” This is not a concept I find very appealing.
About two months into my Match.com subscription I began looking for a dog. After a few inquiries I found the site Petfinders.org, which is a colossal clearinghouse for small rescue groups. It is probably larger than Match.com. Unlike the dating site, there is no fee to join, but the adoption costs can climb quite high, to $300 to $500. There are filters for the type of pet: cat, dog, farm animal and then more filters for age, size and breed. Some of these organizations wouldn’t even consider me because I work during the day and don’t have a fenced-in yard. In my emails I often have to sell myself. Unlike the process of looking for a boyfriend, in these emails I am encouraged to discuss my past relationships. I am asked how many dogs I have had and most important how the relationships ended. Death by old age is the only correct answer.
Women run most of these sites, and many of them use the first person when they describe the dogs in the profiles. “I am a happy boy, completely house trained and looking for someone special to love. I am neutered, and once I find my special person, I am very loyal.”
I eventually found a 2-year-old dog and like many of the men on Match.com he appeared younger and thinner in his online photo than he is in reality. Our first date was less involved since it was agreed that he was to come home with me after the first 10 minutes. The wariness came later after he was already living here. He certainly offers me loyalty and companionship, but is terrible in restaurants and stuffs himself on stale popcorn at the movies.
ARTICLE/SPIRIT: NYTIMES>> DESPERATELY SEEKING CHRISTY By JOANN KLIMKIEWICZ
This article gives me hope...with the power of attraction...
Desperately Seeking Christy
By JOANN KLIMKIEWICZ
It was 2007, and like anyone else with a yoga mat and a DVR set to record “Oprah,” my sister, Donna, and I were reading “The Secret,” the best-selling self-help book by Rhonda Byrne that espoused the cosmic “law of attraction.” Filled with the usual platitudes of the genre, it also held out this tantalizing promise: Whatever you desired — a better relationship, a fatter paycheck — you could draw into your life with the magnet of your mind. You just had to concentrate on what you wanted as if it were already on its way.
Donna and I agreed it amounted to magical thinking, but we were both hovering around 30, our romantic lives stalled, our bank accounts anemic; we were angsty and longing for more. Who were we to thumb our noses at a little magical thinking?
“What we need is a test,” Donna said one night. While we could tick off a list of worthy contenders — a Manhattan penthouse, the romantic attentions of a literary John Stamos-type — my sister worried those might be too grandiose to “secret” on our first try. (It had become a verb!) We needed to start with something emotionally low-risk yet readily identifiable if we were to be successful in our hocus-pocus.
My eyes fell to the yoga book on her coffee table, its author gazing serenely from the cover. “I know: Let’s secret Christy Turlington!” I said. Donna’s eyes flickered with intrigue. We considered the author photo, itself the gauzy embodiment of what we longed for — all inner peace and toned yoga arms — and decided to try to attract a ’90s supermodel into our lives.
My sister tacked pictures of Turlington around her apartment the way our mother once tucked prayer cards of Pope John Paul II around our childhood home. I visualized Turlington before bedtime and spent my commute imagining our conversation (“That’s my favorite yoga pose, too!”). During my commute, I thought nice thoughts about her, giving her mental props for her social activism, her shiny hair.
At least, I tried. Problem was, outside the experiment, I was pretty neutral on matters Turlington. My mind wandered during my secret-ing rituals, and I had to downgrade to repeating her name, mantra-like: Chris-ty Tur-ling-ton. Chris-ty Tur-ling-ton.
“This is stupid,” I phoned my sister to report after two days. “I feel like I’m stalking a celebrity. With my mind.” Actually, it felt more than stupid; it felt wrong. And not for obvious reasons.
A product of strict Polish-Catholic upbringing, I learned early which matters were appropriate to take up with a higher power. On that point, my Catechism teacher had been clear: safety, guidance, forgiveness. The thrill of having your crush notice you in the hallway? Don’t bother, she said. Our parents reinforced this modesty of desire, passing down the belief that there was something inherently greedy, even sinful in being so audacious with longing. My sister and I learned to trim back the overgrowth of our ambitions, to keep our dreams small.
But now Christy Turlington was opening us up to other possibilities. Even as our passion for the experiment eventually waned, we began to peel back the suffocating layers of our youth, to let out the seams of our snugly tailored dreams. Turlington became, for us, something of a private symbol. (Me: I’ll never be able to get that job. Donna: Christy Turlington!) Our weeks with her taught us that living expectantly of good fortune wasn’t greedy; it brought a lightness of being that wasn’t even dependent on those fortunes coming true. And maybe, given time, some magic would happen.
A few years later, I was living in downtown Manhattan and happily married (to a man my sister insists I secreted) when I decided to indulge my fantasy of joining a high-end exercise studio. I knew I couldn’t afford it, but why not indulge the dream with a tour? I visited the swanky facility, feeling giddy with possibility as I got back on the elevator to leave.
“Can you hold that?” someone called. I pressed the “door open” button for a tall woman still glistening from her workout. Her smile was bright, and her eyes met mine. We ended up walking together for a few blocks, comparing notes about exercise studios and the neighborhood, in which, it turned out, she also lived.
“Well, nice meeting you,” she said, our paths finally diverging. “You’re going to love this neighborhood. Hopefully you join the studio!” Then we parted ways. Through it all, my knees were rubbery. There was no way Christy Turlington could have known it wasn’t because I was star-struck.
Desperately Seeking Christy
By JOANN KLIMKIEWICZ
It was 2007, and like anyone else with a yoga mat and a DVR set to record “Oprah,” my sister, Donna, and I were reading “The Secret,” the best-selling self-help book by Rhonda Byrne that espoused the cosmic “law of attraction.” Filled with the usual platitudes of the genre, it also held out this tantalizing promise: Whatever you desired — a better relationship, a fatter paycheck — you could draw into your life with the magnet of your mind. You just had to concentrate on what you wanted as if it were already on its way.
Donna and I agreed it amounted to magical thinking, but we were both hovering around 30, our romantic lives stalled, our bank accounts anemic; we were angsty and longing for more. Who were we to thumb our noses at a little magical thinking?
“What we need is a test,” Donna said one night. While we could tick off a list of worthy contenders — a Manhattan penthouse, the romantic attentions of a literary John Stamos-type — my sister worried those might be too grandiose to “secret” on our first try. (It had become a verb!) We needed to start with something emotionally low-risk yet readily identifiable if we were to be successful in our hocus-pocus.
My eyes fell to the yoga book on her coffee table, its author gazing serenely from the cover. “I know: Let’s secret Christy Turlington!” I said. Donna’s eyes flickered with intrigue. We considered the author photo, itself the gauzy embodiment of what we longed for — all inner peace and toned yoga arms — and decided to try to attract a ’90s supermodel into our lives.
My sister tacked pictures of Turlington around her apartment the way our mother once tucked prayer cards of Pope John Paul II around our childhood home. I visualized Turlington before bedtime and spent my commute imagining our conversation (“That’s my favorite yoga pose, too!”). During my commute, I thought nice thoughts about her, giving her mental props for her social activism, her shiny hair.
At least, I tried. Problem was, outside the experiment, I was pretty neutral on matters Turlington. My mind wandered during my secret-ing rituals, and I had to downgrade to repeating her name, mantra-like: Chris-ty Tur-ling-ton. Chris-ty Tur-ling-ton.
“This is stupid,” I phoned my sister to report after two days. “I feel like I’m stalking a celebrity. With my mind.” Actually, it felt more than stupid; it felt wrong. And not for obvious reasons.
A product of strict Polish-Catholic upbringing, I learned early which matters were appropriate to take up with a higher power. On that point, my Catechism teacher had been clear: safety, guidance, forgiveness. The thrill of having your crush notice you in the hallway? Don’t bother, she said. Our parents reinforced this modesty of desire, passing down the belief that there was something inherently greedy, even sinful in being so audacious with longing. My sister and I learned to trim back the overgrowth of our ambitions, to keep our dreams small.
But now Christy Turlington was opening us up to other possibilities. Even as our passion for the experiment eventually waned, we began to peel back the suffocating layers of our youth, to let out the seams of our snugly tailored dreams. Turlington became, for us, something of a private symbol. (Me: I’ll never be able to get that job. Donna: Christy Turlington!) Our weeks with her taught us that living expectantly of good fortune wasn’t greedy; it brought a lightness of being that wasn’t even dependent on those fortunes coming true. And maybe, given time, some magic would happen.
A few years later, I was living in downtown Manhattan and happily married (to a man my sister insists I secreted) when I decided to indulge my fantasy of joining a high-end exercise studio. I knew I couldn’t afford it, but why not indulge the dream with a tour? I visited the swanky facility, feeling giddy with possibility as I got back on the elevator to leave.
“Can you hold that?” someone called. I pressed the “door open” button for a tall woman still glistening from her workout. Her smile was bright, and her eyes met mine. We ended up walking together for a few blocks, comparing notes about exercise studios and the neighborhood, in which, it turned out, she also lived.
“Well, nice meeting you,” she said, our paths finally diverging. “You’re going to love this neighborhood. Hopefully you join the studio!” Then we parted ways. Through it all, my knees were rubbery. There was no way Christy Turlington could have known it wasn’t because I was star-struck.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
LOVE: PENGUINS AND LOVE
Adelie penguins they spend their whole lives looking for this one other penguin and when they meet them, they know and they spend the rest of their lives together.
I like that fact.
Is that what we as people do, are we really all that dissimilar in what deep down we want?
Ok, this is quite clearly real life and we are people and it is unrealistic to think that you are ever going to find true love that easily.
Or is it?
I'm not sure anymore. I think many of us really love the idea of no strings sex. Cutting the emotion out and that way no one gets hurt.
I can see that mentality is people. Hey I even think it myself!
But if I'm being really honest with myself, I want the one. Shame she wasn't the one that I married or the people in between who somewhere along the line I've fallen for then worked out it wasn't quite right.
That's the journey that makes us all.
But deep down are we really all like the penguins, weather we are gay, straight, etc. is irrelevant really. We are all looking on some level even if it is subconscious for that other penguin.
In my case I wan, someone that makes me tingle from head to toe and someone who feels exactly the same way.
Theres a bit of a chick flick film called Never been kissed and I got this from it..I put it in my blog the sound bit
" That thing, that moment, when you kiss someone and everything around becomes hazy and the only thing in focus is you and this person and you realize that that person is the only person that you're supposed to kiss for the rest of your life, and for one moment you get this amazing gift and you want to laugh and you want to cry because you feel so lucky that you found it and so scared that that it will go away all at the same time. "
That is what I ultimately want.
I like that fact.
Is that what we as people do, are we really all that dissimilar in what deep down we want?
Ok, this is quite clearly real life and we are people and it is unrealistic to think that you are ever going to find true love that easily.
Or is it?
I'm not sure anymore. I think many of us really love the idea of no strings sex. Cutting the emotion out and that way no one gets hurt.
I can see that mentality is people. Hey I even think it myself!
But if I'm being really honest with myself, I want the one. Shame she wasn't the one that I married or the people in between who somewhere along the line I've fallen for then worked out it wasn't quite right.
That's the journey that makes us all.
But deep down are we really all like the penguins, weather we are gay, straight, etc. is irrelevant really. We are all looking on some level even if it is subconscious for that other penguin.
In my case I wan, someone that makes me tingle from head to toe and someone who feels exactly the same way.
Theres a bit of a chick flick film called Never been kissed and I got this from it..I put it in my blog the sound bit
" That thing, that moment, when you kiss someone and everything around becomes hazy and the only thing in focus is you and this person and you realize that that person is the only person that you're supposed to kiss for the rest of your life, and for one moment you get this amazing gift and you want to laugh and you want to cry because you feel so lucky that you found it and so scared that that it will go away all at the same time. "
That is what I ultimately want.
JOURNAL: NOT GIVING UP
Giving up.
Waving a white flag at life is the easiest way to solve things. just stand there and let these roadblocks pass or be okay with living with these roadblocks until the end of time. is this okay?
No. No, it is not.
i refuse to give up. waiting for misfortunes pass away or being content to live with these restraints is a mistake. breezing through life will never help reach full potential. each of us are created with so much individuality and special talents, so why put them to waste? why allow growing pains stop you from reaching your best?
Don’t stop trying until the apex. struggling builds character, teaches precious lessons, and amazes people. instead of sighing to “struggle,” i will grin. there is a roadblock, but when i successfully climb it, i will use it to jump to my next potential.
Never will i raise a white flag. keep fighting. have good faith.
Every day, God gives us the sun – and also one moment in which we have the ability to change everything that makes us unhappy. Every day, we try to pretend that we haven’t perceived the moment, that it doesn’t exist – that today is the same as yesterday and will be the same as tomorrow. But if people really pay attention in their everyday lives, they will discover that magic moment. It may arrive in the instant when we are doing something mundane, like putting our front-door key in the lock; it may lie hidden in the quiet that follows the lunch hour or in the thousand and one things that all seems the same to us. But that moment exists – a moment when all the power of the stars becomes a part of us and enables us to perform miracles.
Joy is sometimes a blessing, but it is often a conquest. Our magic moment help us to change and sends us off in search of our dreams. Yes, we are going to suffer, we will have difficult times, and we will experience many disappointments – but all of this is transitory it leaves no permanent mark. And one day we will look back with pride and faith at the journey we have taken.
I could have. What does this phrase mean? At any given moment in our lives, there are certain things that could have happened but didn’t. The magic moments go unrecognized, and then suddenly, the hand of destiny changes everything.
PERSONAL/JOURNAL: WHAT I WANT.....
It’s silly, wanting things.
I want someone to go to bed thinking of me. To wake and send me a good morning text just because he knows it will brighten my day. I want sweet dreams texts too, and conversations that end with “You hang up…no you hang up” because we are so enthralled with the rhythmic measure of each other’s voice it’s hard to say goodbye, even if it is just temporary.
I want a note in the bathroom mirror, I want a who who isn’t afraid to tell her friends about me, who will sneak up on me in the dining hall and wrap me in her arms from behind, just so everyone around us knows that I am her and she is mine.
I want someone who wants to know me better than I know myself. Who makes it her goal to memorize every line in my face, just so I’ll be etched into her memory forever. Who won’t care if one day I show up in a suit, whilst the next I’m in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. I want someone to whom my physical appearance is only a bonus, an added plus to the handsome radiant man she sees behind the temporary fog of mortality that is a human body.
I want someone who likes cuddling just for the physical contact, who likes her weight against my chest, who likes to feel my heart against her Because knowing that I am there gives her comfort. Who can tell just by hearing my voice, seeing me walk, when I need her most. I want her to give me forehead kisses, I want her to need to touch me, to reach out and stroke the back of my hand because she just needs the contact between us, to know that I am indeed real.
I want someone who puts thought into every gift, every action. I want her to write about me, even if she isn’t a writer and the words are a strung together mess of thought and verbose clumsiness. I want her to care enough that she has to inscribe onto paper how she feels. Who will explore the entire world with me because there is nothing he would rather do.
I want someone who searches for adventure, not the adrenaline pumping life-threatening kind (though sprinkles of that would be okay too), but just the adventure and thrill that she can find in everyday life from doing silly everyday things.
I want someone who will take my hand and walk with me along the beach, regardless of the weather. Someone who will dance in the rain, and hold my hand when it thunders. Someone who doesn’t mind my midnight walks to nowhere because she understands that sometimes I just can’t sleep. I want someone who wants to explore the nighttime world with me.
I want goodnight kisses, “well don’t you look beyond adorable” kisses, Eskimo kisses, and random unprompted kisses that occur just because she can press her lips to mine. I want someone with whom I have a secret handshake; which we only pull out in the most dire of circumstances. I want spontaneity, and trying things just because we could, and secret code words, and inside jokes. I want all these childish things that will keep us young together, because when we are together the fingers of time can’t touch us.
I want someone who will rub the space between my shoulders when I have panic attacks. Who massages the place between my forefinger and thumb when she holds my hand. I want someone who will fight for me. Not necessarily physically, but emotionally, who will see that I’m not worth giving up on, that I, like her, am a work in progress and second chances are occasionally needed, and sometimes we’ll hurt each other but in the end we are always able to move past that and grow. To become better for one another because we make each other want to be better.
I want love. Lasting love that my grandkids will talk about forever, one that they will try to mirror their relationships after because, in our own crazy way, we shared a love story that will resonate through the ages.
I want someone who understands relationships are work and that nothing in life ever comes easy. I want someone who wants me for me.
And most of all I want someone who wants all of these things, and more, from me; because I want to give them.
I want someone to go to bed thinking of me. To wake and send me a good morning text just because he knows it will brighten my day. I want sweet dreams texts too, and conversations that end with “You hang up…no you hang up” because we are so enthralled with the rhythmic measure of each other’s voice it’s hard to say goodbye, even if it is just temporary.
I want a note in the bathroom mirror, I want a who who isn’t afraid to tell her friends about me, who will sneak up on me in the dining hall and wrap me in her arms from behind, just so everyone around us knows that I am her and she is mine.
I want someone who wants to know me better than I know myself. Who makes it her goal to memorize every line in my face, just so I’ll be etched into her memory forever. Who won’t care if one day I show up in a suit, whilst the next I’m in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. I want someone to whom my physical appearance is only a bonus, an added plus to the handsome radiant man she sees behind the temporary fog of mortality that is a human body.
I want someone who likes cuddling just for the physical contact, who likes her weight against my chest, who likes to feel my heart against her Because knowing that I am there gives her comfort. Who can tell just by hearing my voice, seeing me walk, when I need her most. I want her to give me forehead kisses, I want her to need to touch me, to reach out and stroke the back of my hand because she just needs the contact between us, to know that I am indeed real.
I want someone who puts thought into every gift, every action. I want her to write about me, even if she isn’t a writer and the words are a strung together mess of thought and verbose clumsiness. I want her to care enough that she has to inscribe onto paper how she feels. Who will explore the entire world with me because there is nothing he would rather do.
I want someone who searches for adventure, not the adrenaline pumping life-threatening kind (though sprinkles of that would be okay too), but just the adventure and thrill that she can find in everyday life from doing silly everyday things.
I want someone who will take my hand and walk with me along the beach, regardless of the weather. Someone who will dance in the rain, and hold my hand when it thunders. Someone who doesn’t mind my midnight walks to nowhere because she understands that sometimes I just can’t sleep. I want someone who wants to explore the nighttime world with me.
I want goodnight kisses, “well don’t you look beyond adorable” kisses, Eskimo kisses, and random unprompted kisses that occur just because she can press her lips to mine. I want someone with whom I have a secret handshake; which we only pull out in the most dire of circumstances. I want spontaneity, and trying things just because we could, and secret code words, and inside jokes. I want all these childish things that will keep us young together, because when we are together the fingers of time can’t touch us.
I want someone who will rub the space between my shoulders when I have panic attacks. Who massages the place between my forefinger and thumb when she holds my hand. I want someone who will fight for me. Not necessarily physically, but emotionally, who will see that I’m not worth giving up on, that I, like her, am a work in progress and second chances are occasionally needed, and sometimes we’ll hurt each other but in the end we are always able to move past that and grow. To become better for one another because we make each other want to be better.
I want love. Lasting love that my grandkids will talk about forever, one that they will try to mirror their relationships after because, in our own crazy way, we shared a love story that will resonate through the ages.
I want someone who understands relationships are work and that nothing in life ever comes easy. I want someone who wants me for me.
And most of all I want someone who wants all of these things, and more, from me; because I want to give them.
PERSONAL/JOURNAL: DATING AGAIN...
On the heels of a 5 year marriage that ended in divorce and two years to recover, the prospect of dating absolutely terrifies me. I don’t even know how to do it! I mean, I suppose I could call back to a few tricks I learned in high school (Do girls still like making out in the back seat of a car with Hootie and Blowfish playing?) but I doubt it would have the same impact. Just kidding.
And while we’re on the subject, you can add sexual anxiety to the pile. Over the course of more than a two years since my divorce I’ve had only two sexual partner. Once you have learned someone’s body it’s easy to convince yourself that you’re an incredible lover. However, I have it on good authority that all women are not the same in that department. So where I was consistently delivering 100% of the time, I’d be lucky to convert 70% - 75% of the time in today’s market. Women have it so much luckier than men in this department. Sure some of us are into that 50 Shades of Grey shit, or can only cum if you’re wearing a mascot costume, but for the vast majority of us, If you just work on that thing that’s sticking up, literally staring you in the face, you’ll probably be fine. With women you need to know what to to touch and when, what to say, what to wear, what music should be playing, the fucking barometric pressure, it’s exhausting! “Just ask them what they like.” A friend of mine advised. I supposed it’s worth a shot, but I can’t even get a woman to tell me where she wants to go for dinner. I feel I’d get that stock, “Whatever you like is fine,” answer, and much like that ill-advised date at Applebees, I’m the only one that leaves satisfied.
If the perfect girl walked into my life would I take a chance? I like to think I would. What does perfect mean? For me perfection has always been defined by one trait; imperfection Because when you strip all the bull shit away. The make up, the clothes, the small talk, the money, the fancy car, the prestigious job, all of the images we put out to make us seem perfect, all we’re left with are the imperfections. It’s those abnormalities that make us unique. Our scars make us special. I’m looking for the girl with the right balance of both. Someone who is perfectly broken.
I need a girl who’s smart. Like freakishly smart. If you wade through my rather shallow dating pool, the only constant you will find is intelligence and kindness. Make me want to crawl inside your head and desperately spend a lifetime figuring out how your mind works. There’s nothing sexier.
I need a girl with a great sense of humor. Or maybe more specifically, my sense of humor. Ironically the same sense of humor that attracts people to me is the trait that repulses them over time. It can be dark, biting, inappropriate, ill-timed. It will make you cry, but I promise those times will always make me feel worse than they ever make you feel…Just not bad enough to keep from doing it again next time. Besides, if you’re crying there’s an equal chance that I’ve done something sweet and thoughtful as rude and insensitive. The real dirty secret is, I’m more sensitive than you could ever be. Chances are if someone is crying on the couch it’s me after witnessing some random act of kindness or a peanut butter commercial with a father and son.
I need a girl who gets me. This is the rough one. How do you start coming to terms with a person who craves attention but desperately wants to blend in with his surroundings? Someone who can be the life of the party one night then inexplicably shy and mute the next? I can be fun and dynamic but battle with bouts of depression. Arrogant yet self loathing. It’s safe to say that I live my life at the extremes, but that’s not always a negative. I may not be the warmest person on the planet, but when I love someone I love them hard, because that’s the only way I know how to do it.
I could go on, creativity, passion, a hard edge to even out my fairly vanilla lifestyle, someone who challenges me and calls me on my bull shit, but knows that I also need validation and support, I think you get the point. I just want someone who makes sense. Who makes me feel calm and at home. Someone who realizes I can’t offer her the world, but thinks what I can give her is pretty great. Most of all, I want someone who wants to be with me. In the end isn’t that the only thing we’re all looking for?
Oh, and I also need a blonde with perfect tits and a great ass. What? I’m still a guy…Would it help if I said I’m a good cook?
XOXO
And while we’re on the subject, you can add sexual anxiety to the pile. Over the course of more than a two years since my divorce I’ve had only two sexual partner. Once you have learned someone’s body it’s easy to convince yourself that you’re an incredible lover. However, I have it on good authority that all women are not the same in that department. So where I was consistently delivering 100% of the time, I’d be lucky to convert 70% - 75% of the time in today’s market. Women have it so much luckier than men in this department. Sure some of us are into that 50 Shades of Grey shit, or can only cum if you’re wearing a mascot costume, but for the vast majority of us, If you just work on that thing that’s sticking up, literally staring you in the face, you’ll probably be fine. With women you need to know what to to touch and when, what to say, what to wear, what music should be playing, the fucking barometric pressure, it’s exhausting! “Just ask them what they like.” A friend of mine advised. I supposed it’s worth a shot, but I can’t even get a woman to tell me where she wants to go for dinner. I feel I’d get that stock, “Whatever you like is fine,” answer, and much like that ill-advised date at Applebees, I’m the only one that leaves satisfied.
If the perfect girl walked into my life would I take a chance? I like to think I would. What does perfect mean? For me perfection has always been defined by one trait; imperfection Because when you strip all the bull shit away. The make up, the clothes, the small talk, the money, the fancy car, the prestigious job, all of the images we put out to make us seem perfect, all we’re left with are the imperfections. It’s those abnormalities that make us unique. Our scars make us special. I’m looking for the girl with the right balance of both. Someone who is perfectly broken.
I need a girl who’s smart. Like freakishly smart. If you wade through my rather shallow dating pool, the only constant you will find is intelligence and kindness. Make me want to crawl inside your head and desperately spend a lifetime figuring out how your mind works. There’s nothing sexier.
I need a girl with a great sense of humor. Or maybe more specifically, my sense of humor. Ironically the same sense of humor that attracts people to me is the trait that repulses them over time. It can be dark, biting, inappropriate, ill-timed. It will make you cry, but I promise those times will always make me feel worse than they ever make you feel…Just not bad enough to keep from doing it again next time. Besides, if you’re crying there’s an equal chance that I’ve done something sweet and thoughtful as rude and insensitive. The real dirty secret is, I’m more sensitive than you could ever be. Chances are if someone is crying on the couch it’s me after witnessing some random act of kindness or a peanut butter commercial with a father and son.
I need a girl who gets me. This is the rough one. How do you start coming to terms with a person who craves attention but desperately wants to blend in with his surroundings? Someone who can be the life of the party one night then inexplicably shy and mute the next? I can be fun and dynamic but battle with bouts of depression. Arrogant yet self loathing. It’s safe to say that I live my life at the extremes, but that’s not always a negative. I may not be the warmest person on the planet, but when I love someone I love them hard, because that’s the only way I know how to do it.
I could go on, creativity, passion, a hard edge to even out my fairly vanilla lifestyle, someone who challenges me and calls me on my bull shit, but knows that I also need validation and support, I think you get the point. I just want someone who makes sense. Who makes me feel calm and at home. Someone who realizes I can’t offer her the world, but thinks what I can give her is pretty great. Most of all, I want someone who wants to be with me. In the end isn’t that the only thing we’re all looking for?
Oh, and I also need a blonde with perfect tits and a great ass. What? I’m still a guy…Would it help if I said I’m a good cook?
XOXO
THOUGHTS: SICK AND TIRED OF DATING
I am getting so tired of woman right now...i am serious thinking of giving up dating period.Its all about finding love and acquire daytime vagina. There is no magic trick that will get you laid.
I know i shouldn't blaming woman because I am unhappy. I know it's not their responsibility to validate my humanity with their vaginas. I know they are ot obligated to like me because I am "nice" to them.But after my divorce I was really hoping to meet someone real and honest. But instead I’ve found that women just want my profile and ready to analyze it in 1 New York minute. They want it all and they want it now. It’s affecting the way I look at life and dating in general. It’s very hard to shake it off when only the hot men who can take a new woman home every night and dump them the next day. I’m not interested in sleeping with 100 hot women I just want one woman for one life.
I’m angry at how much time I’ve wasted only to discover that a woman are superficial. I am tired of being alone. I’m even avoiding going out to gatherings because I dislike the discomfort of going alone and staring at all the other happy couples. Life sucks when it seems everyone in the world is having relationships and sex and you’re left out.
Friday, December 20, 2013
PERSONAL/ LOVE LETTER: DEAR SOULMATE
Dear Soulmate,
Love... a wave of feeling awash in our minds, yet it's so hard for some hearts to find. Some can show their hearts upon their sleeves and others shed love like a tree does leaves.But when two people, two souls come together in that wonderful bliss, it results in a feeling, a power, a Fire that you can never miss.Have I ever told you how much you mean to me.You're the stars in my eyes like constellations in a midnight sky.You're the beating of my heart.You keep me going when I want to stop.You're my sunshine when there's rain.You're my joy when I'm in pain.You're my one and only My everything.You're more than life and everything in it and I just wanted to say. I love you.When i look into your eyes, i know I've found home.I can look deep inside your heart and know that I'm there. Over all I see, from the beautiful rose to the extravagant tree over the gigantic mountains through the deep, dark, blue sea.I can only conclude- that there is nothing as beautiful and lovely as..thee.A light touch of your skin on my own. A whisper of something my ears hadn't really heard.It doesn't matter...Your eyes: aquariums of amber liquid still haunt me
Love... a wave of feeling awash in our minds, yet it's so hard for some hearts to find. Some can show their hearts upon their sleeves and others shed love like a tree does leaves.But when two people, two souls come together in that wonderful bliss, it results in a feeling, a power, a Fire that you can never miss.Have I ever told you how much you mean to me.You're the stars in my eyes like constellations in a midnight sky.You're the beating of my heart.You keep me going when I want to stop.You're my sunshine when there's rain.You're my joy when I'm in pain.You're my one and only My everything.You're more than life and everything in it and I just wanted to say. I love you.When i look into your eyes, i know I've found home.I can look deep inside your heart and know that I'm there. Over all I see, from the beautiful rose to the extravagant tree over the gigantic mountains through the deep, dark, blue sea.I can only conclude- that there is nothing as beautiful and lovely as..thee.A light touch of your skin on my own. A whisper of something my ears hadn't really heard.It doesn't matter...Your eyes: aquariums of amber liquid still haunt me
PERSONAL/ JOURNAL: BEING ALONE
I close my eyes and I let my body shut itself down and I let my mind wander. It wanders to a familiar place. A place I don’t talk about or acknowledge exists. A place where there is only me. A place that I hate. I am alone. Alone here and alone in the world. Alone in my heart and alone in my mind. Alone everywhere, all the time, for as long as I can remember. Alone with my Family, alone with my friends, alone in a Room full of People. Alone when I wake, alone through each awful day, alone when I finally meet the blackness. I am alone in my horror. Alone in my horror. I don’t want to be alone. I have never wanted to be alone. I fucking hate it. I hate that I have no one to talk to, I hate that I have no one to call, I hate that I have no one to hold my hand, hug me, tell me everything is going to be all right. I hate that I have no one to share my hopes and dreams with, I hate that I no longer have any hopes or dreams, I hate that I have no one to tell me to hold on, that I can find them again. I hate that when I scream, and I scream bloody murder, that I am screaming into emptiness. I hate that there is no one to hear my scream and that there is no one to help me learn how to stop screaming. . . More than anything, all I have ever wanted is to be close to someone. More than anything, all I have ever wanted is to feel as if I wasn’t alone.
It seems that until I find someone else who'll love me I cant move on from the only one who ever has.It doesn't matter how many times my heart gets broken, what matters is eventually a woman will come along who will pick up all the pieces. So I never stop trying. Take chances, take a lot of them. Because honestly, no matter where you end up and with whom, it always ends up just the way it should be.When I see you, the World stops. It stops and all that exists for me is you and my eyes staring at you. There's nothing else. No noise, no other people, no thoughts or worries, no yesterday, no tomorrow. The World just stops, and it is a beautiful place, and there is only you
It seems that until I find someone else who'll love me I cant move on from the only one who ever has.It doesn't matter how many times my heart gets broken, what matters is eventually a woman will come along who will pick up all the pieces. So I never stop trying. Take chances, take a lot of them. Because honestly, no matter where you end up and with whom, it always ends up just the way it should be.When I see you, the World stops. It stops and all that exists for me is you and my eyes staring at you. There's nothing else. No noise, no other people, no thoughts or worries, no yesterday, no tomorrow. The World just stops, and it is a beautiful place, and there is only you
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