Today I am Seventeen Years Sober!

Dear Story,

Saturday, I put you in the Ergo carrier for our daily stroll and we walked through the rain storm to visit your Daddy at work. Being so close to St. Patrick’s Day, the city had erupted in shamrock themed parties being staged all over the city and attended by young drunkards wearing green shorts over their leggings, carrying broken umbrellas and sporting leprechaun stickers on their faces. I bobbed and weaved through the streets with my hand over your head to shield you from the uncertainty of what might happen next. I shot a judgment filled dirty look at a group of girls holding up their friend in an alley while she puked. How quickly I’d forgotten where I came from.

After our visit with Daddy, we turned towards home and that’s when I saw that Sansom Street had been cut off from traffic for a rain drenched street party. I could turn on 19th and avoid the chaos, or I could walk through the crowd now huddled under plastic tents and sidewalk awnings, red keg cups in their hands. I rationalized that I was curious and I walked towards the music and the smell of beer and hot dogs. I peered into the plastic tents filled with green shirts and young faces, I smelled the body odors mixing with beer and cigarettes, I listened to the laughter, awkward conversation and bad eighties music and suddenly I was transported through time.

Suddenly, I was seventeen again and it was Friday night before a big football game. I had blue and white paint stripes on my face and was wearing my brothers letterman’s jacket. The party was high on a hill and the rain was soaking my hair, water crawling up the bottom of my jeans. Milli Vanilli sang Blame it on the Rain from a car speaker. The warm buzz from my Miller High Life made me impervious to the damp and cold. I held the golden bottle as if it was a trophy – thinking I was impressing my older girlfriends with my choice of a long neck quality beer. Some of the girls smoked cigarettes and tried to shield them from the drops of rain falling from the tree branches. The bleak Tacoma air could not dampen the feeling of a night full of possibilities. The only light on the hill came from the distant football field, making it difficult to navigate through the forest of people. But that only added to the electricity when the cute boy from Spanish class bumped up against me. His hand brushed against my arm and he gave me a plastic red cup for the keg.

“Those are worth $5.00 you know,” he said with a lopsided smile. I breathed in his scent of chewing tobacco, beer, gym socks and youth.

My friend Kelly nudged me from behind so that I knocked into him again. I giggled, he smiled and I hoped the cops wouldn’t come before I had a chance to kiss him.

When I drank, something exciting always happened.

And then I was back on Sansom Street, watching a young woman with a “Kiss me I’m Irish” t-shirt hanging onto the arm of a very tall and handsome twenty-something. I wondered if she would go home with him tonight and make-out in the lobby of his dorm room. And that is when I had the urge to be inside the party, drinking, letting go of the week, being free, flirting recklessly with a drunken frat boy, chain smoking cigarettes and waiting for an adventure to find me. I took a few steps towards the tent but then I realized that you were still strapped to my belly in the Ergo carrier.

My reverie of high school dances, fraternity parties and drunken adventures ended abruptly. Not because I recalled what comes after the adventure; the vomiting, the dry-mouth, the headache, the cheating, the broken relationships, the lying, the stealing, the poor self-esteem, and the depression. But because I thought of how ridiculous I must look. I’m a mom now. Between me and the next drink is a little bundle of life that depends entirely upon my sensibilities.

I took one last languid glance at the scene, turned and walked away.

Today I celebrate seventeen years of sober living and I am so grateful. I am grateful for you, for your Daddy, for the gifts of recovery and for the woman I’ve become because of these things. I am blessed with a loving and supportive family, real friends, a warm and welcoming home, healthy food on the table every night, a spiritual connection with something greater than me, and a guide to daily living. I've been able to create a purposeful life built on the foundation of service, love and tolerance.

It is my hope that you will never know me as I was before I began to work the twelve steps. I have so many reasons to savor this life, and you are one more.

Thank you,

Mom

Mother Knows Best

When my firm called to tell me they were sending me to Philadelphia, I cried. I was on vacation with my mother at the Jersey Shore. She came out East after her double mastectomy to attend her brother’s wedding. It was a windy day, she clutched a straw hat over her freshly bald head and I huddled under the beach umbrella, cupping the receiver of my cell phone with my right hand. When I hung up, I did something I hadn’t done since I was a child. I placed my head in my mother’s lap and cried.

My sobs emoted frustration that I was leaving New York and anger that someone else got to make that decision for me. It wasn’t just that Manhattan moved at the pace of lightning, was a copious smorgasbord of options, limitlessly exciting and offered a never-ending supply of eclectic and interesting people. It was that after ten years roaming the world for a place to grow up, I thought I had finally found it and had already begun to plant the seeds of my future. And now I was being asked to uproot this foundation for a city I had never even wanted to visit.

“I hear it’s nice there,” My mother said, running her hands through my hair as if she were recalling what it felt like to have it.

“I don’t care if it’s nice. It’s not New York.”

“You could quit.” She suggested. And I considered it. In fact, for the next week I looked at job postings, updated my resume, and went on interviews.

When the move seemed inevitable, I recruited my glamorous New York model friend Janice to accompany me down on the Amtrak for a 4th of July scouting mission. We stepped off the train with our Lonely Planet guide, took in the Philly humidity, walked over the Schuylkill, down Market Street, past a sleazy strip club, past The Salvation Army and past the industrial high-rises. We turned right on 17th and stepped over a variety of homeless people laid out along our path like dead bodies on a battle field. The streets looked barren, entire blocks without people bustling by on their way to somewhere important. Stores were closed for the weekend. When we arrived in a vacant Rittenhouse Square, I was aghast at its small size. One quarter the size of Bryant park, 1/8th the size of Union Square where I lived in Manhattan. Janice tried to be positive.

“ Look at all the cute little shops,” she said.

“What? H&M? Zara? Anthro? Yipee. I pass two of each when I bring my laundry to the dry cleaners on 5th avenue,” I told her.

We went to Continental on Chestnut and all I could think about was how much fun we could be having in New York instead of swinging in these campy chairs at a TGIF knock-off. We tried to walk to Old City but eventually believed the locals claim that it was “too far to walk”. We went to get a room at the Raddison along Chestnut and there was an intoxicated shoeless woman arguing with the front desk staff through a bullet proof glass divider. As the confrontation escalated I let out the breath I had been holding in since the train station and asked Janice if we could just get the last train back to New York.

“Think we could make it back in time for Pomme Frites at Pastis?” she said.

I called my company the next day to tell them I couldn’t do it. They convinced me it would only be for three months. I convinced myself that it would pass quickly. I had been assigned an amazing client and would be promoted to running an entire campaign. This would be good for my career, and I could do anything for three months. Right?

It was a sweltering hot day in Philly when I unpacked my bags into a monthly rental house on Meredith Street in Fairmount. Coming from my tinsy NYC apartment, the idea of an entire house to myself was just decadent. I was amazed that for half the price of my NYC apartment, I was living in a furnished three story row house with original wood floors and beamed ceilings. Outside was a narrow cobblestone street carrying along the occasional dog walker. After I moved in all my bags and unpacked, I sat outside on a real Philly stoop like they did in all the movies I liked to watch when I was a kid growing up in Seattle. They don’t have stoops in Seattle.

I wandered down to Fairmount and found a place that sold hoagies like they ate on the Cosby Show. I devoured it, savoring the doughy bread. I wandered down a little further to an ice cream shop where I watched the girl in front of my order a water ice. I gleefully ate my first water ice while I walked back to the house. I can do anything for three months, right?

I began as a tourist. I started with the double-decker hop-on/hop-off bus. I went to the Philly Zoo, I ran up the Rocky steps, I attended First Friday’s, and bowled in Northern Liberties. I joined match.com, took service commitments at the local AA meetings, and had stuffed French Toast at Sabrina’s. I moved into a furnished room on 10th and Clinton. I participated in the Pat or Geno’s cheese steak debate, I went three months drinking only Fantes coffee. I bought t-shirts for my girlfriends on South Street, I took the ferry to Camden to see John Mayer, I attended a Teamster picnic at Penn’s landing. I went to the Philly Flower Show and attended The Franklin Institute Awards.I moved into a garden townhouse in Old City. I made friends with every shopkeeper on 3rd street. I did the Wednesday night dinner at Fork with Ellen. I began dating the bartender at Positano. I took a writing class at The University of the Arts and threw barbecues in my back yard. I ate at Franklin Fountain every night.

Around 10:00 PM, I would roll into the Franklin Fountain and chat it up with my favorite soda jerk. A few friends would meet me at the end of the counter and we would pull back the hidden seats, and dip pretzels in our ice cream while we laughed and traded stories.

Three months came and went and I stayed in Philadelphia. The job went, and I stayed in Philadelphia. Philadelphia had something New York would never be able to give me. Time. Time to get to know the people in my life. Time to enjoy and appreciate every moment. Time to develop the sort of relationships that are helping me to grow up.

I think of my mother, holding my head in her lap and scratching my back softly, saying, “Oh honey, it will be okay. It will work out. Everything happens for a reason.”

The Stages of Healing a Broken Heart

A word cloud of my current thoughts would show the largest word on the page is still the ex. While I am no longer in guttural pain, I still wake up with his face on the edge of my thoughts. And these days, I wake up with my jaw clenched, full of anger. I’m aware that grief moves in stages - with a beginning, middle, and an end phase. A quick scan of the stages of grief would show me somewhere in the middle.

The Beginning: Denial

In the first two weeks I was most definitely in shock and denial. I still thought the key would turn in the door and he would come walking through, sweep me up in a hug and we would have a late dinner by the fireplace and talk about our day. I was still shopping for groceries and making dinner for two. I found I was still keeping my Sunday’s free, because when we were together, Sunday was our sacred day. I just felt like I was trapped in a nightmare, and at any moment I would wake-up with a sigh of relief. They say that this period of disbelief or shock is the body's natural protection against pain.

The denial was accompanied by bouts of tears, and profound sadness. Tears and Kleenex and more tears, and more Kleenex. During this initial phase, I felt lost and without a sense of purpose or direction. I had spent so much time planning our future that my life suddenly had no meaning. I entertained morbid thoughts of walking out into traffic. I now know that this is a normal initial reaction to loss.

Then, I started with the “what-if’s”. What if I had been taller or thinner or more fit? What if we hadn’t moved in together? What if I hadn’t brought up our communications issues? What if I had just let it go? What if I were less needy and more accepting? What if I hadn’t lost my job? What if we hadn’t moved? I went over the details of the break-up with friends and family, trying to find clues to what went wrong. What could I have done different to keep us together? This is the stage where I needed to figure it out, try to understand it and maybe even change it. I just couldn’t grasp the permanence of the situation; I still thought we had a chance.

So I asked him to meet with me and try to make sense of everything. We met me at a basement café and both cried into our coffee cups. I pleaded with him for the answers to my questions, but I knew he wouldn’t have any. And it didn’t matter; I had gotten what I had come for. Things were really over.

The Middle: Feelings

I’m told that this is the stage that lasts the longest. It is the stage marked with feelings of fear, anger and self-doubt. For me, it’s been mostly anger. I’m angry that he could let me go without a fight. I’m angry that he couldn’t ask for what he needed to make things work. People tell me I need to feel this anger and get it out. But the truth is that I’m very uncomfortable with anger. I fear expressing it in any form.

I don’t want to let myself be overcome with emotions that I can’t control. No good has ever come from expressing my anger in the past, so I sort of want to ignore it or transform it immediately into something I deem “more healthy”. But I know it’s important that I give myself permission to feel these feeling. I need to find a safe way to feel lonely, angry, sad and scared. I want to find a way to let these emotions wash over me, flow through me, and then let them go.

I’m guilty of being someone that thinks there is a limit on the amount of time you should be allowed to grieve. I think that after a few weeks I should be fine, right? But experts say that it can take much longer. Predominant theory is that grief tends to run a cycle of at least one year unless of course the relationship wasn't very important, was short-term, or you were grieving before you actually left him. But I like to go with the theory of one month per year of the relationship. So that would mean I have until April 11th before I’m cured. Right?

The End: Acceptance

So this is the stage where I will start to get my groove back. I usually know I’m here when I realize I haven’t thought about him in awhile. This part comes when I’m out there living the life I always wanted for myself. When I’ve started fully enjoying my life again. I know I’m in this phase because I smile more and laugh out loud. This is the point where I will know that I am finally ready to accept that the relationship is over and that something even better is out there for me.

According to my recollection of relationships past, I will want to be just as gentle with myself in this phase as the others. Knowing my patterns, this phase can have setbacks. There will be moments I’m fine and then moments I’m not. I’ll see him out with a new girl and freak out. I’ll see one of his friends in the Park and it will set me off. I plan to show myself patience during this time and remember that pain is the touchstone of all spiritual growth. I have to try not to lose faith if I still break into tears in the shower. Each time that I feel better will have an accumulative effect.

I want so badly to be at stage three already. I want so badly to rush the process and hurry up and heal. It’s like my leg is broken and I’m ready to cut the cast off on week three and get out there and run a marathon. Some days I can accept that this is a process and I’m slowly getting better. Other days, like today, I just want to be done with it. I pray for patience. My patience with myself right now, my willingness to let myself fully grieve, means I’m creating a better me. A better me attracts a better future. So I put one foot in front of the other, one day at a time. One day at a time.

Ex-Termination: Tips To Get Over Your Ex

Three weeks ago, I lost my best friend and the man I thought I would marry. A woman is entitled to a more than a few days of sorrow, wishful thinking and nostalgia. But when you are ready to put the past behind you and move forward to the next adventure – it’s time to exterminate. You know – get rid of the ex by clearing your mind, clearing your thoughts and clearing a path to the next step. Here are a few tips to get you on your way. They are slowly but effectively working for me, and perhaps they will work for you too:

1. Let go of him, but don’t let go of you. Feel sad, cry, be angry, but be careful not to fall apart to the point you can’t pick yourself up and move forward. Resist the temptation to slide down the bathroom wall and crumble into a ball of salty tears on the floor. I’ve been there, and I know it’s tempting. Slide, but not all the way to the ground. You can’t afford a pity party right now. Something even better is waiting for you. And I know everyone tells you that, but it’s true. Unfortunately, nothing new will come into your life while you are still holding on to the past.
2. Imagine. Accept that you are moving forward, not backward. Imagine a better life and a better partner. A break-up solidifies what you want and don’t want in your next relationship. Think about what the relationship taught you about yourself and use the newfound wisdom to meditate about a new and improved life. What stands between you and the life you want? Is it the right job, the right friends and the right attitude? These are things you can think into action. Positive thinking goes a long way.
3. Re-create your personal space. Do you still have photos of the two of you on vacation flashing through your screensaver? Are you still wearing the locket he gave you for Christmas? Are you still looking at his toothbrush every morning when you step into the shower? Go through your house and take every photo, every memory, every possible cry trigger , box it up and put it in the back of the closet. You don’t have to forget him forever, but you do have to forget him right now. There will be a time when you can take these things out of the closet – but not while you are trying to heal. Remove them at once!
4. Re-arrange your furniture. Move things around the way you always wanted them. Unless you are me, because I already had all my furniture arranged the way I wanted it. The point is that this is your life now and you can give yourself permission to do things your way. Sleep in the center of the bed. Buy a pink comforter cover. Put out the girly placemats. I drank dark roast coffee because he liked it. Now I buy the local beans I enjoy, grind them fresh every morning and make just one cup of coffee. There are some joys and freedoms to being single again, just in your personal space. Explore them, find them, and implement them.
5. Clean. Scrub. Polish. Wipe away his footprints from the floor. Wash the sheets of the bed you once slept in. Purify the shower where you bathed together. Eliminate every hair, every smell and every reminder that he was ever in your home. The smell of his hair gel on my pillow can trigger a fifteen minute cry and distract me from my work. In one tough afternoon, I eliminated all those triggers and gave myself a sparkling new home.
6. Create. Now is the time to start that DIY project you’ve been meaning to attack. Pillow covers to sew? Scrapbooking to do? A short story to publish? Channel your anguish into creating something meaningful to you.
7. Write. In al-anon, they teach you to process feelings by writing. It works. Carve out time in your day to write out your feelings in a journal that no one will read. Start by making yourself write at least three pages. Do this for yourself. After about a week, you will find your hand flowing over the page. Writing is a safe way to get out your fears, your hopes, your anguish, your guilt and all other sorts of feelings. And right now, you need to get it out. Too many people stuff their feelings with food, or alcohol, or work, or activities. They are not recovering – just avoiding their feelings. Real healing begins when you accept and acknowledge your feelings. So get them out!
8. Talk. Your friends and family want to help you right now, let them. They will help you process your feelings in a safe and protected way. They will keep you from going below the line of no return. Fight the urge to isolate. It feels right to stay in your apartment with the shades drawn, the remote firmly in your hand, ice cream nearby and your ringer off. But it’s only avoiding reality. You are not growing on the couch. So call people and talk through the things swimming around in your head. Let some sunshine into your brain. God speaks through others and don’t you want to start hearing the answers to those prayers you’ve been putting out there?
9. Go out. Whenever you have the chance, get out of the house. Go for a walk, meet friends for lunch, check out the new Cezanne exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, go to a First Person Arts Storyslam, check out the free talks at the Library and Ethical Society, take a class at Temple’s Center City extension school, go to dinner with a friend at a new restaurant. Now is the time to get out and explore and discover. On Tuesday’s, I pick up the City Paper and Philadelphia Weekly, spread them out over the kitchen table and start making a list of festivals, concerts, events, movies, stage shows, and restaurants I’m excited about going to see. I get out my outlook calendar and start adding appointments. Then I send out emails inviting friends to join me, filling my life with fun activities. Don’t fill your life so full you can’t feel, but don’t turn down an invitation to meet new people and have new experiences.
10. Avoid Dating. When a relationship doesn’t work out, it is natural to feel rejected and natural to seek affirmation that you are still loveable and beautiful. But it’s also extremely dangerous. It’s dangerous for you because it could just make you miss him more. Or worse, make you rush into something unhealthy just to mask your feelings. It’s also dangerous to others. Using someone else to take away your pain is hurting someone else for your own gain. Stepping on someone else to pick yourself up is never going to get you a better life. I don’t care if he is a dog and you are both using each other. You deserve better – and so does he. Don’t risk the harm to your self esteem. You need to be feeling good about yourself these days, not guilty or predatory. Give this gift to yourself, wait until you have processed before you invite someone else into your life.
11. Succeed. Do something you have always wanted to do! Take the GMAT or foreign service exam. Write a short story and send it off to be published. Join Toastmasters and prepare a speech. Ask for a raise at work. Apply for the job you always wanted. Become an actress. Apply for a reality TV show. Quit drinking and go to AA. Get a personal trainer. Start using that yoga pass. Challenge yourself and feel good about it. Now is the time to accomplish. You are free, go out and get your happiness. Success will bring you better options, better jobs and better people.
12. Be of service. This last break-up hit me hard and sent me deep into myself, tempting to steer me off course in selfish remorse. Someone else could be talking and all I could hear was the sound of my own sorrows. The best way out of this is service. I immediately volunteered to mentor kids at the library. I started making sandwiches for the homeless at Christ Church. I took on a new sponsee. I offered to chair the Saturday morning meeting. There was great relief in thinking about someone other than myself. I know it doesn’t seem to make sense, but trust me. Find somewhere in your community where you are needed. Find a friend worse off than you that could use someone to talk to. Can you help a friend move? Does someone at work need help stuffing envelopes? Can you make dinner for a sick friend? Helping someone else will boost your self esteem, help you reclaim your brain, and make the world a little bit easier for someone else.
    

Break-ups are just hard. No matter the length of the relationship, no matter the person, no matter the circumstances. If you loved deeply, you are now experiencing great loss. These tips will bring you relief, but nothing will stop the inevitable pain that accompanies the end of a relationship. Just keep walking through it. There is a big light at the end of the tunnel, don’t stop in the middle and go back. Keep moving towards the light. I’ll be there waiting for you on the other side.

The “B” Word

How could I be back here again? How could I be right back here, smarting from the same wound inflicted over a year ago?

This is how it begins, "You have a boyfriend? Have I met him?"

Gabe thinks he is funny. He is responding to the word that has slipped out of my mouth during our phone discussion about the details of our upcoming weekend.

But it’s not funny. Should I think it is? Should I just laugh and let it go? Or should I feel like an asshole for just calling Gabe my “boyfriend”, for like, the third time this week. At least this time, he stops me. But now I'm totally embarrassed.

And I shouldn’t be. This man adores me completely. He is falling for me more and more each day. What we are doing, what is happening between us, transcends all these stupid words. We are creating something really great. Right?

So, why does this particular benchmark in a relationship cause me so much duress. And why am I so pissed right now that I want to go out and fuck someone else?

Why? Because that is what I did last year when a man said the exact same thing to me. And Gabe knows this.

I hang up and go back to work.

He Texts: You can call me your boyfriend if you want. I don't mind.

Insensitive. Why does this shit piss me off so much? I read the message again and this time it makes me so angry that fucking water comes out of my eyes. I'm so angry that this water starts gushing and spilling onto my freakin’ phone and it won’t stop. And I know it's ridiculous.

I Text: That's a kind offer, but I'm not pushing anyone anywhere they aren't ready to be. I'm cool with "friends".

After I press send, I get that horrid, painful, wrenching itch. And it's in a place I haven't allowed myself to feel for a very long time. And I want toscratch it. The ball of anger, disappointment and resentment begins to churn and burn and pick up intensity as the tempest swirls within.

He texts: I only tease you about it because you make it a big deal. It's just a word and more accurate than friend, I think. But go with whatever is comfortable for you.

I have the urge to throw the phone across the room. I have the urge too implode, to sabotage, to behave immaturely.

He texts again: As for me I haven't been a boyfriend or had a girlfriend in quite awhile and it might be fun. Let me know if you know someone who's looking for a job like that.

And suddenly, it is November 27, 2005. R has met me for a late dinner at Lucky Strike in Soho. My Mother is visiting from Seattle for Thanksgiving and I left her sipping cocktails with my sister at a bar around the corner to come meet R for a late dinner. It's the only time he has to spare. He's been working on the set fourteen hours a day. He took one weekend off in the past month and has just spent it with his family in Jersey. While rested from the three days away from work, he still seems tired. Perhaps from the drive back to the city. He came back to try and get one last late dinner in with me before the torture of his job begins again. But I can't help thinking that he could have made a little more time.

We are finishing dinner when I say it. "What would your girlfriend say about all the time you have been spending with me in dimly lit Manhattan restaurants?"

He looks confused. "Girlfriend? I don't have a girlfriend."

I wink at him and tilt my head to the side.

"No girlfriend?"

His confused expression melts away as he realizes what I’m saying. "I mean, I think we are going there, but we aren't there yet."

Oh God. I'm such an ass. I realize how ridiculous I must look, my head tilted at this angle, my eyes gazing up at him with batting eyelashes, my retarded smile of assurance that I am in a committed relationship with a man that is completely crazy about me. It was an accident.

I hadn't meant to confront the question. It was just an innocent turn of the conversation.

I'm an idiot. His response surprises me. For the past month, he has sent me 15 texts daily, each starting with the words 'Honey". And lately, when we stand in my doorway, lips locked, legs intertwined, his hand gripping mine tightly, trying to pry our bodies apart so he can leave for work, I have a hard time letting him go.

And here he is, chomping French Fries off the late night menu in some trendy cafe, telling me that we aren't both thinking the same way about one another. And it hurts.

Extraordinarily.

I let go off his hand under the table. "So, I'm not your girlfriend?"

"Well, not yet."

"So, I'm single than?"

"Well, you aren't married. "

"But, I don't have a boyfriend?"

In my mind, if I don't have a boyfriend then I'm not in a committed relationship. And if I'm not in a committed relationship than I am single. And if I am single than I am dating other people. I'm not dating any other people, and I know he doesn't have time to be dating other people. So, this shit is whack and I should be dating other people. Fuck that.

R excuses himself to the bathroom. I pick up my phone and see that I have a new text.

The Text: Hope you don't mind, but your mother gave me your phone number. I was your waiter tonight and I have to see you again. Sushi on Wednesday?

The Israeli born model that waited on my table an hour ago seems to think I am single. And obviously, my mother, who has been in town for the past five days and not even seen the back of R's head, also thinks I'm single. And clearly, the man I thought was my boyfriend, he thinks I'm single too. So then, what should stop me from going out with a single, gorgeous, man that wants to buy me dinner, listen to me talk, make me feel important and wanted?

R returns to the table, we get the check and leave. On the corner of Grand and West Broadway, he turns me around and grabs my face with both his hands.

"Jane, are we okay?"

I look at the fear in his eyes. He doesn't want to lose me. But he’s willing to allow a word to take that risk.

"I feel stupid R. Like a fool. I just thought we were doing something different."

"We are. I just don't know why we need the titles and the labels."

"Yeah, it's stupid. I know."

He smiles. Because he thinks it's okay. But it isn't. After he puts me in a cab, I can't stop thinking about that simple word and what it means. I finger my cell phone in my pocket. And then I decide. I take out the phone and text the Israeli.

I Text: I could be convinced.

And he must have got more than my phone number from my mother, because the next day, two dozen orange tulips show up at my office.

We meet at Bond Street for sushi. He is charming. He talks me into a walk in Washington Square park in the dead of winter. In the park, he throws me up against a statue in front of six cops cars to stick his tongue down my throat . It feels kinda good. And he wants more. He wants me so badly that I can't resist the comfort of feeling wanted. I take him home and feel wanted all night until the sun comes up. When my apartment door shuts, I pick up the phone. Five missed calls and six text messages are registered on my cell.

His last text reads: Fine. You win. I'm your boyfriend.

But it doesn't feel much like a victory.

And now, here it is. A year since R and I ended our fling. I should have known that morning that things would never work out with R. Why did I care so much about that word? Why do I still?

I stare at the phone and think of an appropriate response to my dear, sweet Gabe.

Proposed text: It's not the word that hurts my feelings Gabe. It's the painful realization that I'm standing somewhere I was a year ago, and I'm still standing there by myself. I hoped I would be with someone that's proud of that. Actions are a better judge, but when you are rarely around each other, sometimes words are all you have.

I don't push send. It’s too f'ing long. Texts are not a place for this discussion. I reread the previous texts and the waterworks begin again. I'm so angry. I'm so done. What an ass. I should run away from any man that isn't proud and honored to call me his girlfriend. I put the phone down. Because while I’m entitled to my feelings, I am responsible for my actions. And I want to pause. I don’t want to react.

But I can’t stop the committee in my head. I can’t stop loading coal into the pity caboose of my own personal pain train headed for unnecessary sufferageville in my head.

Gabe is not the man for me. I'm bored. I miss being single. Sure the sex is mind blowing and it's nice to have the comfort of someone in my life... but let's face it, I haven't really been myself lately. I like being wanted, but do I really like this guy?

He texts: Save all replies for tomorrow. I'm not sure my lightheartedness is coming through the medium of text messaging.

He is right. It's not funny. And I'm not laughing. We are supposed to go away together this weekend to meet some of my friends and I don't want to introduce Gabe to my closest girlfriends as some guy I’m dating. I'd rather enjoy their company on my own. Plus - having him along will fuck up the flirt fest I plan on having after dinner when we all go out to the nearest lounge. I think I might be done. He's a wonderful man, but it's time for me to face the reality that he's not actually going to make the long haul. So what now? How should I break it off.

And just like that, I have taken a simple word and made it the end of me and sweet Gabe. The only man I can ever recall feeling so safe around, so adored and so comfortable with. I’m ready to trash it all, over a word.

And then I realize that while circumstances and other people may not change, I can. Instead of throwing away an entire foundation for a lovely relationship with an undetermined future, I can step back, gain perspective, breathe, and simply say "you hurt me".

"That hurt. That was not nice. That did not make me feel appreciated or valued. It made me feel like we don’t want the same things here. "

And actually, I believe we do want the same things. There is nothing about this man's actions that resemble R. He treats me like he intends to be around for a long while. I'm making this into something it is not. There are many other responses to the problems in my relationships, other than drama and tears and walking out. God, I just want to do one relationship differently.

So I do.

I don’t text back. I call a friend and let it out. She helps me visualize an appropriate response. She helps me sort the facts from the snowballing drama in my mind. Then I try and let it all go. I go back to work. I finish the day, I go to a meeting. I try to throw myself into service. I stack chairs, I volunteer for a new commitment, I go to dinner with a newcomer, I offer to take her to a meeting in the morning. I come home, brush my teeth, climb into bed, and Gabe arrives.

“Ingrid, I’m so sorry.” He says before he has even taken off his coat.

“I shouldn’t have sent those texts. I was trying to be funny”

I pause. “You hurt me.”

“I know. Considering your history, I can see why you would think my teasing insensitive. I want you to know how very proud I am to be with you. I can’t stop telling people how lucky I am to have you in my life. Ingrid, I don’t use it in front of you because I’m afraid it will scare you away. You can be weird about that stuff. ”

He kisses my head and holds onto me tightly. He thinks everything is okay. And it is.

I decide to do something different.

Fourteen

Today, I am fourteen years sober.

And I feel fourteen.

Many changes since last year, but there is one that makes me the most grateful.

Acceptance.

Sobriety Rules!

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to show up this Thursday, between 7:30 and 8:00 PM at the house of Jane Schmo.

Possible obstacles include the following:

Obstacle #1 – My apartment will not be accessible on Thursday. Instead, you will be expected to enter the apartment from the back alley. Some of you may be accustomed to these sorts of entrances. Don't be alarmed by the garbage and cars. I will leave a subtle marker on the gate from the alley. But use your training. Do not be discouraged!!! No one among us has been able to maintain anything like perfect adherence to following directions. Call if you are utterly lost.

Obstacle #2 – You have been asked to bring something edible, small and capable of being eaten without using silverware. This is a tricky assignment and for some of you might be so overwhelming you will want to stay home. But don't give up hope! We alcoholics, are quite creative. Many things do not need silverware. Chips, nuts, and cupcakes for example. And the truth is, that I would rather have you than your tiny food. So eliminate this potential excuse for cancellation. I will provide the napkins, plates and beverages… and there will be plenty of food!

Obstacle #3 – You can't stand f'ing alcoholics. Me either!! That's why I like you. And to be honest, most of the people coming can't stand f'ing alcoholics either. So come be grumpy and antisocial with us. Misery loves company.

Obstacle #4 – You are socially awkward and hate parties. You have obviously never been to one of my parties. Buck up camper, I promise to make it as easy as possible. And if it really sucks, just remember that pain is the touchstone of spiritual growth.

If any of these obstacles prove too harrowing to overcome, and you choose not to accept this mission, please RSVP. But should you choose to accept this mission, I promise gratuitous non-alcoholic beverages, gluttonous amounts of cheese, cramped enough quarters to force human interaction, plenty of examples to see people practicing the principles in all their affairs and quality fellowship.

This message will self-destruct the minute it hits your trash box.


Agent Schmo

One Day At a Time

I have this trick I like to play on myself.

When I crave a cigarette, I tell myself I can have one. Tomorrow.

I give myself permission to buy a pack of cigarettes the next morning. I tell myself tomorrow I can smoke three packs if I want. And I’m not lying to myself. I can. My choice.

And this knowledge about tomorrow makes me feel more relaxed. I can let go now and just enjoy the rest of the night because tomorrow I can smoke.

And when I wake up in the morning, stretch and yawn and begin my cravings, I do it again. I say, “You only have to give it up for 24 hours. You can do anything for 24 hours. And tomorrow, you can smoke if you want.” Because I can.

It’s my choice.

No Easy Way

The National Center For Chronic Disease Prevention and Health Promotion web site offers a list of tips to help you quite smoking.

1. Don’t smoke any number or any kind of cigarette.
2. Write down why you want to quit.
3. Know that it will take effort to quit smoking.
4. Half of all adult smokers have quit, so you can— too.
5. Get help if you need it.

I need help.

This is much harder than I thought and I think it’s time to admit I can’t do this on sheer will power. All I want to do is consume any and all sorts of food. It’s so cliché I can’t stand it.

I’ve decided to use the help of a book called The Easy Way to Stop Smoking by Allen Carr. I heard about the book on a tour through Northern England. A British woman with a barely decipherable accent explained that it had changed her life and the day she finished the book she smoked her last cigarette. She gave it to me and it has sat unopened on my shelf, collecting dust for the past two years.

I’m ready to crack it open because I want to stop smoking. I want my best health. When my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer last year, my gynecologist told me that smoking would increase my own chances of breast cancer. That should be reason enough to quit.

But this is harder than I thought.

Sober Dating

I had a date this weekend. Met a guy for coffee. He was funny and charming and handsome and smart. And best of all, he seemed totally into me. Coffee turned into brunch, brunch turned into more coffee. We sat in an outside cafe in Georgetown for about five hours, talking. Then, he asks me why I don't drink.

We are comfortable at this point so I say, "I'm an alcoholic. I've been sober for thirteen years. So where did you grow up again?"

He thinks for a minute. Takes a sip of coffee. Looks at me and says, "I've been thinking about doing something about my drinking."

Mother fucker. I think, but don't say.

So I tell him my story. He encourages me to go on. I switch from flirty possibility mode to twelve step call mode. I tell him what it was like for me, what happened and what I'm like now. I tell him about meetings in the area. He asks questions. A lot of questions. He tells me he wants to stop but he doesn't know how.

I walk him to the closest clubhouse and we pick up a meeting schedule and a big book. He gives me a quick hug goodbye and tells me he wants to try out meetings. He calls me this morning to tell me he went to his first meeting and it was great. He knows he belongs. And he is so grateful.

Great.

This marks the fourth date in the past year that went something like this. Just call me the Mary Poppins of recovery. At my firm, you get a bonus for every new employee you recruit.

Can I get my toaster oven now?

Today is my AA anniversary

That's right. I've now been sober for thirteen years. So long, that I need to spell out thirteen to emphasize the legitimacy.

Since I am in DC on assignment for the next two months, I decided to start my celebration early with a visit to my old home group. At 7:30 AM , I dragged myself down to the Alano Club on Connecticut. The chilly spring day was warmed by the sight of so many familiar faces.

We read chapter 11, A Vision for You. It was exactly what I needed to hear today. I needed to remember that all the excitement that I have been seeking with geographic relocation, romantic entanglement, career ambition and shopping, could easily be found in the form of fellowship and helping another alcoholic. And it's true.

At the half-time, I picked up my coin and felt the stirs of nostalgia.

This is the room where I renewed my commitment to AA three years ago. After a year in that room, my life improved and I relocated to New York. In Manhattan AA feels about ten times faster and ten times more intense.

But, being back in DC and being back in that room has confirmed two things for me.

1. I have changed a lot in the last two years.
2. I haven't changed nearly as much as I thought I had.

It reminds me of the last time I went back to Seattle to help my parents move out of the house where I had spent my childhood. As I packed up boxes room by room, I fondly came across the pencil marks on the wall where my sisters and I had measured our adjusting height. I ran my finger down the wall until it stopped at the date of my last measurement.

Jane, 17 years old, 62"

I put my back against the wall like I was seventeen again. When I stepped away, the realization was all too clear.

Jane, 32 years old, 62"

Purpose

Living in the city of Manhattan means watching others reach for, work for and achieve their life ambitions. Like stopping in the center of a busy New York side walk, others are pushing anxiously by me to get somewhere important quickly and I’m left wondering, "where am I going?"

“Am I doing what I am supposed to be doing with my life? What is my passion? When will I know? Is it too late to find it?"

Some use others passionate pursuits for success as an inspiration to achieve their own glory. Others put the up-and-comers down so that they can feel better about their own situation. Me, I just beat myself up on a daily basis for not knowing my passions, not having a plan towards achieving success, not being strong enough to reach for happiness and being fat.

After drowning sorrowfully in my own self-pity, I eat some cake.

My fears are simple… “I’m too old. It’s too late. I will blow it. I will only ever be mediocre. I'm lazy. I can't do it. I change my mind too often. I will never be the best at anything. It’s too late.”

The fear first paralyzes me into inaction and gets me stuck in a job and a place that is not right for me. And then, after months of painfully standing still doing nothing to change or better my situation, instead of thinking through options and carefully making strategic choices, I jump on the next thing that comes my direction. I don't even pause long enough for a conscious thought, focus or reflection about whether or not this will make me closer or further from becoming my best person. I try on the next career like a party dress on Friday night. After a few spins in the mirror and a glance at my ass-I decide it will never work and toss it into a growing heap on the floor of my closet.

“I want to be a scholar. If I have a PhD that will prove I'm smart.” –One BA, one MA, one Certificate in Negotiation/Mediation and a lifetime of college loan debt later, I have given up on this idea. Not only is it not glorifying and not glamorous, but the amount of pretzels I eat while procrastinating a simple term paper threatens to find me at 300 lbs by my 35th birthday with four cats and a crane to get me out of the house. But with a very good library.

“I want to be an international aid worker.” –Four international missions to third world countries, two near death experiences, ten cases of Dysentery and I decided it’s too unpredictable. The people are dysfunctional. It’s too hard to build a career. It’s too isolating.

“I want to be a Diplomat.” –Passing the Foreign Service Written and Oral exams on the first try convinced me it was meant to be. But as I sat idly on a list of eligible candidates waiting for my name to be called and my orders issued, I became discouraged. After a year of waiting and checking the mail, I was forced to deal with the reality that I would have to take the test again to up my score. I decided it was too hard. I didn't want to wait anymore. By the time I succeeded in gaining entry, I would be too old. Besides, the State Department is too bureaucratic. Do I want to be working in fluorescent lit rooms with no windows for the rest of my life?

“I want to be in the fashion industry.” -Buying designer men’s clothing for an internet site wasn’t nearly as glamorous and interesting as I thought it would be. A lot of fucked up thankless retail people, a lot of humility, and the promise of an uber slow ride to the top. It wasn’t my calling.

“I want to be a Wall Street Mogul, make money, be powerful, and wear a business suit to work every day.” -A move to New York, a credit card at J.Crew and Banana, and a mid-level entry job into a corporate firm… and my individuality and creativity have been snatched from me like a virgins innocence on the morning after prom night when she wakes up in a field with no shoes, no bra and no idea what she did the night before. The corporate world is boring. I'm never going to make it to the exciting part.

Somewhere along the road, my own vanity, negativity, propensity for boredom, impatience and fear of fluorescent lighting have left me with nothing. Nothing but a resume that looks like I took a hundred varieties of pasta and threw them up against a wall to see which would stick.

I realize that nothing happens instantly. No matter what the job, it takes work to rise to the top. And you have to love what you do to work passionately enough to pull yourself from the bottom.

My ego wants to be famous and noticed for being something spectacular, my soul just wants to know that I’m doing what I was intended to do. My head just wants to quell the screams of a thousand unrealized dreams swimming in my chest and pushing violently against my heart to get out and be heard.

In the end, I just want to walk with purpose through the crowd.

The Experiment - Post Analysis

Introduction

Beginning August 9th, I began a social experiment. I gave up attention seeking behavior for 30-days. I was not allowed to go on any dates; flirt with any boys, small animals or large groups of gay men; or draw attention towards myself in group settings.


Background

My dating life had become a scene from the movie ‘Groundhogs Day’. I just kept having the same date over and over and over again—with different men. We meet for coffee, I smile, he charms. We extend coffee into a walk through some New York Park. We nearly always eat ice cream and share off the same spoon. I tell the same jokes. He laughs at the same point in the story. I think the first time I told the funny story it was original and witty and cute. But now that I have told it fifteen times on this same park bench I feel like a dating machine.

Night falls we stroll, he grabs my hand, I act like this is just so special. Because that trick always works and I’m sure I once really believed it.

He stops me and we kiss. We kiss on every street corner between said park, restaurant or bar and my little apartment in Union Square. We look in same shop windows. I always stop at the pet store on the corner and pretend to spontaneously suggest we go in and hold the dogs. We convince shop owner we are moving in together and looking for a pet. Shop owner looks at me like I’m a fucking nut case because I’ve been in every other night with a different guy pulling the same shit. Date and I leave and just as we reach French Roast, as if on cue--we collapse in giggles.

Mine, are fake.

We arrive at my door, he tries to talk himself upstairs, I decline. We make-out on New York street. And I’m getting what I want… twenty minutes of feeling like the center of this person’s universe. Twenty minutes of pure attention.

This is a New York Date.

I can predict the next move like I’m watching a re-run of Three’s Company.

After another repetitive and unoriginal date I realized I needed to give myself a break. I decided to cut men out of my life for 30 days.

I’m tired of it… I’m tired of the hangover of too many dates in one week. I’m tired of feeling cravings for attention and mistaking them for cravings for men. Or worse, one man in particular. I’m tired of picking girlfriends based on the amount of male attention their friendship will garner, only to discover they are shitty friends. I’m tired of making fun of the people I love in order to gain more attention from a room full of strangers. I’m tired of thinking there isn’t enough attention in the world to fill me up.

For all these reason, I enacted the experiment.


Purpose

To discover if I have something else to offer others than my sexuality and playfulness. To push myself to engage fully with friends and family in a loving way. To rid myself of an obstacle wedged between who I am now and who I would like to become.


Methodology

The rules:

1. No extended eye contact
2. No flirty conversation with strangers
3. No witty banter with the coffee guy
4. No back and forth with the Taxi driver
5. No striking up conversations on the Subway, not with old couples vacationing from Florida, not with other peoples kids and definitely not with any cute boys
6. No calling ex-boyfriends
7. No accepting dates
8. No dominating dinner table conversations
9. No jokes at anyone’s expense
10. I must remain in my friends lives-connected and committed
11. I must strive to be present in every conversation with another human being

The time period expires September 8, 2005.

Summary of Findings

· First lesson of giving something up is the sudden realization of how often we did it before. I am sickened by how many times in one day I have to stop myself.
· Week one I am grumpy and uptight. I don’t want to go out or engage with friends because I wasn’t don’t know how to act.
· I note that several of my girlfriends find my experiment makes me boring and have an expectation for me to entertain or engage in the kind of attention seeking behavior that brings lots of men over to the table.
· I’m afraid people wont like me if when I first meet them I don’t get there attention. But I’m also afraid that my current friends wont stick around if I don’t try and entertain them.
· A guy from a meeting I regularly attend asks me to join him at an AA meeting later in the week. I don’t think it is a date, because who the hell asks someone to an AA meeting as a date? Clearly this sort of arrangement qualifies for him. After the meeting I tell him that I am not dating right now. He gets weird and gives me one of those long hugs goodbyes where he won’t let go and it feels creepy. I realize that this is exactly the kind of man that when I’m jonesing for attention reels me in and we end up dating for a few weeks before I figure out what a freak he is and back out slowly with a major feeling of doom and dread hanging over my head.
· Week three… I’m relating to people in a professional and non-sexual way and I’m feeling very smart, very capable and surprisingly confident. I am also eating everything in sight as if being acknowledged for having a brain means I no longer have a body.
· Week four… labor day weekend at the shore, a wedding and my family. A recipe for experiment failure. But, I find myself pausing, biting my tongue, letting others talk—not chiming in. I find that when I don’t talk and carry the conversation and I let a little silence hang in the air… someone else fills it. And by filling it, this person feels important.

Evaluation

· A big part of my personality and spirit is tied up in attention seeking behavior. It’s sort of who I am. So, who am I without it?
· Attention seeking behavior is ultimately self-seeking and yet masks itself in the guise of generously “entertaining” others.
· By seeking attention I’ve alienated and hurt people I care about. I can no longer count on one hand the number of women friends who say that I become a different, less likeable woman in groups. I see now how my attention seeking insults in their direction caused them pain.

Results

· Day 31… went to a party hosted by Nicole Ritchie and spent the evening charming the bartender and flirting with everything that walks. My drunk friends hardly noted my teasing them, they just laughed. End of night, three drunk girlfriends, Brian has my number in his pocket, Everyone thinks I’m fab.
· Next day… No one calls.

The Experiment - Day Three

Three days into my "no men" for a month experiment and I'm already grumpy. Trying to go cold turkey from men and shopping.... and well, I'm only 12 hours into my anti-new shoe campaign. This shit is hard and I needed a reward. Wedges make everything in life less painful. And it beats watching old seasons of Sex in the City.

Friday night I attended a white party at the loft of a wealthy retired investment banker from Ireland.

The cast of All My Children sandwiched me on the dance floor and I made excuses to slip away to the roof. I was tempted to flirt it up with the short guy who enjoyed bragging about his bit part as 'Jock #1" in the runaway hit "Girl Next Door". He was eyeing me most the night, but I purposely avoided eye contact as he made his goodbyes and lingered around my group of girlfriends before giving up, grabbing his paint splattered designer jacket and hitting the road with the rest of his pretty boy posse. Sure, it would have been a good story to tell--but I still would have been alone on Monday morning.

Saturday night, I did the unthinkable. I went out... with a couple. We had dinner, talked about life, caught an indie flick and I was in bed by 12:30. Sunday, I cancelled plans with a guy friend that I knew would have resulted in shameless flirting and games that culminated in a long and lusty kiss goodnight and a week of avoiding his calls and 'let's just go back to being friends' chat next Sunday night. Instead, I met some girlfriends and more couple friends for a late Sunday afternoon brunch at a restaurant in SOHO.

At the AA meeting tonight, I kept myself from scanning the meeting room for cute men, focused on the topic and shared my insight on a Big Book reading. Still afterwards, I was approached by this adorable grad student getting his executive MBA at Columbia. The old me (from 3 days ago) would have manipulated a group 24 Hour Diner experience and tossed a casual invite his way. At dinner, I would have been witty and smart--getting him to walk me to the subway stop and then exchanged numbers on the corner. But I resisted, spoke professionally and kindly with him and then busied myself with my women friends until he sulked away.

I've stacked myself with work this week so that no boy can find his way into the mix. 27 days and counting... I'm just praying that every single man in the city isn't married by the 20th of September.

The Experiment - Day One

Today is day one of my social experiment.

For thirty days, I pledge:

no boys
no flirting
no attention seeking behavior
no dates
no extended eye contact
no free coffees
no batting eyelashes
no resting on my femenine laurels

Just me. All the time. Can I do it?

Boy Overdose

Last weekend, tucked away in a girlfriends hidden beach house on Long Island, I met with fifteen unlikely friends and we had what turned out to be a women’s AA retreat. Like true New York women in recovery, half the group stripped off layers of black clothing, lay their white bodies out on the sand, doused their tattoos with sunscreen and sat up periodically to smoke cigarettes. The other half, with no tattoos or piercings, slipped out of Indian sarongs, sat in lawn chairs reading trash magazines, sipped lemonade through straws, and forwent the sunscreen. Subsequently, I’ve spent the past week rubbing layers of dead skin off my reddened chest. The two halves mixed evenly on the beach and later into the night when we stayed up counting stars and giving one another advice on boy troubles. That's when I got the idea for the social experiment.

It started when L called me out on my excessive dating.

“I’m really not looking for anything serious. I just enjoy dating,” I said.

“Do any of these men have potential?” she asked.

“No, but they're fun.”

“Do you think you might want something serious with someone in the future?” she probed.

“Sure, but I’m not ready," I said quietly.

L looked at me rather matter-of-factly, “I used to date a lot of men I new weren’t going anywhere. I also thought I really didn't want a relationship. But then truth is that I did want a relationship, just not with any of the men that I was dating. And dating those guys was keeping me from meeting someone I could really care about.”

She shrugged, rubbed her wedding ring on her sweats and resumed pointing out constellations with the rest of the ladies. I paused, sipped my lemonade, and started thinking.

I couldn't stop thinking about what she had said for the next 48 hours.

Do I really want a relationship? I guess I do someday, but I’m totally freaked out about the idea of one right now. I’m not good at them. I always fuck them up. Besides, relationship=boring in my mind. And I’m not ready to find a pint of Ben and Jerry's and netflixs a hot Sunday night date. Fear of relationships is such a cliche. Is it really possible I have fallen into the trap?

To combat fear, I normally exert a tremendous amount of control over my life. And when I try to control my life, I lose sight of what “the spiritual part of my being” has in store for me. Dating men that I don’t see a future with is my way of shielding me from the pain of being alone or being in a dysfunctional boring relationship. These "fun" men are my condoms against the penetration of something more serious and potentially more painful. But what if that is what I really need. If I let go of trying to control the situation will I open myself up to something great? I decided to give it a try.

I came back to New York convinced I need to let go of the men in my life that hold no future promise. So basically, I broke it off with the six or so guys I was dating. It was actually quite easy once I decided it was the right thing to do. The day after I spoke with the last broken fling, I felt a vacuum of loneliness and I compounded the feeling by isolating and turning inward. I began to feel like there was no one out there thinking of me. It made me really hungry. I craved carbs.

But it’s an experiment and I want to see what happens if I let go completely and have a little trust in the powers above. Can I let go completely and only date men that have potential of becoming something serious? Can I let go of a man once I begin to realize I wont ever be happy with the level of commitment or effort he is bringing to the relationship? Can I turn down really steamy kisses in unlit doorways with hot foreign men whose names I will likely forget in three to four weeks?

What will become of my social experiment?