A death, a city life

The air is not as thick. The noises more frenetic. My eyes are fixed on red bricks and white paned windows sprouting out of Bleecker Street. The cars and people passing are out of eyes view and I think of my life, this box that I now inhabit once again versus the expanse I roamed. The cars scream instead of the ocean. Concrete awaits me as opposed to sand. I never said goodbye to Puerto Rico. The life of cadence simply paused. But as days pass the life that was mine evaporates into something I cannot resume.

A death. A memorial is required. I am losing something and I don’t know how to say goodbye.

Loving “me”

Passion, I lacked. Passion, I have now found.

A new company. Almost ready to cut the threads to the other. The job I have juggled and responsibilities that were often fruitless while hours of work for mine awaited me. My company has gone from 0 mph to 60. And I sit, in awe at all. Names that are in the press everyday. Perhaps, my photos as well.

A move back to New York. A sudden departure without a goodbye to Puerto Rico. Passion, cold and coats in exchange for the balance and the sand that my toes miss. The orbits around me now have threads from years past. Strangers and past admirers. And courtship. Interesting men. But, my mind is focused on the new company. What a healthy place to be, as I have this power and comfort to not be burdened by anything that is not effortless. I still find myself dancing with the men who paint such an amazing picture, the men I tend to not fall for . . .

From Copenhagen: “You wake up at a slightly silly hour and a flood of ‘oh I should have done that yesterday’ thoughts pepper your mind and wake you up further.. You get up from bed and walk to where I have set up your laptop, on the work desk next to everything one needs to work (muji pencils, papers, post-its et al) . Of course, like you its already on and you can walk to it in the dark as the swirl of its screen saver gives your eyes a beacon. I may have been dimly aware that you got up..when I do wake up an hour later, I don’t question your absence but raise my head to hear your fingers on the keyboard and I relax my face back on the pillow. When I DO get up, I respect your focus with silence. I put on my gown and put on the kettle.. I make your tea the way you like it (or is coffee that you like on a weekend? tell me) and bring it to you. You don’t look up but you know what is coming from the times before: I place the mug next to your hand as my other hand strokes and raises your hair from you and I kiss the back of your neck just where it slopes down to your shoulders, before gently laying your hair back again… You dont even have to thank me as I know that at some point, when you are done, I’ll see your smile walking towards me on the sofa, good morning hug at the ready”

Awwww, if only. I could fall. The man who penned those words truly gets me.

 

 

 

 

Teterboro waits – Meet A

Spontaneity and simplicity is incredibly sexy.

Wednesday. A perfectly mixed cocktail of excitement, nerves and fear pulsed through my body–a body whose shape has never been better. Perfect, some say.

A body that has yet to become acquainted with ‘A’, but whose mind is intrigued.  I have never met a man like A. 33. Incredibly successful. Laidback. Funny. And doesn’t give anything away. Translation= I really have no idea how he feels. I met him through my bestest friend and ex, P, in New York. Upon meeting A, he suggested I stay with him for a month as nonchalantly as asking the time. Our first three interactions were comfortable and full of smiles. And then I returned to Puerto Rico. 

———

Weeks of loneliness and disconnection and a remembrance of so many of the words that fill this blog, so many of the emotions that are highlighted in a double life. And I realized how much a catalyst a double life is for loneliness and here I was, facing it, yet again. 

My first conversations with ‘A’ after leaving New York taught me that I would not relive the fibers of my past long distance romances.

This realization perhaps bore an apathy. And infrequent messages passed between A and I. I, as guilty, if not more than he.  And then A texted, “I think about you constantly. I miss you.”

Tuesday, he bought me a ticket . . . so we could have dinner Wednesday before he left for Europe. $700 for a couple of hours. Practical, no? But oh how I love.

Perhaps the scenario should conjure images of dinner at Per Se. Dressed to the nines, Louboutins, Him, a suit and tie. My long hair cascading perfectly. But no . .

 

I arrived. To his apartment alone. Another houseguest. A college friend. A, the buddy and I, in my white tank, jeans, and leather Varvatos, go to a low-key dinner. We laugh, we enjoy–as if this is how it has always been. And I would have it no other way.

Sure, I long for his thoughts. I want him to tell me he is crazy about me. Give something away. Barely.

He does however, recant the words of his text and how great it is to think about me, how wonderful to anticipate. We will give “us” a go. I can fly every week. Wednesday through Friday so we can get to know each other–date. And those five minutes were as much as I received.

His flight the next morning seemed to magically not exist. The hours passed and his trip to the office and the plans I made, seemed to fade away. At 2pm he finally left. At 5pm, he was headed home to pack for his flight that evening. I returned at 7pm. TV, Pizza and the buddy. Hours melted into the evening. Sleep took me. And the next morning, A was still there. By my side. Hesitant to leave.  No words were given.

And I can only wonder did A and the private jet wait 36 hours because of me. . . .

Attain Me.

I took a personal call this morning, a rare occasion during “work” hours. My girlfriend needed to speak and I called her on my way to the office, thinking five minutes would suffice. Five minutes became sixty.

She shared intimate details, and a gift was given to me–she allowed me to open up to her. Forever grateful I am, for the revelation borne in that phone call.

Caballito. The dance. The unease. My confusion at this unease. My neediness. When did I become that girl? Everything is perfect, I don’t wish for the dynamic to change. It’s a puzzle I cannot complete. A piece is missing and yet I don’t know what to look for.

What, I wonder, am I seeking? What words could reverse my insecurity or satiate this unidentifiable void? Perhaps, this situation is not sustainable for me. I, not cut out for this companion, FWB.

The journey to the truth.

Caballito put it all on the table when I met him. I don’t want to be your boyfriend. I welcomed the departure from the men in New York, the Journalist and Matt Damon, who wanted just that. Between the falling snow and cold last week, I was disappointing them. Creating pain. Running away . . . .  to Puerto Rico, to Caballito. My companion. I, now the disappointed.

I vary between the extremes, I think.  The Available Man who is unappealing versus the Unavailable man who is addictive.

“It’s all the same,” my girlfriend said. I search my mind, attempting to find the common link.

Ah-ha. CONTINUITY.

The revelation.

Someone asked me in April what I wanted. I said, continuity. Ever since, I use this word often. However, I never realized how this unfulfilled need and my search for such, is the basis of the unhealthy relationships in my life—and the deterrent to a proper one.  These men and my relationships with them, stem from the temporary fulfillment of this need, a fulfillment that cannot sustain itself.

With Matt Damon and the Journalist, they liked me, truly. I liked them as friends. My ex-boyfriend told me, “You make people your world and they become addicted to you.” These men. We become friends. We establish the continuity I want. I seek. Yet, it is a lost pursuit, as the foundation is created on their desire for more. It will inevitably, end. And it does.

Matt Damon. He wrote me an email on Monday, “I still feel now as I did then that you are clearly not a platonic friend to me and it only takes you walking into a room to remind me of that.  I’m confident enough in what I want to tell you that I don’t want to pursue a faux friendship with you as I place you on a pretty high pedestal so it would be dis-ingenious for me to do so.” It’s over. That’s that.

 

Caballito. I love our companionship. It is beautiful. But built on words that promise no continuity. “I don’t want to be your boyfriend.” We have, however, established a continuity. And the obvious conflict between the foundation and the continuity that is making me so happy precludes it’s death.

And here Attainingme realizes, that without a solid family, without a solid home, with two lives, she has a very crucial unfulfilled need. Some people need to be liked, need to be appreciated, need to be in control—I  need continuity. And I can’t put this burden on men. I need to fulfill this elsewhere. And I have a feeling, that once I do so, life will change, yet again. 🙂 
And this is how I grow. This is how I attain me
.  

The bubble of narcissism

I am so torn. Rip me. Take a piece of me. I will leave it here for you. 

I am feeling hollow. Upset at my self-destructive nature. I crawl into myself. Less about me. More about others. I think. Self-destruction must be selfishness. 

But my life . . . 

A bubble engulfs me. There are moments where I am able to extend beyond this narcissistic bubble, reach out and touch someone. Connect. Only to leave.

I am packing and I wonder if I should make time to pick up the pieces of the hearts I have broken in a week. 

I am a girl in a bubble. Spinning and I can’t stop.

Pouting with arms crossed– pleading for independence

In my life in PR, my expenses are paid for by work. In NY, they are not. (Of course, my NY bills are three times more than the ones here.) The company is headquartered in PR, but I work in both places. My moving here was because of the company. My life in NY existed before  . . . 

So, this double life never lacks oddities. This week, I have turned into a possessive child . . . agreeing but pouting in my room. Incidents are stacking up everyday that are forcing me to confront my issues with independence. (Indirectly, it has made me realize that perhaps my strong need for independence is what has me attracted to unavailable men.)

pouting

It’s Friday and the car I use in PR, which is owned by my boss, is being used for the 5th consecutive day by an employee to do work errands as his car is uninsured at the moment. (So, much for the dry cleaning drop off at lunch and eating something other than Subway, the only grub within walking distance.) It’s odd as I feel like a 5 year-old who is horrible at sharing. I sit here my lip turned out, my arms imaginarily folded stubbornily instead of typing . . . and i want my car, WAAAAAAAAAA! Ironically, I don’t use it very often during the day as I am confined to my desk, but knowing I can’t leave has initiated an anxiety. Last week, I had planned to leave at 3pm and the car didn’t come back until 6pm. I missed a meeting this week. Etc. 

Even worse, I had to fix the flat from taking the client to Pinones and pay for a new tire on Sunday . . (will explain the story later) 

In PR, nothing is MINE . . yet do I have a right to be possessive, if I don’t directly foot the bills? (although i paid for all sheets, curtains, flowers, cleaning, gas, flights, etc)

This past week has included a client staying in my apartment, which has slowly turned into the “corporate apartment” with a revolving door policy, instead of my apartment, the power being lost for 5 days and out of my control to fix, my car being taken and now the “roommate” of the corporate apartment is here . . (supposedly someone who would be here 4 days a month. I had agreed, but now I just want to say GET OUT! I want sex in my apartment without fear that someone will stroll through the door. GO AWAY! I want to leave it messy and not feeling like someone may enter at any time.) I have had independence my entire life. No parental constraints and now as an adult, I cannot handle living like a child for the first time in my existence . . sigh

i want to scream. I want something to be mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Parte 2. Los hombres latinos de “If you want my body and you think I am sexy” . . . Don’t tell me!

Cont. from Parte 1. Sunday. I return home from El San Juan Hotel at 3am. For some reason, I wake up at 6:45am and decide to seize the day. I am walking my dog, as a car passes me, “heeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!” Two men are inside. I thought the driver was the gentlemen from dinner the night before. However, as I walked up to their window, I quickly realized I was wrong.

I assessed that they were not starting their day as I was, but instead, were still out from the night before. I walk away. Feeling silly and too trusting for walking up to a car. Moments later, the car does a u-turn and the driver, is excitedly saying, “I know you!!!” It was Caballito! A well-know Equestrian here. They ask me to join them for beers. Perhaps, coffee? They propose a hotel where we can fulfill all of our wants. Shouldn’t I bring doggie home first? No, it will be fine . . . .

As i closed the car door, I smiled at that spontaneity and the randomness of this Sunday morning. Caballito, his Amigo, I and doggie sit at the bar. We all drink from plastic cups. Afterwards, I lead them to the beach desiring some sun time. I take off my dress and leave doggie with the guys as I run into the ocean. I look to the shore and His Amigo has every intent to come in. He disrobes, completely, he is now nakey. The man meditating on the rocks attempts to stare away. Ommmmmm. An hour later they won’t let us back into the hotel.

3 hours later, we reconvene. They are now with their swimsuits. We sit, talk and laugh. The man I know, Caballito, tells me he likes me. His Amigo takes turns attempting to kiss me on my lips. Jokingly, but with full intent. Uh . . .

Caballito, serious and humble, says again, “I like you.” He searches for words. Lifts his glasses to unveil the stunning blue of his eyes, “but, I don’t think I can give you want you want.”

I smirk. Amused. “And, what is it that you think I want?”

He stumbles with his words again. (At least, he speaks English.) “I don’t want to be your boyfriend. I just want to F___ you . . . . and I could.”
If anyone else said this, I would hit him, but, he is humble and simple. Awkward, as if he is a schoolboy. Genuine, and despite his words, not cocky. Either way, there will be no romance and/or sex with Caballito. I do hope that a friendship will bloom and result in horses and more random moments.

The weekend ends. I can’t bring myself to see Rediscoveringme. Too much time has passed. It seems as if it would be a meeting of physicality. . . and I have no interest in just sex. I need his soul first. And then I need the sex. Want it VERY MUCH. But, his soul is too far-gone when I am left here alone. I remember Marriedwithababy’s ending statements from last night after I turned both him and Shaker down. “What the hell are you interested in?” He was desperate to see me interested in someone, anyone. “Kiss a girl even!” “You must be asexual.”
And with a hmmmmph, he walked away.

And I thought and continue to do so, why am I unable to crave sex without affiliation, just pure raw sex? Maybe I should see Rediscoveringme, stop being so evasive. I am longing to feel alive. Longing to be one with him. Our bodies . . .

Parte 1. Los Americanos de “If you want my body and you think I am sexy” . . . Don’t tell me!

A random weekend. One chock full of straightforwardness. It reminds me of the time I smiled at drop-dead handsome man at the gym, amazed at my candor. I had returned from PR and I suppose the sun-kissed me, was also a more confident and secure me. Fast forward to him insisting on getting to know me right then and there. Initially, over coffee, which progressed to us on my roof. I assumed it was to continue chatting . . . yet as he breathed into my neck, he told me he only had interest in getting to know me physically. A perfect arrangement. We would be monogamous sex-buddies. I walked away from Mr. Handsome . .

So, this weekend has left me wondering . . . why am I so incapable and/or uninterested in only physical relationships and where is it written on me that I am the perfect candidate for such? Is this normal? Surely, it is known that for women, the emotional aspects of sex are crucial. But, I also doubt that all women are as cold as I? And is it common for men to be so straightforward?
Shaker, a friend of my ex’s, randomly texted me on Friday night stating he was at the El San Juan Hotel with his buddy, Marriedwithababy. I was giddy with excitement. I felt as if a gift from New York was here to satisfy my longing for the city and friends.

2am He is kissing me. Telling me how he always felt a connection, about the unexplored passion between us. How much he always wanted to get to know me. How he was drawn to me . . . yet, I was the ex. “Timing is everything,” he said.

Quizzically, I look and I said, what happened to your girlfriend. Aware that Shaker finally had a girlfriend from his birthday I attended a few weeks ago. He was happy. He was no longer the single bachelor, the typical guy of New York. Now in front me, he tells me, “She is still around. Perhaps, she is the one. My life is lacking passion.”

Ok. Great Shaker. So come have a passion infused weekend with me and cement the fact you should break up with her? Why is this so common? The comforting stage of relationships. Your heart is already gone, but your unmentionables need to stay?

I have no respect and/or empathy for people who stay in relationships past their expiration.
I leave the El San Juan Hotel. Erasing the ink of the laid-out itinerary for tomorrow. I want to hang out with them. Want to fill my New York void. However, my body is stuck in bed the entire day. In the evening, I go to dinner. Conveniently, an hour late. I ask for a glass of wine. He raises an eyebrow, “no cocktail?” No, I immerse myself in conversation with one of the other gentlemen. I enjoy myself, but I realize perhaps I turned my corner of the table into a private date. My body turned away from Shaker, I wanted to make it clear that I was not his.

Shaker, Marriedwithababy and I go to drinks afterwards. I am enjoying myself. We are laughing-it’s not an awkward affair. The evening continues. Then, Shaker restarts his engines.

Shaker: Attainingme, kiss me.
Me: No. You have a girlfriend.
Shaker: But, you agree there is something between us.
Me: It’s irrelevant.

At this point, I believe there was a rant asking for confirmation that we could go on a proper date and he would have a real shot if he broke up with his girlfriend. At some point during the rant, I turned from the object of pursuit into the evening pimp. Amazed at his admitted transparency–how evident his pure goal of sex was.

I gave a full run down of the girls that would be found in the lobby of La Concha: Attractive. Fashionable. Champagne drinkers. La Placita: Younger. Beer. Return to college days. El San Juan Hotel. We both agree that logistically, with his room upstairs, that this is perhaps, the best bet. However, we took a detour to Divas, a strip club. It was unlike the clubs in New York. Only lightly littered with some overweight men. It was dead. Depressing. Shaker found a girl with a nice bottom. Took her upstairs. Marriedwithababy turns to me. Makes his proposal. What the fuck am I? Why, oh why men? Someone restore my faith.

Continued . . .

You like me so much? That’s why you disappeared, right?

What an odd and unexpected evening.

I left work and went to the gym. To my regular class. I critiqued my body. Felt fat, untoned. The comments by one of the trainers here ruled my thoughts.  The gym once was a place that always restored my positive body image. Working out and seeing my reflection once quieted any negative dialog that existed in other hours of the day. Yet tonight, I couldn’t shake feeling inadequate. I thought about what else I could do. I work out almost daily. I eat incredibly well, aside from the occasional depressive binge. While the image that stared back at me was anything but fat, I wondered what she really looked like. As if, I lost the ability to see myself. Perhaps, I should ask others if they see me as overweight. I entertained the idea and searched for some other body that resembled mine. A way to avoid the lies a mirror can tell.

After the gym, I was to get a drink and/or a bite to eat with Mr. AB, someone I briefly dated here on the island in my months of initiation. He has been outside my radar for the many months since. The brief conversations we had, informed me that he was in Dominican Republic, New York, Panama, anywhere but here . . .

I ran into him in New York at a crazy St. Barth-esque brunch two weeks ago. I believed he was with his girlfriend. Always polite, I had likened him to a friend. Our dating simply fizzled. No abrupt stop, but perhaps the way dating can dissipate when no one demands an answer and traveling serves as the distracter—the realization that it has cooled and lacked that effortless quality and permanence “the one” should elicit.

So, after our run-in at brunch, he has been in touch. He texted me yesterday upon Fortuno’s win. I suggested a drink and today he reached out. I expected to see him, and talk, mostly about business—for he always loved my understanding of his. Always stated how I am ultra-cool and simpatica (so much so, that I seriously thought he needed new friends.)

space1So tonight :

We meet. We drive. He reaches for my hand.

Continue reading

Halloween- what’s your identity?

F$@! The blanket of depression that was merely hovering on Thursday completely engulfed me last night. Halloween . . .  a costume bought- perhaps, not perfect, friends, fun, dancing, and champagne had no ability to attract me. My night was instead one of tears. Thinking of Samantha’s blowfish analogy, I had become the perfect representation. My face bloated, wrinkled, and red. I cried. Read. And felt so very lonely. This trip to PR has been the first devoid of its magical ability to calm me and provide an effortless balance. My preceding trip to New York was also the first in which I began to find my cadence.

I don’t believe this blanket had one maker—rather a combination of various contributors.  I was missing my newfound companionship in New York with the Journalist and the abrupt stop to promising relationship in its infancy with Dario, the Slavic breathe of fresh air.  Knowing that the relationship could have flourished but was now simply a seedling left without nourishment. While I recognize that it will wait and be there upon my return, entering a world that is empty and leaving one that was fulfilling and promising provides a dramatic contrast that perhaps emphasizes the cons that always existed in PR.

Another contributor to this heaviness is one of my employees’ statements regarding a rumor from a wife that I party too much. This is far from the truth, but with this rumor in circulation, how can I easily portray a carefree party image when I venture out. Ironically, venturing out and having that persona may be the temporary antidote to my emptiness.  

While contemplating this, I also realized some people happily own that party image while it is one I vehemently oppose. I think back to when my brother returned from the war and Bosnia after being gone for ten years- leaving me as a six year-old and coming back to a sixteen year-old, he transferred his teenage years onto me. I was barely a partier—social, but serious, too involved, too studious, too ambitious. The moments of partying were good for me. And I believe they still are. Yet, I can’t release the misguided judgments. Maybe, I simply hate when people perceive me to be something I am not. I wonder what other misperceptions truly affect me. Do judgments affect your actions?

It seems easy to normally act without regard to other’s opinions. Let them think what they will. However, here I am unable to shake it.

I wonder if it’s only misperceptions that challenge those qualities that define us, the ones that our aligned with our highest values . . . our identity.

Regardless, no me gusta Halloween and siento mejor. J I will write more about the Journalist and Dario later.