Intimacy Issues, A new chapter

I haven’t written much and so here is the backgound to my next post. My life now a vast departure from the days of sand between my toes and wind flying through my hair as I rode my horse through untouched Puerto Rico. My surroundings now are touched, built up, the concrete schoolyard of New York City. Work is now aligned with my passions, but my soul left elsewhere. I am with A. Our relationship, slow in its intimacy, but intriguing, a long juicy novel that seems never ending. He is my Tiger Woods. Charismatic, successful, funny, and generous.  Unfortunately, I, Elin.

He has let me into his life. My dog and I now stay, basically living, in his Tribeca sprawling elegant apartment. He travels and I stay. I am careful to invade. With precision, I strive to keep my belongings unobtrusive. An easy task in grand living.

Our life amazing. However, with the slow progress towards coupledom, our sex life has flailed in the opposing direction. Intimacy issues. The platitude. I care enough to stay. To see my own faults. Take note of my lack of words, the emotions I hold close. Our actions speak loud, but not loud enough. Two salts. I, better with pepper.

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. . . .

One night in October, a cab ate my credit card.

As I jutted downtown in a cab from the Upper West Side at 11pm, I realized I wasn’t sure where my bankcard was. As I regularly only use this one, I searched my huge purse and wallet frantically, wondering what else I could possibly use. I took out a Discover Card, which has only been used for a balance transfer.

With it on my lap, I continued to search for my bankcard. By the time we reached 20th Street, I could no longer find the Discover Card. Windows were closed. No doors had been open. Now, I had lost my mind and/or two cards. Perhaps, the cab ate it! An inch crack in the back of the seat sneered at me.

Upon arriving downtown, the cabbie offered that we would find it—it couldn’t have possibly disappeared. He took off the seat. Nothing. I felt that it was in the trunk. He said impossible. I ran upstairs and borrowed cash from the subletter. I gave the cab the money and searched for my mind, hoping it would be easier to find.

Charge: Unprofessional & My plea: Guilty, but not really . .

The day before I went to New York (September 13) my world unraveled. Before, the incident, I wrote this:

“I wish my pen could write as fast as my my mind. So many thoughts. I penned this in my mind as I walked back to my car, blanketed in sand. My long tie-die dress getting caught in between my steps. I felt hippie glamorous should there be such a thing. So blessed that this stroll is a part of my now life- albeit its permanence as secure as a lone leaf’s place on a windy sidewalk.”

Two hours later, the first time in my career where my professionalism had been directly attacked. A letter my boss forwarded me contained the following, “A person with this title is expected to be professional & prompt in their communications. All my dealings with Attainingme to date have been marginal at best. She is a poor communicator for someone assigned this responsibility by the  . . .” WHOA! I failed to read the entirety of the email. I could not. I spent the evening hiding from the friendships I was forming, crying, and formulating an email to my boss. I will not get into the sordid details that prompted this BROKER, yes a measly broker, to write this email about me, but upon receiving the email I took it to heart, felt as if I had dropped the ball. However, as I structured an email, recanting the facts, I regained confidence in my actions. I did however, decide that I would pour myself into work.

I left for NY the next morning. Aware that again, NY and workaholic were synonymous.  I would be leaving the balance provided by this island and entering a whirlwind of to-do’s. I was overwhelmed, but had made the decision to work and do whatever it would take to juggle more than is humanly possible. The week, became one of anxiety, my face hollow, my skin gaunt, my nerves tense. Social time, barely existent. The TV a quiet reprieve, my most-sought source of relaxation. The first time in my life, it provided an ability to shut off for an hour. Typically, my mind too hyperactive to become engrossed in the tube, yet when my juice was beyond depleted, it more than sufficed. (Perhaps also soothing as I have spent the last month and all of my time on the island without a tv, in an empty apartment.)

My decision to become a professional juggler was not feasible. I was drowning in the attempt. On Friday, I sat with wet eyes as appeasing the BROKER was amounting to ten aggregate hours of proforma and presentation work as my phone rang continuously, a reminder as to what was needed to do to actually obtain the purpose of my job. A job that is based on achieving financing, at a time when the world is upside-down, a job that receives an A or an F, the effort, irrelevant. Job security, what’s that . . .

Aware that few can claim job security in these times, however, my job and my life, intertwined. My island, my new relationships, my balance . . . I questioned walking away for the first time. If so, I promised I would change industries completely. My thoughts from this moment in the previous post. 

Fight or flight

“The “fight or flight response” is our body’s primitive, automatic, inborn response that prepares the body to “fight” or “flee” from perceived attack, harm or threat to our survival.” – MInd/Body Education Center

Do you fight or flee? I think life often dictates our response for us. However, last night I recognized my flight response in full effect . . . and while it was subconscious, it required conscious action, hence the recognition. 

Background:  I live in two cities. I have two separate lives. WIth the exception of my dog and my work, the components of my life fail to transcend their locale. Perhaps, that is why I have been seeking continuity . . . 

My home- New York, my new home, a Spanish-speaking Island. I go back and forth, bi-monthly. However, each trip to the island is extended . . My life here makes me happy. I doubt if I will fall in love here, but the continuity, the routine, the warmth, and like in Cheers, it’s where “Everybody knows your name.” For a newbie, I found these elements a relief from the stressful, obligatory, exhausting life I CREATED in New York. Yes, the life I CREATED. I too, have the power to create a New York life that is balanced. However, in the island it was effortless to do so. New York requires a spring cleaning of friendships, routine, belongings, and an introduction to simplicity. New York offers many things however, that are pretty amazing. So, my double life actually creates an inherent balance. 

So, last night . . 

At dinner I was silenced. Exhausted from the prospect of wine. In conflict because I wanted to order champagne and pay (knowing that I had to go to an event and acknowledging the wine would impede my ability to do so) However, as I knew the owner would pick up the bill, I couldn’t bear to ask for champagne. However, common friends came fifteen minutes after we were already served a bottle of pinot grigio and ordered themselves a bottle of champagne. I realized that there was a fancy activity before, I wondered as to what it was, why I was excluded. I figured it was for something specific. I sat exhausted. Trying to understand the Spanish, but following nothing. Pretending as if I was engaged. Trying to say something to counter my obvious mood, yet without understanding the conversation, I found myself mute. 

As I arrived at the later event with the common friends, a woman I know said hi to me wondering why I wasn’t at the fancy activity. I had no clue. I thought about whether I wasn’t sophisticated enough, or pretty enough, or was I too pretty, too young, too foreign? I looked around at the familiar faces, the smiling faces from the gym, the woman i thought were destined to be great future friends, and MiCarino who likes me SUPER. The “friends” all engaged, i stood in their peripheral, alone. I had nowhere to go. I realize that loneliness transcends locales.

 I longed to book a ticket to New York. My flight response, in full effect. I wanted to disappear from here. I want to run from potential conflict with MiCarino, escape to New York, impose a freeze in hopes that it will fix itself. Run from the knowledge of a potential superficiality in these new relationships that have warmed me and made me love this island and disengage from my old life.

I think of what waits for me in New York- Matt Damon, one great friend, many stalled friendships whose truths have been exposed from my geographic distance, new friendships still in their inception, parties, beautiful people, energy, culture, central park, cabs, food, smiles, low-key glasses of wine, a TV!, decisions and avoiding the weekend with Matt, or the conflicting weekend with the friend, making plans, obligations, stress . . . 


In short, my double life, an inherent tool, for my flight response has a catch. You can flee from both places, but when you return you will be forced to fight. 


I suppose its time for me to fight my stresses. Say hi to my subconcious.