Happiness.

One sentence is expected to answer quite possibly the most import and highest impact question of our lives?

Can you see yourself marrying them?

What are you supposed to say after you've only known them for three weeks? Do I even want that in my life? Am I of a certain age and biology/society is telling me that's the norm?

How the fuck am I supposed to know this?

Then there's the social reactions to what your partner does. 'Oh, that's not okay. They are clearly broken and not committed or ready. They don't deserve you. Run far far away.'

Well, fuck. I did something just as bad or worse last week but it's justified...right? Or does it feel okay because you were the assailant rather than the victim?

How are we ever supposed to know the answers to these enormous questions when we barely know ourselves, little lone the person we are supposedly planning to spend the rest of our lives with?

Fuck. 

When you boil it all down, what makes you happy?  No wait, go deeper. Have you ever been happy? No? Then what have you seen in this life that you think would make you happy? What the fuck does happy even mean?

I want happy to mean effortless bliss. Nope. Not even close, is what the reality of happiness would probably be screaming in my face. You have to work for it, earn it, deserve it. It's a privilege not a right. 

Yet it seems so basic and a god given right, something we all strive for and seek out. But if you think about it, can you name one person who had happiness fall in their lap? I can't. Maybe after 30 years of bullshit it appeared, but to maintain has been no walk in the park. 

So you have a person standing in front of you. Are they perfect? No. Am I perfect? Furthest thing from it. What do you know about them that allows them to continue standing before you?

I'm safe with them. 

I'm myself, I've told them some of my deepest flaws sans judgement. 

They inspire me. 

I respect them. 

They're kind. 

I can use the word trust without wanting to sugar coat it with caveats. 

Yet, I'm afraid. I stand before them. Wanting a simple life, a life where I can count on you, you can count on me and the drama meter stays below 20% by nature. I want to feel you around me most nights. I want to watch you do the things that inspire you most and feel my admiration for you radiate. I want you to smack my ass when I brush my teeth at night. I want to know that while you have people you want to see, at the end of the day you just need my arms around your neck and your arms around my waist. Even if just for a second. 

If we decide to say the I-dos, it's not for one second about anyone else but us. This is our moment. Between just you and me. And a city hall judge or maybe a dear friend (TBD). I wear a simple dress and you think you've never seen a girl so beautiful and I've never seen a man wear a simple suit so well. Our rings are inexpensive and a true symbol of us. We are who we are, not defined by a societal definition of a couple or perception of others. What you see is what you get. And I get you. You get me and together we are happiness. 

Bowing out

It seems we spend a majority of our time filling our calendars with plans. Stuffing every minute with seemingly "vital" social engagements, sometimes weeks and months out. As the events creep closer, especially those with more meaning such as a good friends birthday or wedding, why do we feel less and less inclined to go? 

Here we are fighting to the death to always be engaged and social, needing to feel the importance of being invited but at the last minute we don't want to attend said event. Have we become a society that's so inwardly facing that all we truly care about is that people view us as popular and we devalue them as a person as to not attend because we are exhausted from ensuring we are perceive as popular?

What happened to committing and putting those before yourself, especially when the special event is celebrating them? Yet, when our friends or family bow out on our special occasions we are truly hurt. Why don't they want to celebrate me? Perhaps because we spend all day celebrating ourselves that we no longer have the energy to celebrate others. 

In the shadow of a faux pedestal

You said you didn't know her, she was never the person you thought she was. You distanced yourself and wore the hurt and frustration on your sleeve. 

I was there, thinking I was standing next to you. When I was actually standing behind you in the shadow of her faux pedestal. 

She will never be who you want her to be. I will never be her. And you will never see me, but instead make me think I'm primary and she's an illusion of the past. 

Life would be grand if I could play along with your disillusions. But I know me and I'll never be an illusion. 

We just "virtually" broke up...

The relationship started with a simple, 'Can I help you find something?' in an East Village bar one Friday night. The night parlayed into a sleep over ending with a note on the nightstand scribbled in the early morning hours that read 'I like you' and a phone number. His actual phone number.

From there an affair blossomed, mostly through romantic and passionate text messages. Normally such messages would make a woman never contact a man again. It would feel false and overbearing, a message to fuck with the psyche -- too good to be true. In this case there was something raw and emotional given the mountains he was climbing in his life. A man with an open wound on his heart that's opening up his wound in hopes it will be healed through this affair with you. A complicated and emotional relationship was born with a false sense of what the reality truly was.

As the months went on the relationship brought me closer to the base of the mountain he was climbing. A simple glance up to the top and seeing him part way up, I took a deep breath and started climbing. Eventually I caught up to him, he seemed exhausted and lost - a sitting duck on a mountain. I couldn't blame him but I was determined to help him climb this mountain. So I pushed, pulled, offered words of encouragement and exercised massive amounts of patience when no progress was made.

As we (I) continued to push forward it became very clear the air was getting thinner the further we (I) went up. There wasn't enough air for the two of us, one of us had to go. And then I realized, this wasn't my mountain to climb. Leap. Fall. Go back down. It's a long way back down, especially when you're operating on pure emotional exhaustion. But it was either suffocate or go back to the base and retreat into the future. I chose to retreat.

As the oxygen began to flow to my head again I quickly started to realize that what I thought was real was actually a story made up in my mind. The story was painted via typed words in text messages and endless online chat conversations. A simple sentence was left open for interpretation, leaving me to dictate the meaning, mood and sentiment. A resentment and confusion came to the surface when his actions in-person did not match the feelings and meaning I had created in my mind. Total confusion. I felt like a 13 year old girl who was in love with her favorite television heart-throb only to realize that in real life that heart-throb was a genuine asshole. While he was not an asshole, he certainly wasn't the man I had created in my mind. He was all an illusion.

Per usual fashion, there was a daily online conversation but instead of friendly and sweet banter the opening line from him was 'Are we ok?'. Instead of responding with a 'fine' I went with the reality of my feelings, which was 'No'. And after a few lines and polite exchanges we ended the relationship. Just as the relationship had started, it ended...with typed words.

There was no offer to meet in person and talk through things, perhaps for one last embrace. Instead the days went by with a polite text message to check in and make sure I was okay. We'll just say that no sentiment or value is being put behind those messages on my part.

Living in a music video

Have you ever heard the phrase 'This is the soundtrack of my life'? I don't think a person has a soundtrack to their life, more like to every hour of their life.

As New Yorkers we live in our headphones. The ultimate companion and accessory, even moreso than an umbrella on a rainy spring day or hand sanitizer during flu season. You simply pop in a little bud into each year, scroll through your music, hit that sideways triangle and viola -- your mind is in whatever state you wish it to be. Talk about serenity now.

New York has a unique characteristic in that it's fluid, it's always flowing and moving. No one step or sight is the same as the next. It's a perpetual slideshow of unique images and happenings. The beauty of this is often lost in the chaotic noises coming from the city, quickly morphing into frustration, impatience or anger. It's only when you start those tunes you can transcend the gritty chaos around into a perfectly synched music video.

Now, could it ever be that person sitting across the train staring at you is playing the same song and seeing the same video? Probably not, but it is a small world afterall. 

Round Hole, Square Peg

The train is packed. Someone's umbrella is digging into your rib cage behind you and the man sitting in front of you insists on leaning forward to read his book in your crotch. Next stop, 42nd Street -- more people pour into the already packed train. As you turn sideways to make room for the pushers you look up and notice him. There he is. Adorable, mysterious and no ring. Jackpot?

You pretend to keep reading your book, even though you can't let go of the bar to turn the page since the train operator is playing the jerky stop-n-go game. While you're attempting not to let your lack of patience show on your face, you continue to glance at him, hoping he's peeking back at you. I'm sure he is, I'm just looking away when he is.

The A/C goes out and you're stuck underground due to 'train traffic ahead'. Whatever, there's no such thing as a train traffic jam. Somebody probably jumped on the damn tracks. Fuck them. Ah, you catch eyes. Small smirk comes on your face, obviously covered up by your book. Maybe he caught my smeyes. (What, it's a thing. Ask Tyra.)

The discomfort on the train is stifling, your mind starts to swirl. Before you know it you envision your first date at a dark wine bar with live jazz in the corner. Grocery shopping together on a Sunday, making dinner and drinking two bottles of wine without even noticing because conversation never stops flowing. He's perfect. Someone you aren't ashamed to makeout with on the F train on a late Saturday night. The guy who protectively puts his hand on your leg when sitting on the train and you hope all other single people see and are jealous.

The trains jerks again, snapping you out of the daydream. Finally, you've reached 72nd Street, people cascade out like an impatient waterfall.  Where did he go? He's gone. Oh well, it probably wouldn't have worked just like all the past relationships. After all, you're a round hole and he was most likely a square peg. C'est la vie.

You go back to staring at the letters in your book and wondering if he really was a square.