a new age of lonely

I'm turning twenty-eight on Friday and...the craziest thing, I know you're not gonna believe this, but, I uh. Hmmm. I don't feel great about it. (Twenty-eight).

Not so young anymore. And I know the forty-year-olds reading this are rolling their eyes, thinking lucky you, and actually that's a comforting thought, because, yes, it's true, I'm not forty. Not yet.

But I keep looking in the mirror thinking, Oh, okay, my perfect skin is not so perfect anymore. And I look tired. But it's not that I look tired. It's that I look older.

Aging.

Aging as a woman and the vanity that ensues.

I've gotten a new job. It's just about a month old. And I really like it.

But for the first time, in my adult life, I have a relatively normal schedule. Which means my nights and weekends are free. And now I take the subway home each evening, to my tiny, studio apartment. Which I love, but for that it somehow feels emptier at night.

And as it turns out, evening loneliness is a whole different beast.

A week from twenty-eight, living alone in a tiny apartment, thousands of miles from my family, in a life so different than what I imagined ten years ago...well, euf.

And that is both a blessing and a very, very bitter pill to swallow.

Riding the subway home today, a pungent combination of body-oder, McDonalds, and marijuana filling the train, I thought, I'm too old for this. If this is New York, I'm too old for this. And I felt the first rumblings of a cry come one. So I got off the subway two stops too soon, took the long walk home, and by the time I'd walked the four flights of stairs to my door, I was literally gasping for air.

It's a funny thing, crying in that way that's full body and surprising and absolutely sweet. And a little bit holy. Painful, but holy, too. I sat on the edge of the bed before lying down flat, tears pooling in the crook of my ears and mascara suddenly all over my face and hands and legs.

I never really know what color my eyes are. Until I cry. And then I get why people call them green. And I suppose they are.

I windexed my floor tonight. Because that seemed like the totally sensible thing to do after a really good cry when there isn't a swiffer wipe in sight. I sat on my bum and windexed the refinished wood floors. Paper toweling and spray bottle.

I'm a week away from twenty-eight, making peace with a new sort of lonely. Humbled by the fact that it's still just my lonely. And at this age, I didn't think that would be the case.

I think as you get older you begin to realize you have to have like two-days or two-months or two-years-more-worth-of-patience in you than you even think possible. Because the timeline is not your own.

And there will come a day when we'll all end up with mascara on our legs. And that's okay. Holy, in its own way.

friday night at the corner pub

The corner pub has added a fire pit to their outdoor patio. Which I love, because if the windows to my flat are open, I can smell it from home. And it smells so delicious. Like fall and approaching holidays and everything good.

And on a Friday night, after a long week of work, sitting right near it with a small glass of whiskey in hand, chatting with my dearest friend about the good and bad and ugly, all is well.

the game changer

A few years ago I went to the movies by myself, as one does.

And I saw Crazy, Stupid, Love.

Remember that one? Sure you do. It was right around the time the whole world realized Ryan Gosling was unstoppably hot.

Well, so what I remember from the film—besides Mr. Gosling’s impossible abs—was the moment he turned to Cal (Steve Carell) and in an attempt to explain his love for Cal’s daughter (Emma Stone) said, “She's a game changer.”

And sitting there in that cool theatre, all alone, my breath caught in my throat. What a perfect phrase. What a perfect thought.

Game changer.

Game changer. Holy shit. Holy shit!

And all I could think was, I want to be a game changer.

Oh, silly, foolish, romantic Meg, I think now (with great compassion and appreciation for the girl I was at that particular moment in time).

Here’s the thing, that notion—that game-changer notion is sort of a load of shit.

What I mean is, the notion of the game changer is tremendously romantic and lovely (perfect for film), but tenuous. Because what happens when two years down the line the man who’s been wooed by the-game-changer decides the woman in question has changed the game yet again and he doesn’t like the new set of rules? In fact, not only does he not like the new set of rules, he begins to think he gave up too much in the first place. He didn’t want commitment. He wasn’t looking for commitment. Commitment was never a priority.

And so he walks away.

Tom and I talk about shiny objects—how men are attracted to them. And if (bear with me and the overwrought metaphor that's about to happen) all men want to drive then there are the men who know they want a vintage Rolls Royce and are willing to wait for it and then there are the men who don't really know so much what they want as they know they want something new and fast. A basic motto of, on-to-the-next. The latter are the men I've dated. The latter are the men I've adored. They are the men who've wooed me with confidence and verve. Who've held my gaze from across a crowded bar. Who've made me feel feminine and sexy and a little undone. These are the men who give great first date—mostly because they've had a lot of practice. And great first dates almost always go nowhere very, very quickly. These are the men whose confidence belies a quite a lot of fear. The men who have yet to really figure themselves out—in part because they’ve not taken the time to—they’ve been pretty busy test-driving a lot of different cars.

I don't know if it's a little bit of growing-up, or a little bit of life smacking one around, or just timing that gets a man from not-ready to here-we-go.

Timing is a thing. Where relationships are concerned, timing is a thing. The thing maybe. Which feels really hard and really unfair, but it is what it is. So when two people do meet at the right time—well, the chance of that—it feels nearly impossible and so yeah, it does smack of the divine.

I was sitting with girlfriends this last December, a tremendous bowl of a latte between my hands, and the discussion of success came up. And a question was posed. When you get what you want, what will it feel like? Not what will it be—but what will be the feeling of it?

And out of my mouth, without thought, from the part of myself that is ancient and wise, tumbled two words:

Stability and freedom.

And a bit of my future unfurled before me. Something revealed.

I looked down at the cup between my hands and suddenly knew that the man I’d loved for years and years, the man I'd always thought that given enough time and space would come round—well, he’d never be able to offer me those things. And knowing that, I knew I'd never again be in love with him. Which is a different sort of freedom. A little bit sad and a little bit sweet, but really, really important.

I say stability to my girlfriends here in New York and they think I mean money, and I think they’ve missed the point. Money is a part of it, yes. But it’s more the strong hand. And the strong voice. And the daily choice. It’s the man who climbs into bed night after night. It’s building a home that’s forged not of mortar and brick but of vows and values (yeah, that feels a little sappy to me to, but there you go). The sort of house with doors and windows that only the two of you know about.

It's the commitment to commitment.

And the freedom that comes from that.

Freedom as commitment’s silent partner.

The thing is, when things end with men I've cared about there's always that seductive, little thought: Well, I wasn’t their game changer.

I wasn’t worth it.

And I know, on an intellectual level, I know there are a million and one reasons it didn’t work, and most of them have nothing to do with me, but damn if it doesn’t feel like it was because I was just not good enough. Not worth it. Not. A. Game. Changer.

When really, the guy has to be ready for the girl to change the game. Because that is a scary fucking thing.

Sitting across from men in booths now, burgers between us, that's what I listen for. In the silence between his words and my laughter. In what he won't say, but has marked him, nonetheless. Is he ready for the game to change? Has life seasoned him? Has he known loneliness and heartache and all the muck between? Can he meet me there in that land of: yeah-I-know-lonely-and-what-the-hell-took-you-so-long?

Because sometimes life is a nearly crushing game of waiting.

I said to Tom recently I feel like I’m doing it all wrong. And he said, But what if you’re doing it all exactly right?

Which is Tom’s way of saying there is no right. And there is no wrong.

Every guy is the wrong guy. Until you meet the one who’s not. And he’s the last guy.

And so it goes.

Maybe it’s a numbers game. Maybe it’s patience. Maybe it’s fate.

Maybe it’s all those things.

Because, the thing is, the vintage Rolls Royce is the game changer—always has been.

cooking in new york

Because so much of our lives in New York are lived out in such a public way (I mostly only ever cry on the subway in front of total strangers) the act of inviting people into one's home (a very private space in this mammoth of a city) feels incredibly intimate and meaningful. There are so many good restaurants here and I'll probably never get through the list of new places I'd like to try, but some of my very favorite nights out are when my girlfriends and I gather in one of our apartments to break bread and drink wine and tell our very favorite stories without ever having to worry if the couple at the table next to us is listening in.

September

I'm lying on my bed. On top of a pile of clean laundry, because what else is clean laundry for, but to lie on top of and enjoy its smell?

And I'm marveling at how walking under low hanging branches backlit by late-summer-sun feels more like a blessing than anything I've ever before known.

And how much sadness there can be in new starts. Because something else is lost--a something that's already blurry and unnameable--a shadow in one's peripheral vision. But it's there and you know it's there and it's hard, nonetheless, the walking away from it.

And that's all I've got. Happy September. (I think it's gonna be a good month). xx