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WhyDid Wisdom: A Little R & R

By Kirsten|July 15th, 2013|WhyDid Wisdom|

There comes a day in every girl’s life when she must part with something she truly loves. Something she’s spent every single day for several years with. Though it’s painfully hard, she knows it’s for the best for both of them. So, she takes her computer to Tekserve to give it a little rest and relaxation.

It would appear that I’ve been awfully hard on my Mac. The poor thing has run out of space and I’d been seeing the “wheel of death” way more frequently than one should. Things that would normally take a few moments started taking many minutes. My patience finally wore thin and I knew it was time for an intervention. What took me so long to bring my baby into the shop? Well, it’s terribly tough to figure out the most opportune time to be without your computer when you’re a writer. Not to mention, spending an hour in line waiting to speak to a technician is less than an ideal way to spend Saturday afternoon–but that’s precisely how I spent mine. The technician was impressed that I’d backed up my hard drive that morning and I informed him that Sex and the City had at least taught me one valuable lesson. He admitted he’d only seen the episode that had been filmed there because it used to play on a loop in the waiting area.

So, that’s where we’re at. My computer is having a spa getaway, I’m feeling anxious posting from an iPad, and we should be reunited and up and running again this afternoon.

xx,
WhyDid

WhyDid Wisdom: When Your Fixer Upper Becomes a Human Wrecking Ball

By Kirsten|July 11th, 2013|WhyDid Wisdom|

Hi. My name’s Kirsten and I love to save things. That’s right, I’m the girl who found just about any and all types of stray animals and wanted to keep them. Wild bunnies, frogs, lizards, birds, and even hermit crabs—you name it, it was coming home with me. I’m the girl who brought in her rescued baby squirrels to third grade show and tell. Yes, squirrels. Some might say I have a penchant for rescuing things, taking in the lost and forlorn. My parents were certain I’d become a veterinarian… or zookeeper. I probably would have had it not been for ninth grade biology and that whole dissection of a frog thing. Well, turns out the same little blonde who fed baby bunnies with an eyedropper when she was eight graduated to her own species as she got older.

Without fail, I seem to find those who are wounded, lost, or troubled for friendships as well as romantic relationships. I don’t seek out the wayward and wandering, but without fail, that’s who I find. It concerns me they say, “like attracts like” because if that’s the case, I must be completely insane. Whether it be an alcoholic, narcissist, schizophrenic or sociopath (I specialize in sociopaths), I’ve opened up my home and heart to all sorts of human personality defects. After many tears, broken hearts and promises, I started to realize my pattern. Admission is the first step in the road to recovery, you know. After my last breakup and a “pal” who couldn’t seem to pull it together, I made a mental note to be more wary of those telltale red flags.

So when my dear friend, ironically the same one who introduced me to my ex-fiancé– which should’ve been my first clue– brought me to a SuperBowl party hosted by another one of her friends, I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone of dateable interest. As our gracious host came over to introduce himself, I found myself attracted to his boyish charm mixed with nonchalance. My friend must have seen the glimmer in my eye because she immediately put her hand on my arm and warned me, “He’s not your future husband, but he’s definitely a good time.” What sealed the deal for me was his reaction to a gaggle of bitchy girls foreign to the East Village who pitched a full fledged fit over his inability to switch the sound from the evening’s playlist (bonus points for a shared love of gangster rap) to Beyonce’s halftime performance. Somehow phone numbers were exchanged and so began the dysfunction.

Heeding my friend’s warning, I hadn’t taken things very seriously. It all started off as some kind of joke. A form of entertainment for me and my girlfriends. I shrugged off the 3am dinner invitation. We laughed about the 13 missed calls ranging from 2 until 7am. The nonsensical text messages that poured in well past my self imposed curfew were topic of discussion over frittatas and mimosas. The strange promises that we’d some day be taking our children to Epcot seemed like silly ramblings, but somewhere along the way, I fell for this little lost bird. And I fell hard.

Sure, his clothes never quite matched, but in the most endearing manner. I never knew what he had been doing all night or where he’d spent the evening doing it. I couldn’t be certain where he’d be the next day or when I’d hear from him next. We could barely make it through brunch without a minor to moderate meltdown. But as I looked at him lying in my perfectly pristine white bed, long lashes, perfect teeth, floppy brown curls, and long limbs, I was hooked. The moment he walked out of my door with an inaudible adieu, my heart ached. I wanted more. And the cycle repeated. Over and over again.

After one particular raucous evening out, one might say that I could be labeled as “intoxicated.” Let’s not play Mary Magdalene, we’ve all been there. The problem was when we returned back to my apartment, my little lost bird said to me, “Maybe we should hang out some other time when you’re– less wasted.” The tables had turned. The caretaker had become the responsibility, the charge. I awoke the next day not only feeling hungover, but confused, hurt. How could someone who I’d been not only tolerant but nurturing of, turn his back on me in my time of need? That’s the pattern though. In a functional relationship, partners take turns with the ups and downs. As a zookeeper, you’re always going to be making sure the elephants have clean water and the tigers have fresh meat. They won’t bother worrying about if and when you take your lunch break or how you slept last night. To be a successful zookeeper, you need to make sure you’ve taken care of yourself before you take a step into the lion’s den, otherwise you’ll become their lunch.

And so, painful as it was, I had to let my little lost bird go, at least until I could reconfigure my own wellbeing. I can’t lie, however. If a hippopotamus with a sprained ankle and narcotics dependency showed up tomorrow, I’d make room in my queen size bed for him to recover. This time, I’ll just make sure my own deficiencies are handled first.

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WhyDid Wisdom: Judgey Wudgey Was a Bear…

By Kirsten|June 6th, 2013|WhyDid Wisdom|

It’s very rare I bat even an eyelash at a guy when I’m out on the town. Partially because I’m a bit shy, but mostly because I rarely come across anyone the slightest bit bat worthy. But on one particular evening, I was feeling flirtatious, not to mention that I knew my marled grey sweater dress was hugging my curves in precisely the right places and my hair was on a whole new level of Pantene Pro-V commercial bounciness. I might have also had two glasses of champagne, but that’s neither here nor there.

So, when I saw a guy at the table next to ours who did not resemble a Wall Street douchebag just let loose from his trading desk (unmistakable by their unbuttoned custom tailored shirts, pressed grey trousers, and shiny black Ferragamos), I gave him the ol’ eye. Even more so, I gave him the eye, eyebrow and half smile—my signature move. Message delivered. This tall, handsome, man of a man took his time, but made his way over to me to say, “hello.” Names were exchanged, leading to the standard, “Where are you from?” question. Him: New Jersey, Me: West Virginia. We took digs at each other’s respective hometowns and a bond was forged.

Bonus points for his ability to not only dish it, but take it. Double bonus points for texting me the moment he woke up the next morning (which was awfully early for the record) and having saved his number with both first and last name in my phone. I never go out with someone sans knowing his surname anymore—but that story is for a different day.

After snoozing for another hour or so, I did what every twenty-first century woman in her right mind does… I first searched for him on Facebook to see if we had any overlapping friends, but found no relevant matches. Up next, Google. Due to his fairly common name, I had to think of another identifier that would make him more Googleable. Oh, right, he told me he reverse commuted for work, so I typed in his name along with the city where he worked and, “BAM!” there he was.

Oh no. How could this delicious dreamboat be a … carpet cleaner? I’ve never even met a carpet cleaner. There had to be some mistake. Except there wasn’t because the same number listed on his website was the number so sweetly saved in my cell phone. After discounting him for his less than desirable job title, I texted with him casually and one Monday night while having cocktails with a friend, Mr. Dreamboat suggested we come join him at Hudson Bar & Books (the irony is not lost on me) since we were down the street and we were essentially neighbors.

Having exhausted the people watching at our current watering hole, we obliged and found him sitting at the bar enjoying a Manhattan and a stogie. He was warm and gracious towards my friend, a gay gentleman with a biting sense of snark. We toyed with him by telling him my friend was the host of an after hours radio show about sex to which he asked thoughtful questions. My friend asked Dreamboat what he did and his answer surprised us both. He ran a janitorial business. My carpet cleaner was now a janitor? When I asked what might be considered blatantly rude questions to his face, he didn’t flinch or get defensive, but instead answered them in earnest.

Wow, he’s a genuinely nice human. Wow, I’m a bitch.

As he walked me home, he told me about how he’d started collecting art and couldn’t figure out where to hang a vintage mirror in his new apartment. He told me he’d just seen a great movie and I was half expecting him to tell me something embarrassing and low brow like Iron Man, but instead he named a movie I had never heard of playing in a theater I didn’t even know existed. Perhaps I’d judged Dreamboat a little too quickly.

This earned him a kiss goodnight. One that must have been impressive because my doorman gave me a high five on my way through the lobby.

Things continued on casually. Texts here and there, a date planned and then canceled and a run in with him during brunch at The Standard followed by a boozy Saturday afternoon with my friends mixing with his—one of which I had dated five years prior and another who may or may not have been a high end hooker. Not much transpired past that day, not due to my lack of trying though. As we’d been judging Dreamboat for being less than desirable on paper, he’d written me off for his own reasons. Probably for being a sarcastic snob.

During one of my marathon phone calls with my dad, he was quick to remind me that sanitation is recession proof and while I’m sitting here writing this in my robe, he’s on vacation in the Dominican Republic. Dick Smith, always thinking of things I didn’t.

Point being: careful when making judgments and remember that you, too, are being judged… even by your janitor.

xx,

WhyDid

WhyDid Wisdom: Acid Spoils the Container

By Kirsten|April 18th, 2013|WhyDid Wisdom|

Ernest Hemingway was quoted as saying, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” (Sidenote: If it’s possible to have a crush on a deceased man, I do. He’s a genius and degenerate at the same time. Precisely my type). Writing is exactly that, bleeding, giving yourself, your insides. There are days, even weeks, when I feel I have absolutely nothing to give and I’m not one to speak just to hear my own voice or to make sure that everyone knows I’m still alive (Don’t worry, I am). Quite the conundrum for a blogger, when oversharing is sometimes a crucial part of the game.

Which leads me to this post. If you don’t have something nice to say, well, don’t.

Sadly, bullying is nothing new, but it seems the Internet has only exacerbated the problem in recent years. Have you ever perused the comment sections below articles on the web? People are vicious, aggressive, and just plain mean. While most commenters tend to be anonymous (read: cowardly), Internet drive-bys aren’t confined to websites and blogs alone. Social media has created a virtual verbal battleground as well as the ability to peak into every aspect of another human’s life. Along with all the positives, like reconnecting with old friends and sharing special moments (your cat’s christening), come all the passive aggressive comments, the just plain out aggressive comments, and snarky, backhanded compliments. When did our “friends” become our enemies?

I write a blog, a public forum, making me a target for this kind of thing. While I’ve been fairly lucky avoiding complete ridicule, I’m not immune—like the one time someone said I had no eyebrows (I’m sorry, I have light hair. Blame my dad. His eyelashes are clear). I don’t write a blog to be mean. I write it to help other people be it with love or leggings and hopefully make somebody, anybody, laugh in the meantime (with me or at me, doesn’t really matter), which is why I could not comprehend why people just had to be so nasty to one another. I used to get so hurt by the negativity of others to the point of it affecting my mood, my day, and my own actions. And then one day, I started to realize where it came from.

Sure, I see things all the time that I don’t like. I mean, do I want to see another photo of your pregnant belly or hear you say, “rise and grind” again? Not really. And while I may roll my eyes, sigh a heavy sigh, and shake my head, I’m not going to hold onto it and let it ruin my day. Any time those sneaky feelings of jealousy, or hatefulness towards someone else pop up, I stop for a moment and ask myself, “What’s your problem?”

You see, having taken the time to self reflect, I started to realize the times I felt most affected were the times when I felt there was something missing in my own life. “It’s not you it’s me,” couldn’t be a more accurate statement. Sadly, it’s hardly ever used in this context. Most likely if those being cruel knew it was “them”, they wouldn’t be acting that way in the first place. They’d be rescuing kittens or painting pictures of sunsets.

Bottom line: the people trying to break you are actually the broken ones. Once you make this connection and switch your way of thinking, your life will be changed forever. Pinky promise.

If we spent less time worrying about other people’s lives and more time worrying about our own, we could be doing something amazing for ourselves leaving no room for jealousy because our own lives would be so rad. Be honest, how many times have you found yourself lost in the lives of others on Instagram, the king of passive aggressive behavior? That’s forty-five minutes you’ll never get back and you have nothing to show for it except maybe a bruised ego.

If you don’t like something, move on. Don’t obsess over it or waste your precious time putting someone else down when you could be doing something positive for yourself or someone else. Guess what? Putting someone else down is never going to lift you up. It’s a time and energy suck that just, well, sucks.

So, the next time you experience someone spewing venom, say a little prayer for them that their void may be filled and perhaps they’ll pick up a hobby along the way. And don’t you be the toxic one. Mom always told me, “acid spoils the container,” and you’re way too pretty of a container to be ruined.

xx,

WhyDid

WhyDid Wisdom: I Don’t.

By Kirsten|April 11th, 2013|WhyDid Wisdom|

Below is a piece I submitted for an essay contest… which I can safely assume I did not win, so rather that sulk in the corner, I thought I would share it with you instead. Typically, I don’t discuss the most intimate details of my life and relationships because, well, they don’t really matter– unless, of course, I can help someone by sharing something difficult that I’ve gone through and lived to tell about. After reading this article from How About We (via Glamour) regarding FOBU (not to be confused with FUBU), it would appear that this is something I’m not alone in.

I had been lying on my father’s couch for a little over two weeks. I’d easily lost ten pounds as my leggings had begun to sag where the seams once clung to each other holding on for dear life and I probably hadn’t showered in five or so days. My dog, once a permanent fixture on my lap, no longer even wanted to sit near me and there was a thin layer of dust starting to collect on my makeup bag. As an added bonus, you could have probably taken your car in for a quick lube job during your lunch break on the grease that had amassed on my scalp. I was what one might call a sight for sore eyes, but fortunately only one person was being subjected to my less than stellar appearance. My poor dad had no idea what to do for me other than feed me one mimosa after the next and force ravioli down my throat nightly from the local Italian restaurant, Angelina’s. He would sit and listen patiently to me as I wailed and moaned and complained and cried and, God bless him, tried his best to be as sympathetic and sensitive as any heterosexual man could possibly be. And while one might think that a girl would need her mother for the type of gut wrenching trauma I was going through, I can not think of a better person than my dear father who could have and would have gotten me through the most miserable month of my life without inciting World War III.

Rewind 18 months prior to the disintegration of my personal upkeep, and that’s when the train began to run right off of the tracks. After having had my heart ripped out, shattered, and basically broken beyond all repair not once but twice the year before, I’d fallen for someone who was completely and utterly not my type. I had decided to give this fellow, who was out of my normal dating pattern, a shot in the hopes that I had merely been going for the wrong guys, AKA sociopaths, for the last twenty or so odd years. To be honest, I wasn’t particularly intrigued at first and had literally laughed in a girlfriend’s face for even suggesting the idea of dating him, but as time went on, a friendship grew and it became quite clear that this gentleman was smitten with me and would do just about anything in his power to capture my heart. I found the attention and devotion to be a nice change from what I was used to and because he was different; read: short, nerdy, and a bit awkward, I felt that I was taking a “safe bet.” A guy like this could and would never hurt me. So, I put my cards on the table and bet the house.

While there were some immediate red flags, like the first time I introduced him to my two beautiful best friends at Cecconi’s in Beverly Hills for dinner and they discretely pulled me to the side to ask if this was really what I wanted. At the time I thought they were just being superficial, but as time wore on, my friends started spending less and less time with me and it wasn’t because they didn’t like my new beau’s geek glasses. They sniffed him out early on and instead of picking up on this, I patted myself on the back for being “above” judgment on appearance alone.

Alienating your only friends in a brand new city– Oh, did I forget to mention I had packed up and moved across the country?—can make you feel quite isolated, but rather than putting strain on our fledgling relationship and pushing us apart, it had the opposite effect; bringing us even closer together in the, “us against the world” type of way. I believed that this person was now my best friend and, besides my family and my dog, was all I needed. And somewhere in the midst of all this turmoil, he asked me to marry him and I, of course, said, “Yes.”

It was easy to mask our differences while we were living in Los Angeles because there were enough distractions to plaster the inevitable cracks that were our fundamental differences. I could still shop at the same places, eat at the west coast outposts of my favorite restaurants, get a job working in fashion, take a Pilates class, and encounter people with similar interests. Then a career opportunity arose in Northern California for him and we agreed to embark on a new journey together. Once we moved from the bustling city to the quiet suburbs of Silicon Valley, those little faults became cataclysmic.

I had ignored the fact that he was a foot shorter than me, that everyone who met us assumed we were just friends, that we hadn’t had sex in over three months, that he didn’t even want to consider having children, and that he had a cat, but it all became painfully clear one sunny Saturday afternoon when we were trying to figure out what to do with the rest of our weekend. While I would have been happy brunching at a sidewalk café and people watching, he would have been perfectly content tinkering with his toy helicopter in the backyard. That’s when it started to click for me. My idea of a vacation was something swanky like sunning myself poolside at The Four Seasons and his was hiking in the Redwood Forest—probably even camping out there. I couldn’t get a job there because I don’t speak in HTML code, no one understood me, nor did they appreciate my sarcasm or love of designer footwear, and I was under stimulated to the point of depression.

I flew back east to go wedding dress shopping with one of my best friends and after finding the most perfect Vera Wang wedding dress at Mark Ingram, we decided to go celebrate a successful shopping trip with a glass of prosecco, or three. While sipping on our bubbly, I timidly admitted to my friend that as thrilled as I was to have found my wedding dress incarnate, I had some doubts about my impending nuptials. She smiled at me knowingly, laid her soft, perfectly manicured, diamond clad hand on mine and told me that what I was feeling was totally normal. She assumed my concerns were the concerns of most normal human beings about to get married and were known as “cold feet.” However, my anxiety ran much, much deeper than just “cold feet.” I was reaching hypothermia and possible amputation, but instead of elaborating, just returned her sweet smile and fought back my tears. Another round of prosecco?

At this point in my story you are probably smacking your forehead, sighing, and wondering why I stayed. Looking back, I’m doing the same thing, so I get it. Here’s the thing: to me, a promise is a promise. I swore to this person, who I did love at the time, that I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. Even though we had not officially said those vows, I had committed to our relationship and I was sticking to my word. I was taking on the role of a “hero.” I felt a need to be loyal. I felt guilty for being the one who wanted to call off the wedding. I didn’t want to let my friends, my family, his family, or society down by not step-tapping down that aisle with a bouquet of calla lilies. Besides, I already owned a wedding dress.

I felt so much pressure to live up to social norms and Hallmark Movie plots that I ignored my inner voice, which was screaming, “NOOOO!!!” Not to mention having that ever present and very pesky voice in the back of my head whispering, better yet, screaming, “Thirty… thirty… thirty…”

The irony here is that had I just asked everyone who I thought I was feeling the pressure from if they thought I was doing the right thing, they would have told me it was okay not to go through with it. It’s funny what comes out after you’ve broken things off with someone. My loved ones had sensed something was amiss, but in fear of pushing me away, had decided to keep quiet. They knew I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t know I was unhappy until I was in too deep.

So how did it all eventually come crashing down? After a not so festive New Year’s Eve back in New York with friends, my ex returned home to California while I decided to hang behind and spend time visiting with my mom and grandmother. After a week apart, I reluctantly boarded a plane back to SFO. I remember sitting on that airplane watching a Piers Morgan interview with Lenny Kravitz and thinking to myself, “Dang, I guess if I get married I’m never going to get a chance to go out with Lenny,” which is, of course, absolutely absurd. However, this was the first time I’d admitted to myself let alone anyone else, that I wasn’t ready or willing to get married. For a few weeks after I returned home, we tried our best to make it work, but I think we both knew it was over and that our relationship would never be the same. I suffered through my worst birthday and Valentine’s Day to date and after a very tearful conversation one morning over cinnamon rolls and coffee, we agreed it was not going to work and that’s when I made the phone call to my dad. Like a true knight in shining armor, he was there an hour later to retrieve me and I didn’t return to our home again until I eventually moved out the rest of my belongings for good.

And that brings us right back to where we began, with me on my father’s couch, tear stained and stinky eating a plate of ravioli. It took a lot of crying, phone calls, champagne, questioning, and support from both friends and family, but I got through what at the time felt like the end of the world. During those long weeks, I felt as though I had reached my lowest point and I could not see the light at the end of the tunnel. As a matter of fact, I think I stopped believing there even was light at the end of the tunnel. When so immersed in a situation, it is often very difficult to see out of it in order to gain real perspective and that was right where I was, drowning in my own sorrow. There were times I just felt like flinging myself out into the street, but that would have required me to leave the house. So I just continued decaying on the couch.

Rebuilding my life sure as heck wasn’t easy and it definitely was not cheap moving myself back across the country again, but when people ask me if I have any regrets, I can honestly tell them that I do not. I’m not sure whether heartbreaks get easier as we grow older or if I am just getting really good at them, but I can tell you that I am so thankful for the heartache I’ve experienced. Unpleasant at the time, sure, but each one has given me knowledge, strength, and even hope. I could pinpoint the exact moment in each relationship when I knew it was headed for disaster, but I wouldn’t change a thing or take any of those train wrecks or tears back. Are there things I wish I had done differently? Of course. Hindsight is 20/20 as they say. Rather than beating myself up for the mistakes I made, I decided to take them for what they were: lessons. Instead of feeling bitter, pessimistic, or jaded, I feel more confident and calm about future relationships. I feel more solid and certain about what I want for myself and for my life. And I am very clear about what I will and will not tolerate.

You see, having experienced what it feels like to be with the wrong person for all of eternity, taught me that it’s more important to wait for the right person than to listen to what the world has to say about it. It was like shock treatment for my heart. By listening to my head and being a hero, I wasn’t listening to my heart, my soul, myself. So many times, we are essentially bullied by our culture, our society, and our peers into marriage and babies and lifestyle choices that we may not even want for ourselves.

You are not a loser for not being married or having children by a certain age. You’d be a loser for marrying the wrong guy and being miserable. Trust me, as frustrating as it is to try and re-sell a wedding dress, it would be a lot more frustrating to file for a divorce. Would I like to be married some day? Absolutely, but I promise you I won’t take just the next guy who extends an offer. I’ve learned to quiet the voices and to shake off the pressures of what is considered “socially acceptable.” I don’t go on dates out of desperation and I’m not scared of dying alone with nineteen cats. I’m happy to sit home on “date night” and spend time doing something that I enjoy, like pumicing my feet. I feel deeply confident that everything has and will play out exactly as planned. None of us require any more than we deserve and we all just need to have faith, patience, and perseverance.

So as my thirtieth birthday looms, I don’t feel as scared as I once might have. Sure, I haven’t produced a cure for cancer or plotted out the course for world peace, and I’m certainly not the poster child for “having my act together”, but I didn’t sell myself short or settle when I very easily could have. And for that, I’m proud. Had I gone through with my nuptials, I may have never become the person I’m growing into now. I very well could have stunted my own growth and that would have been something worth regretting. I feel like my journey is just beginning and all of my past experiences were simply warm up exercises to get me ready for the real game and the rest of what’s to come in my lifetime.

What you can take away from my story of temporary devastation is that as bad as a situation may seem while you’re smack dab in the middle of it, you will get through it and you most certainly aren’t alone. I do believe there are plenty of women who have felt these very same pressures, fears and disappointments. If you were the first, last, and only woman to have her heart broken, there sure would be a lot fewer love songs on the radio. Just ask Taylor Swift. So before you start beating yourself up, remember that sometimes it’s actually easier to say, “I do” than it is to say, “I don’t.”

Oh and, Lenny, if you’re available, call me.

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