Better Halves

"ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT N?!" a coworker of mine asked today as I stood at Sunny's cubicle. Well, it wasn't so much "asking" as "accusing," and her tone was more "threatening" than "inquiring." I don't know what she overheard. I don't blame her for asking, as she was one of a sea of people who e-mailed me thought-out pep-talk paragraphs and launched into you-break-up-with-him-girl speeches when N was being a jerk.

"No..." I said. "I was talking about his friend, Six-Two." (This was true, actually.) As an afterthought, I added, "I'm not dating Six-Two." (Also true.)

I don't remember what I was saying about Six-Two -- maybe I was just telling Sunny a story or making some sort of soft comparison. But as I walked back to my desk, I had a thought: When did N go from being my cute, rogue-ish Nicky Arnstein to my detrimental bad habit -- my Blake Fielder-Civil? My Raffaello Follieri? My Pete Doherty? I suddenly find myself reading news stories about Amy Winehouse and Anne Hathaway and their blind love for their shady men and feeling some sort of kinship with them. Okay, so N has never been in jail (that I know of) or swindled people out of thousands, but where is the line between love and bad decision-making?

I'm afraid to mention N to much of anyone, because I don't want to hear the criticism. I know it all, in my head, already, so even if I feel that N is genuinely trying now -- really working to communicate with me, be present, and be nice to my friends and me -- everyone else is still going to hear what I said before, when he was making me miserable.

The question is, Will he be able to sustain this? And will I ever be able to trust him again?

Fleeting

I dreamed last night that structures were crumbling. Old billboards were collapsing on themselves and falling down as dust. Green-leaved trees were singeing internally and burning to the ground. I was trying to find my grandmothers. Everyone outside was milling around, not really panicking, but awestruck. I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness, and I kept looking up at the destruction and repeating, "It's fleeting. It's fleeting."

I woke up from the dream with a start in N's bed. I panicked, my heart fluttering and my chest ever so slightly in pain. I don't remember this, but N said I was crying in my sleep, and then suddenly I sat up and looked at him and said, "I didn't know where I was."

When N is happy, he is wonderful, and I feel wonderful. He tells jokes and does funny impressions of people we know. He makes up sarcastic, hypothetical stories and relates them in movie-like dialogue, and I laugh out loud. He kisses me and holds my hand and tells me about books I'd like or news stories I should read. His eyes are clear and large, and he tells me how he feels about me. I smile, and my concerns dissipate. I feel like the woman I always wanted to be: pretty and happy and confident and metropolitan, with the man she loves next to her.

But I can feel when N turns. His eyes go dark, and his forehead creases. He doesn't talk as much, and I find myself trying to fill the space between us with stupid anecdotes or subway observations or updates on a subject we talked about days before. It's when I can feel him closing that I want to reach out for him and scream, "No! Come back! I love you! Please don't leave!"

But it is always too late.

"I Give Myself Very Good Advice, But I Very Seldom Follow It"

"You know, you're the worst person to give advice to," Middle Sister said to me.

"Really?" I asked. I usually think of myself as an almost tragically impressionable person.

"Yeah," she said, not really looking at me as she packed up her things in our hotel room at the end of this past weekend. "Because you just don't want to hear it." She launched into a somewhat unflattering impression of me that included the words "I know, okay? I fucking know. Shut up." (Apparently I'm fond of the cursin' and the belligerence when I've combined Bud Light and Jack Daniel's. As anyone would be.)

For me, though, patented, copyrighted, reprinted "advice" in any situation (career, relationships, life, apartment, friendships, financial decisions) rings hollow. I don't like platitudes and cliches. Even if you're quoting Lincoln, I'm kind of not hearing it, because it's all been said before. Easy phrases and psycho-babble passages are like the "Hang in there!" kitten-clutching-a-tree-branch posters of the emotional world. What I identify with are other people's stories.

I got a good one recently.

I was relaxing on the Upper West with Six-Two (yes, the friend of N's from January), and he launched into a short story about a woman he was dating over in L.A. a while ago. Slouched in his seat, he rolled his eyes almost as soon as he started telling me about her:

"She said, 'Oh, you're wearing flip-flops. We're not going to get into Area' -- or whatever club -- 'tonight.' "

Six-Two paused for effect.

"And for a second I cared," he said.

His eyes bored into mine, and I could tell we were dancing around the pink elephant in the room. We were communicating through analogies and stories, because that's how information has been passed down for ages and ages.

For that moment, I looked at him and deciphered the code. Mmm. Exactly.

Now here's my allegory: In my late 20s, I once dated a man who, through emotional withdrawals and non-communication, pigeonholed me emotionally to the point that I molded myself into his theoretical ideal. I was an animatronic girlfriend. I didn't have problems, I didn't have boundaries, I didn't have needs, and I didn't have wants. All of my future plans could be counterprogrammed into something that he wanted, his vision of his upcoming life: Stepford girlfriend, batteries included. I always did my hair, I never called him to talk about my bad day, and I never bothered him when I knew he was out doing God knows what with whomever he wanted.

When he stopped wanting Animatronic Jane, as whittled down as I had become, for a second I cared.

Ass-Kicking

I'm going to be away this weekend, but I wanted to leave y'all with something. I've recently made a new friend, and he sent me something great a couple of weeks ago. I don't know how many of you guys are going through breakups or just remember how it was, but I found my friend's e-mail incredibly inspiring at the time (just FYI, the "failskirt" in this refers to a skirt that I ordered online and had to take scissors to in order to make the stuck zipper go all the way down):

"The rules are simple: You got sat on your ass? So what? Somebody doesn't realize why you're great? To hell with them. They'll learn or they won't, but you're not a teacher; you're an ass-kicker. You don't have the time to teach. The next time you drink, you're turning a failskirt into a WINskirt and you're working it hardcore. This isn't quantum physics, this is life. Time you spend crying is time you spend dying."

Love. That.

Laugh with Me

Okay, I think we need some breakup humor after all of this heavy emotional lifting.

Saw this yesterday and died laughing. I heart "Flight of the Conchords."

The C-Word

Trying to trust anyone now feels like ripping off my skin -- exposing the pink muscle tissue -- and standing in the summer air during an acid rain.

"Jane, you're so sexy."

"Mmmm-hmmm."

"Jane, I want you so much. And I think you want me."

"Of course you do."

"Jane, what is wrong? Do you want to sit down? Talk about your problems? Here, let's sit."

"No, that's okay."

"Jane, what did your ex do to you?"

[Silence.]

"Jane, whatever he did, I'm not him. Look at me. I'm not going to make false promises. You and me -- this isn't random. We have a connection."

Aaaaand, scene.

The C-word, "connection," is the most bullshit word in the English language as far as I'm concerned right now. In dating/relationships/hookups, there is no such California new-age thing as a "connection." There is attraction, and then there is work to make a relationship grow. "Connection" does not exist. N loved to use the word "connection," and I bristled like a porcupine every time he said it. It should go unsaid that N was and is an emotional infant.

Attraction is fleeting. Love is something you work on. It's easy to have the former. The latter is the tough part, and I am fucking great at the tough part. Unfortunately, men aren't. Or maybe not-so-unfortunately... I am far happier being by myself than being in purgatory with someone who can't step up.

Exiting

I watched Hillary Clinton's exit speech on CNN yesterday. The words "grace," "dignity," and "strength" are just a few generic terms that came to mind when I heard her speak. Imagine how much she put into her campaign: a brave face in the wake of total public humiliation, stoicism in order to be taken seriously, time, money, patience, grit. Now imagine how it must feel to have all of it be totally over, due to factors that weren't her fault (bad campaign manager, general public sentiment, sexism...you pick).

It's a stretch to compare all of that to my breakup, but I was incredibly inspired by this portion of her speech:

"So I want to say to my supporters, when you hear people saying – or think to yourself – "if only" or "what if," I say, "please don't go there." Every moment wasted looking back keeps us from moving forward. Life is too short, time is too precious, and the stakes are too high to dwell on what might have been. We have to work together for what still can be."

I loved this. "The stakes are too high to dwell on what might have been" is my new mantra for getting over being so completely burned and hurt by someone selfish and deceitful, and moving on to feeling secure with myself: an honest, loving person who only wanted good things for everyone involved.

The Wrong Order

I ran a few quick errands today and stopped at my corner deli for breakfast. I glanced at the specials menu, and before I even knew what I was saying, I ordered N's favorite breakfast sandwich, in the exact control-freak way he always demanded it. I became angry with myself. Why the fuck am I still ordering N's food, still in N's head?

It was too late to call my order back. It was habit, I guess -- rote memory of all of those dumb little things you love about someone when you're in a relationship with them. If you could even call N's and my connection-free coupling a relationship. I barely do.

I carried my shame sandwich in a brown paper bag back to my apartment, so intensely mad at myself for picking something I wasn't even sure that I really wanted.

I unfolded the foil and looked inside: The deli guys got the order wrong. Instead of a bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich (crispy bacon, egg soft-scrambled), I was the proud owner of a ham-egg-and-cheese sandwich (grilled ham, egg fried).

I smiled. Even the deli guys know it's time for me to move on.

Land of the Manchildren

I went out tonight with one of my favorite friends, Platonic Married Guy (PMG, for short). PMG and I were former coworkers, and we have a lot in common, including our religious upbringings and the Midwest as our true heartland. I adore Platonic Married Guy, because not only is he insightful on all things work- or relationship-related, he has never once insinuated that our relationship is anything but friendly. That, my friends, is nice. And rare.

I met PMG and a few of his buddies out for drinks tonight. It was unintentionally fantastic: me at a table with four other dudes. I wasn't expecting that. One of them was cute and looked about my age. We made eyes at each other, and I listened to him: Midwest-born. Artist. Eloquent. Smart. Funny. Ummmm...hello!

Later I made all of the boys fess up their ages. Cute friend was 43. Good God. I already upped my limit for N, but 43 is ridiculous. I tried to pay for my drinks, of course they insisted I didn't, and I went to the ladies' room.

I came back to the table to grab my purse and my jacket, and PMG's cute friend was showing off the shirts he bought at an outlet mall to the rest of the guys. I had an unpleasant flashback:

Shopping. Old but looks young. Fancies himself an "artist." Lives in Brooklyn.

No. Not again.

New York City is the official Land of the Manchildren. If your genes are right, you can coast for 20 years with no commitments, no rings, no children, and no spine.

I. Can't.

Buh-bye.

Attention, Please

"He liked your attention, Jane."

"So he never loved me, he just loved my attention."

"I never met the guy."

"That's a terrible thing to say. That's a horrible thing to say."

"Well...?"

"That's awful. Awful."

"How many times did he offer to come over to your apartment just to watch you pack?"

"Well... I'm sure... In the beginning..."

"Listen: You didn't do anything wrong here. You tried. And you really fell for this guy. It's what you do next that's the really key decision. You did nothing wrong. It's just...if it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out."

(Editor's note: Right! Again, that whole "We had a good run! Thanks for the warmth and the sex! Take care now!")

"I just...I don't know if you know how much I hate myself right now. How much I hate myself for falling for this guy who doesn't want me. [Crying] I just... I just..."

"Why? You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't cheat on him. You didn't break into his apartment and steal anything. You didn't do anything wrong. [Pause.] I don't think you believe me, but you didn't. How could you hate yourself? You hate yourself when you rear-end someone somebody when you're drunk behind the wheel. You didn't do anything wrong. I don't think you fell for a bad guy. You just might have fallen for the wrong one."

"Again."

Barely There

I went to work today with my glasses on and a bare face. That is to say, I didn't wear any makeup. I don't know how many of y'all know the Midwest, but we Midwestern women like our makeup. That's not to say we necessarily apply it well or pick shades that are right for our us or our current decade, but we know the value of a good lipstick -- especially when we're trying, even if we're just putting our best foot forward at church on Sunday morning.

I don't remember the last time I went out to see people I know without makeup on. But there was something about this morning (aside from my pills-and-booze minihangover) that made me not want to try. I wasn't giving up, per se, but I was giving in -- to the temptation of sadness, maybe. All week I've been swooshing and jangling about in bright outfits and touseled blond hair and megajewelry to put my pain on mute. Today, I wore black and the small diamond studs that the Boyf gave me two and a half years ago.

Maybe it was the giving in that caused me to e-mail N.

After writing and deleting a billion potential works of prose, I sent him three short sentences succinctly expressing the fact that it was possible that I was going crazy. I hadn't contacted him since I ended things. He was nice about my e-mail. Says he wants to be there for me. Says he has "regrets" about how everything unfolded. Yes. Yes. Don't we all? Don't ALL of us -- every single person reading this -- have regrets about our failed relationships?

I'm coming to the conclusion that N tried. My black-and-white version of the story was always, "I tried. He didn't. The end." Truth be told, in his own barely visible way, he tried. But, as Sunny said today (sorry, Sunny, I'm lifting from you for this post), "He gave 100 percent, and that was 60 percent of what you wanted." It just. Wasn't. Enough.

I love big. I expect big in return. Emotions drip out of me like I'm a saturated kitchen sponge -- every time someone touches me, I gush. When N touches me, I pour rivers. I still do. I still love that man more than any man I've ever loved in my natural born life, but he and I are (to quote my friend P) "wired differently." N is dry, even when he tries to be wet. I wish so much that he weren't.

I think about my apartment now -- how haphazard everything is, how neglected it all looks. The good news is that I'm puzzling out how to change that. I fantasize about wiping off my windowsill and hanging the (awesome) framed poster I just received in the mail. My apartment isn't all I think about, but I do think about it sometimes. Maybe this weekend I will get the impetus to organize it and then I will try.

A Blustery Day

I went to my college boyfriend's home, in the rural Midwest, for Christmas one year. The gifts that his family gave to each other were relatively modest. For College Boyfriend's gift, one of his aunts gave him a homemade carrot cake with buttercream frosting, wrapped in aluminum foil. It was College Boyfriend's favorite dessert. Later, he explained to me, "Her family doesn't have much money right now, so she made me a cake." The word "touched" doesn't even begin to describe what I felt that day.

The proceeding story can't hold a candle to what College Boyfriend's aunt's family was going through at that time, but I do understand desperation under certain circumstances. When I felt scared or sad or in terrifying, all-consuming love with N, I would always write him. Paper letters handwritten in black ink, well-crafted e-mails, poignant text messages... Writing was the last thing I had to give him. It was my swan song.

I write him all the time now; I write to him in my head. I write to him in unsent e-mails. I write to him in make-believe letters. I write to him in draft-saved text messages. It is the last thing I have to give him. But at this point, it's just bluster. It's noise and action to save something that can never be saved. That could never be saved, no matter how strongly anyone, on either end, feels. That is to say, me.

But what I feel for N is not not healthy. It is not good. I love him, but what I miss most is the memory of him when he was good for me. I am breaking out of the underworld; I am not Persephone:

"There is more to bitter sacrifice than this."

Convex

It breathes, doesn't it?

Life filters and strains and becomes oxygen again, no matter how toxic you can feel one morning, one day, one week.

It's exhilarating to remember that, especially in New York, there is always a second chance. There's a second bar around the corner, or a second restaurant to try, or a second friend you can make, or a second movie you can see to alter your perspective.

Nothing is perfect -- I don't even think that needs to be said -- but there is beauty where you least expect to find it: an obligation you didn't want to honor, or a deadline you didn't want to meet. Then, suddenly, you're observing jellyfish that look like pulsing buttons through the plate glass of a trendy spot; a nice cab driver who's almost too patient; a kinder-than-thou person who notices when you have a small injury on your elbow.

The process of going through the motions is sometimes useful in itself, but that serendipity that happens when you'd rather be lying in bed is worth it all...the whole lot of it.

No More Fakes

I'm sharing this with you guys because you deserve it. You've earned it, coming back here time and again to see what shenanigans I've gotten myself into this time, or to see if I'm happy. You guys care -- at least to some degree. N doesn't. N never did. I sent him this today:

N.

This: I can't. Your behavior and attitude are not acceptable to me. I'm exhausted from spilling so much love onto the pavement. I can't stand the superficial nature of all of this, all of you. I deserve to be treated so much better than this. And I will be.

Enjoy your summer. Enjoy bingeing in L.A. while it lasts. I need my life back.

-Jane

I am not an "animal person" naturally. I've never had a pet, and I have no fucking clue how to play with a dog for more than 15 seconds. I do imagine, however, that puppies develop a certain kind of Stockholm Syndrome regarding their owners. They get used to poor treatment, to being ignored, to occasional shots of love. But there's only so much a puppy can take...at least I hope so. You can choose to only interact with the puppy occasionally, you can shut the puppy out, you can pet it only when you feel like it, and the puppy will still like you back. But if you make the puppy feel that there are other puppies out there that you own/owned, that the puppy is not special, the puppy will become despondent, and hopefully the puppy will stray. Hopefully.

It's over. I am done. I am done being done.

I walked home partway from the 50s today, and I felt something move deep inside. I wanted to lick the tiles in an interior-design window display. I wanted to rip my clothes off and press my body against plate glass. I could smell the seafood from a specialty grocery store. The Drakkar Noir emanating from a quick young frat boy hit my nose like a concrete block.

I hopped the bus eventually, answering texts all the way, and afterward I walked by an UES restaurant I've always wanted to try. There was a late-30s-looking couple inside -- her in a bad floral dress -- and they were holding hands across the table. I audibly snorted, feeling sorry for them. I can't anymore. Let her parse out what touches are real and which are practiced. Let her deduce which sex sessions are intimate and which are more about talking too much about fantasy girls in Catholic school uniforms, for the sake of both of them getting off. Let her weigh whether she should feel secure or she should feel duped. Let her put a glob of neat plastic in one hand and a glob of messy flesh in the other and let her figure out which she should choose.

Because I can't.

I can't anymore. I miss life too much.

Wet Noodles

Whenever I'm hurtling down the FDR Drive in Manhattan in a cab, I hear a quote from a high-school driver's ed video echo in my head (imagine this with a Midwestern accent, please): "People say, 'Oh, instead of wearing a seatbelt, I'll just put my hands up against the dashboard to protect me if I get into an accident.' Well, when you get into a wreck, your arms become like wet noodles. Are those wet noodles going to protect you when you're about to fly through a windshield?"

Strong words, those. So now, I try to always buckle up if I'm flying at high speeds down New York City streets. Because Lord knows my wet noodles won't protect me.

I spent the weekend with N. At his request, at my request, at both of our naked, sweaty, instinctual requests this past Monday night. That was back when he said he felt something he never had before, and I let my guard down, and all of those infant possibilities that we nurtured this past winter seemed to be coming back to us...in some form, anyway.

I'm trying to be honest with N now, even if that means shooting him an e-mail about something completely random (like snacktime cravings) or telling him I love him 50 billion-trillion-million times. Sometimes it seems to work. Sometimes it doesn't. I call this tactic throwing pasta against the wall -- both flat, saturated, linguine-like sentiments that have the best chance of sticking (declarations of love) or spiky, barbed, farfalle-type jabs that might catch him off guard (half-jokingly calling him names). Either way -- any way -- I decide to hurl words at him, at this relationship, it's all just wet noodles in the end. And as I've learned, wet noodles aren't enough to keep me alive.

I came home tonight and ate a piece of pizza and poured myself a glass of Chilean cabernet. I went through the mail, and I put N's and my used water glasses into the sink. I took a shower. I smell like lavender. I am writing now, and I feel connected. I think, "If there were only some way to integrate N into this world -- into my world, where I feel crucial and effective and strong."

But there's not. Because everything that happens is on his terms, in his world, per his preferences. What I have is wet noodles.

The Disconnect

In the Carlyle Hotel in New York City, things like embossed cocktail napkins and specialized disposable drink coasters with the hotel's name emblazoned on them exist. In the bathroom, you'll find nice paper towels and real Kleenex should you feel the need to blow your nose in the presence of the marble surfaces and shiny gold fixtures. I always feel grateful when I'm there -- as one should if someone else is buying the drinks.

I looked at myself in the mirror there tonight. I was dressed appropriately, in a pin-tucked black shift from another decade with matching heels. I gave the mirror a Paris Hilton (or maybe, more appropriately, a Julia Allison) -- that half-cocked, cheekbone-in-the-air stare that makes a young woman look like a socialite, if only for a half-second. I stayed there and stared at myself, smoothing down my pencil-skirt silhouette, for a good five minutes straight.

I look good. I am thin. I am pulled together. I am a mess.

Only an idiot doesn't know that an outside can contradict an inside, but I was the living, breathing example of that tonight. I was present and laughing at contrived jokes but really going into mixed-up reveries as the punchline was delivered. I wondered how beauty and possibilities could seem so at odds with each other. I hope that I was at least polite.

I went home and put on one of N's T-shirts, because it was the first item on top of the laundry hamper. I looked at myself in my hallway's full-length mirror: I looked strangely pinup (or at least, strangely 1980s fantasy), hard nipples pushing through the white cotton fabric.

I look good. I am thin. I am pulled together. I am a mess.

Another cell phone check: My past is giving me the full-court press. My present is stagnant. My future is muddled.

Shhhhh

I mopped all of the hairballs and food (okay, mostly pizza) particles off of my black-and-white-checkered tile floor yesterday. It needed it. After days (okay, weeks) of neglect, my apartment needed spiffing up. In part because I just read (in Time Out New York, maybe?) that cockroaches love clutter. I have never had bugs at my place, but God forbid....

I concentrated on the soft shhhhh-shhhhh sound of the mop. I was tired but knew I needed to do this, to clean this, to make all of this better and more livable. A few strokes in, I realized that not only was I tired, but my lower back was sore and raw. PMS, no doubt: something I rarely have. Call me lucky.

I listened to the mop, and I listened to my body in the space of my small kitchen and hallway. There was something soothing about hearing from my cells that I was tired, knowing that my body was spent, and accepting those signs of fatigue as a stoplight, that I should slow down.

It's instinct, all of it -- like the way we reach for a lover at night in bed, hands passing each other, accidentally knocking into one another, almost desperately searching for familiar skin, or maybe some answer that isn't coming or presenting itself the way we'd pictured.

There's something real in all of it that's to be embraced and appreciated for what it is (biology? continuity? a furthering of the species?). But it's what we do with that information that gives us personality, gumption, and self-restraint.

The Weight of Nothing

I went grocery shopping as a single person today. That...was huge.

It's strange, but as I walked into Gristede's to buy a few basics, I realized I'd never been to that particular grocery store without having N in mind. As I strolled the aisles, I felt weightless -- moreso than I ever had there. I immediately remembered all the times I went food shopping in hopes of making N happy -- running around frantically with a plastic basket, tossing in Bisquick and syrup (if he ever wanted pancakes), eggs (to show him I could, in fact, scramble), coffee (for our many mornings together), Coke (I only drink Diet).

I had never bought food just for me, even though I live alone. So, it was with a sense of strength that I lugged home my girly purchases (nonfat yogurt, Lean Cuisine meals, strawberries, bananas...). I opened my refrigerator and looked inside. More than half of the interior was him: leftover homemade salad dressing from when I cooked him dinner, a can of Red Bull just in case he was ever tired before we went out drinking, a half-empty Pepsi can he mixed with Jack Daniel's last weekend, superchocolatey ice cream I picked because I knew he'd like it.

I threw all the leftovers away and replaced them with today's haul. Afterward, my refrigerator looked remarkably normal. And my apartment felt more "me": a emotional coup I don't take lightly.

Hating to Exhale

The one thing that has most surprised me about this breakup is the sense of calm I feel. I'm not saying that once it hit I suddenly became the Dalai Lama, but in between fits of feeling like an emotional kamikaze, I have been surprisingly zen.

"You're doing really well," my friend P said. And my friend P should know, because he's been my close friend throughout every single breakup I've ever had. I reminded him of that today.

"So I have the collectors box set?" he said in an online message.

"Absolutely!" I typed back. "With the DVD extras, including 'crazy statements' and 'drunk dials.'"

In the past, I couldn't handle a breakup without at least attempting to bed a bartender or drink my weight in Bud Light. So if "centered" is the state of mind now, it's possible that I'm simply getting older, or that it's a reaction to how I felt in N's and my relationship. With N, I felt insane. Crazed. Worried. Stressed. I constantly checked my phone. I don't know what I wanted to find on its screen. All of my crazy vibrated just below the surface of fancy dinners and trips and bars and parties.

Now, I'm noticing the little things: I can still order Ketel One in bars. (Vodka still exists in a post-N world.) I can go to a newsstand and browse the magazines, feeling patient for once. I can talk slowly and pontificate if I want to. I don't have to force a smile and a lilt all the time.

Of course, this is between the emotional retchings (which occur at semisteady intervals).

That said, no scene has summed up my disappointment about the breakup and how lonely I sometimes felt when I was with N like this one does:

I stood, in heels, chin trembling, next to a coworker's cubicle yesterday and said, "I would have given back everything he ever bought for me if he would have texted me every day."

One person's love is not enough to sustain a relationship. Onward.

Endo Ecstasy

After I work out, I experience a brief and glorious burst of endorphins that turns my entire environment into a movie set. (Well, more Breakfast at Tiffany's than, say, Seven, but you get my meaning.)

Post-gym, when my blond hair is slick with sweat, New York suddenly becomes quaint. The air feels crisp, not cold, and every new thing I hear or see seems authentic and creative. Case in point: a bum-slash-comedian yelling, "Ladies on the inside, men on the outside!" at a couple walking together in Midtown. (This actually meshed with an old wives' tale I heard -- that in the days before running water was common, men would walk on the outside of a sidewalk so ladies would be protected by awnings from randomly falling dirty bathwater that people would throw out their windows. I have no idea whether this is actually true.)

Even the subway was a Manhattan motley crew straight out of central casting: hipster youths pushing past me (naturally); a 40-something man in work clothes wearing an honest-to-god construction hat; a guy with short gray hair and Gucci glasses reading a copy of the Wall Street Journal whom I guessed on sight was an architect; and a large, polite man who rested his metallic gold-encrusted Yankees cap on his knee as he sat (for some reason this struck me as fantastically old-fashioned).

As I scanned the crowd and smiled to myself, I had one thought: Why don't I work out more? Amid the booze, the worries, the scheduling, the plans, the good intentions, the reasons why not, and the just-plain-laziness, there is an eye of calm I'd forgotten about.

The way I felt tonight reminded me of a time when I had just moved to the Upper East Side and was driving myself crazy in my new apartment with my circular thinking. I decided to go for a run along the East River, next to the sparkling water, and my eyes filled with happy tears for a split second, as I directed my thoughts toward the beauty of the city and all that it has to offer, rather than the dysfunctional world I tend to create in my head.