(It took me about an hour and twenty minutes to get to Williamsburg last Saturday {it should have taken 25 minutes, but the G train was construction or something...} This is to say, I was hungry. Or hangry. So my brunch at Egg was epic. Bacon and sausage and pancakes, oh my!)
(I can't get over this little park in Cobble Hill--always makes me think of the park in Notting Hill AND NOTTING HILL IS HAVING A MAJOR MOMENT IN MY LIFE RIGHT NOW).
(I told you, pancakes).
I had the extreme pleasure of witnessing one of of my closest friends marry the man of her dreams this weekend (I tried to think of a better way to say that--man of her dreams--but sometimes there's nothing better than that standard phrase).
The whole thing was heaven. Getting to witness that very courageous thing of two people pledging their lives--one to the other--is always a sight. So don't even get me started on getting to witness it against such a picturesque backdrop (I don't know that I've ever seen blue like the blue of that water).
(the very dapper groom)
(someone told us to do our "excited" face...this is what happened)
When Joy was prepping everything and gathering information for the invitations she sent emails out asking for basic info...like the name of our significant other. Joy knew I did not have one. But, for the sake of the email I reiterated this, and then gave her a very hard time about the fact that she made me put it down on paper for posterity. Yes, single. But I ended up with her roommate of nearly seven years, Matt, as my partner in crime. And ladies, I gotta tell you. Having a dancer as your wedding date is one of the most genius things that could happen to you. I just sort of giggled and squealed and asked him to throw me around. And throw me he did. We literally spun the night away.
I'm so very proud of Joy and Devin. Proud of how far they've come, as individuals and as a couple. And it was such a blessing to share in their day.
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.
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.
My small dorm room window at Juilliard looked south. I remember that much of the fall of that first year the city had two lights for the twin towers. Two lights straining skyward. And standing in front of my window they seemed so close, as if I could reach my arms the full length before me and touch them.
Looking south one was always aware of the absence. Of that bit of sky that went missing.
When the trees are in full bloom the only part of Manhattan I can see from my small Brooklyn apartment is the Freedom Tower. And I happen to think it is a beautiful building. I think its imperfect lines and the texture of the glass--how it reflects the changing blue of the sky--those things amount to something quite special. Suddenly, and all at once, it feels as though this building can be seen from anywhere in the city, or just over the river, as it were. And when the day is gray and hazy and the clouds are hanging low it disappears right up into them. Like it's got one foot in this world and one foot in the next. Like it's holy. Built on sacred ground. A living bit of history.
We move forward, but we honor the past. We honor those who lost their lives that day, and we honor the people we were then, so different from who we are today. People changed by the blue of that September sky. Forged by the attempt to build. Again. To make something true and good that no building, beautiful as it may be, will ever do justice.
