#clairities

The table setting from our last dinner feasting on Birmingham’s famous Balti Curry 

I guess I’m a romantic at heart. Let’s face it, I flew an ocean to see a guy I had only just met. A friend was also on that same flight and we decided to grab a glass of wine at the “upper class” bar. Of course, I shared why I was headed to England with the nice bartender and soon enough I had captivated the attention of the entire flight crew with my story, our story. They were all eager for the next chapter, so here it is…

It was “bloody” epic.

I was so nervous. I hadn’t seen him in person for nearly three months, and the last time was also the first time we met. My stomach was in knots the entire time as I was slowly counting down the minutes and seconds until I saw him. I kept reminding myself to just breathe and go through this journey. Breathe Claire, breathe. Walk forward, buy this, breathe, step up, sit here, breathe…

I rode the hour and half train from London to Birmingham, nervous the entire way and blasting music into my headphones in an effort think of other things. I got off the train at Birmingham New Station, sorted myself and approached the escalators. “Headlights” by Robin Schulz streamed into my ear buds giving me an added boost of confidence and I marched onward, navigating the station. Breathe Claire, just breathe.

As I rounded the corner to the main entrance I saw him, not even 30 feet from me, wearing his handsome plaid button-up shirt and dark jeans. He hadn’t yet seen me, so I had this moment all to myself. He was taller than I remembered and terribly handsome. He was looking around for me, phone in hand, and his anticipation was endearing. My heart felt warm and a smile forced it’s way onto my lips. I started jumping up and down and yelled his name. He turned to me and a huge smile appeared across his face.

As he ran over I panicked. Do I kiss him? Does he kiss me? We ended up with a sweet, semi-awkward kiss and a big hug. As I nuzzled into his neck, I could smell his perfect masculine scent. He smells like soap mixed with a soft lingering of aftershave and it’s just subtle enough that you can only really smell it when you’re very close to him.

We walked to his car, but being an American, I meandered to the driver’s side by accident. We shared a laugh and then he drove us back to his place, shifting his manual from the “other” side of the car. I watched his hand delicately adjust the gears and I was reminded of my days in Australia, days I’ve truly missed.

I got a quick tour of his place, unpacked and then joined him downstairs where his pulled pork was nicely brewing in the slow cooker. He began preparing his corn bread, I think to show off his masterful culinary skills, and I was bewitched. He was so charming, just maneuvering the kitchen while keeping up a solid conversation. I could tell he was nervous, just like me, so we decided to visit the nearby pub while the bread cooled to calm our nerves.

An American in a Brummie pub…

I simply did not blend in this joint. I was an American hippie chick in the middle of an old British hole-in-the-wall with patrons who were missing some serious teeth. I ordered some beers from the friendly bartender and chatted with a few patrons while I waited. One nice old man had an entire conversation with me that I could hardly understand:

Me: “What’s your name, sir? I’m hearing Plutarch.” Sir: “Mumble mumble mumble Pllllutarrr” Me: “Again, I’m hearing Plutarch.” Bartender: “He’s saying PETER.” Me: “Oh…my God, that’s the easiest name in the world. I’m so sorry Peter!”

Once the beers were poured, we grabbed a table in the corner and within minutes we were making out like teenagers. The kisses were even better than I remembered. They were slow and thoughtful, passionate and considerate. He shares his empathy in his touch. He doesn’t rush or become impatient, he’s careful and comforting. We eventually made our way back home, devoured dinner and went to bed.

The next day, our first full day, we walked to a nearby town to try out some beer gardens. While en route, we passed an old man sitting alone at a bus stop, wearing none other than a Minnesota Twins hat and New York Yankees shirt – I felt right at home.

I remembered to bring the 36 questions, and we decided to give it a shot. This exercise lasted the entire day as we’d ask more questions from our answers, and then stories would stem from those. It was so much fun, and I got to know him on an entirely different level. We were both exposed and vulnerable, but we were together in that and I felt safe in his partnership.

That night we goofed around, danced to pop music and posed for selfies that we later posted to Facebook, tagging one another. We took a dramatic turn that night as we plunged right into each other’s Facebook lives, which reassured me of his good intentions.

When reality sets in…

The next morning we grabbed brunch in downtown Birmingham and afterward walked hand-in-hand around the city, stopping at the shopping complex. This mall must’ve had thousands of people in it, in a town of a million, and yet still we nearly run into his family. It wasn’t the right time or place to meet them, so we didn’t strike up a conversation. But it was shocking, and very real, and I was immediately concerned for him. How is feeling? Is he ok not saying “hi”? Holy shit, this is his life.

“We need a drink,” I said so we made our way to a pub. I grabbed a round and we sat down in a corner table. “Are you ok?” I asked. “Yes, I’m ok.” And he was. I wasn’t though and he could see it. Things had become very real and our glorious bubble had now popped. This is his life, which is completely separate and different from mine. I actually saw his daughter, his family, and I wasn’t scared but rather worried. I care about this man and the situations he faces. I care about his world, including his family who I haven’t even met. This whole realization overwhelmed me, and all I could do was stare out the window.  

“Are YOU ok?” he asked me, but all I could muster up was, “Yea, I’m ok. It’s just that, well, shit just got real.” Because it really had gotten “real.” And then I made it get even more real by asking, “What do you envision as being next for us?”

We both shared we wanted to see each other again, he’d go back to New York, and from there we’d discuss a “long term” possibility. But the reality is he can’t move and I’m technically more flexible in that capacity. So right in that moment in my life with him in a pub in Birmingham, I was freaking out. The idea of moving my life for someone else, when I have everything to lose, is terrifying. I once was faced with this decision after years of dating and it wasn’t even international, but I chose to stay in my world. It is one of the best decisions I ever made. And now, while I sit in a Birmingham pub with this English guy and our crazy, incredible connection that feels totally spot on, would I risk losing that or losing my whole world for that when the time comes?

I don’t know if he could tell I was internally panicking, but the inner dialogue lasted just a few minutes and then I forced myself out of it. After all, I only had one more night with this guy and I wanted to savor every bit I could. I didn’t want to waste one second worrying about a future that isn’t even here, and might not ever be here. I wanted to be with him, so I soon came back to him.

We finished our beers and then went to meet his best friend and his best friend’s wife for a proper curry dinner. They’re an awesome pair and I had the best time that night. We bantered back and forth, laughed and shared stories. It was so natural and easy being in his presence, among his friends. He’s such an engaging person, I loved watching him interact with us. He is no salesman but rather he’s genuinely charismatic and eager to learn about people.

After dinner we hit up the nightlife. At our first bar, I tripped and fell ass-over-tea-kettle onto an empty dance floor. Have you ever heard a record scratch and the music stopped? It was just like that. But his friends helped me up, shared a laugh and bought me a round...then we danced all night long. They’re that kind of good -- I miss them already. When it was finally time to retire our amazing evening, I cuddled into his arms in the cab on the way home, and for the first time in a long time, I felt safe. Like I could trust this man.

We woke up our last morning in a snuggled mess and as soon we looked at the clock, it was nearing our time to head out for the airport. He jumped away to make a quick phone call and came back different, more vulnerable. Perhaps it was the dwindling countdown, but he sat there and confessed that he wanted to make this work between us, whatever “this” is. He shared his feelings for me and expressed how he wanted to embrace me into his life.

No man has ever said anything as romantic and heartfelt to me as he did that afternoon. And he didn’t even need liquid courage to express how he felt. He owned his feelings. I was taken by his vulnerability and I liked him just that little bit more.

Whatever this is, it feels good. Scary as hell, but it’s so easy even being an ocean away. I think I’ve always felt I’d have some big epic love thing in my life. Twice now I’ve fallen madly in love, in the worst of circumstances, but the difference between those and what this might be is that they were one-sided and utterly lonely. Maybe that’s why they call it “falling.” As if you have no control over the situation and at some point you’ll hit the ground and start your recovery.

With this guy though, there is no falling. Perhaps because it’s been a shared journey, and I don’t feel out of control or crazy or that I’m all alone in this. Rather I feel level-headed, and that no falling will occur, but rather a gradual rise together. Maybe that’s what my “epic love” is. And I’m willing to find out.

Abbie's Perspective (in her writing): 

It is official; Claire and I have embarked on a mission to find love.

According to this article, our perception that NYC women have a ratio disadvantage to men is embellished (it’s 1.07:1 women to men). Apparently, we’ve just been looking in all the wrong places!

To put this article to the test, we have decided to visit each zip code where all of the decent men allegedly reside and see if we can find a good one (or two). We will blog about each adventure, and report back any successes or failures.

To begin, we chose the swanky area of Tribeca. Admittedly we NEVER hang out in Tribeca. We Googled the best bars to hang out in, and quickly took a cab downtown. A very impromptu event.

First we started with an Irish pub. We had clearly reached “adultville” as it was packed with classy couples. There were two cute men by the door that looked us up and down as we entered, and then continued talking as if we didn’t exist. (Duh, they must have been gay…clearly.) After ordering an Irish coffee (it was so strong it nearly put hair on my chest), we decided to go to the next location.

We entered the Brandy Library, which felt like I was in Hugh Heffner’s man-cave. Clearly masculine décor, but it was about 900 degrees in there and filled with classy couples having dinner. We were the only two women in the underworld hell cave, and felt COMPLETELY out of our comfort zone. #Fail.

We then entered the Tribeca Tavern, and I immediately felt comforted by the smell of vomit and the extensive beer list. I noticed we were just about the only women in the joint. After sitting there for over an hour, no one approached us so we decided to leave.

Lesson Learned: It is time for me to step out of my comfort zone. I always wait for the men to approach me, I NEVER approach men. And I think I am getting in my own way! I also learned I do not want to sip on brandy with a man in his Armani suit. Ever.

The Adventure Continued: As Claire and I left feeling defeated and in mutual decision that we needed to step out of our comfort zone, we were just about to head home when we ran into a girl named Leona. She was on her first Tinder date with Paul from London. After what seemed like a great “feeler” intro, she decided to take him to her friend’s birthday party. Her only worry was the explanation of who he was to her friends. So, naturally, she invited us to the birthday party to act as a buffer to her Tinder date.

Well, here we go. Time to step out of our comfort zone!

Claire and I took on the alternate personalities of British women, myself acting as Paul’s sister and Claire as my London friend visiting me. I found myself concocting stories of my childhood with Paul in “secondary school” when the “bloke” fought for “mum’s” attention.

One guy at the party caught on and began to grill me, and grill me, and grill me like an interrogator from Guantanamo Bay. Before I knew it, I was being circled by vulturous men asking details of my life in the United Kingdom.

This lasted for THREE HOURS! It was like a bad improv scene that just wouldn’t end, and I think I actually reduced the amount of brain cells in my head to remember to keep the accent at all times. Though I do secretly admit I found satisfaction that my acting skills acquired in acting school truly paid off for a moment.

Claire and I eventually left. No one asked for our phone number and we did not meet any considerable men to date. The coolest guy of the night was Mr. Tinder from England, who was already on a date and we would likely never see again. #GoLeona

Article: 1. Claire and Abbie: 0.

Lesson Learned: I want to be myself. It is important to showcase the loving and quirky personalities we have when we are out, and that is exactly what we should do. I think people can tell when you are being authentic with them, and those men could smell a rat. Though it certainly made for a funny story, I won’t do that again. And I will not drink so much next time, just in case I do need to whip out an accent and need to be on my game.

Until the next adventure!

Claire's Perspective (in her writing): 

Quick recap: In our last post, Abbie and I learned that our previous assumed female to male NYC ratio is exaggerated (it’s 1.07:1, not 2:1). In that same article, we learned where to find these single men. Cue in new objective: explore these locations and share our individual perspectives.  

It begins…

Our first night was formed rather randomly. Following a Saturday brunch with friends, we decided that in lieu of seeing an afternoon movie, as was originally discussed, we would instead venture over to one of the “male dominated” neighborhoods we identified from the article. An unofficial pre-kickoff night out, so to speak. We started with Tribeca, a neighborhood we don’t often visit.

Bar One: A random Irish pub to wake-the-eff-up.

We left my Upper East Side apartment with tired eyes and frequent yawns…it was only 8:30pm. 30-something’s can’t hang as long as they used to, especially after a brunch. Abbie suggested we grab what an “Irish Coffee” before heading into our anticipated destination (stop two). The Irish Coffee was awful, and I felt like I was sipping hot Drano, but it woke me up nevertheless. (Note to self: Irish Coffee is not to be mistaken for Bailey’s Irish Cream and coffee)

The male ratio seemed no different than any other venue I’d visited in Manhattan. It wasn’t a proper assessment though, since my entire focus was to finish the drink. I even asked for whipped cream and milk hoping it would dilute the concoction, but nothing helped. After I cleared my throat with Drano Coffee, and Abbie held her breath through each sip, we paid out and walked across the street to Bar Two.

Bar Two: The Brandy Library, which was true to form.

This place reminded me of Will Ferrell’s character in Anchorman when he says, “I’m very important. I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany.” This place is Ron Burgundy’s heaven. The entire bar is furnished with leather couches and chairs, and the color scheme is comprised of black, blood red and chocolate brown. A massive fireplace is immediately to the right when you walk through the entryway, which is surrounded by dark velvet curtains, and soft jazz music is playing overhead. I believe I saw antlers decorating the walls, too. A host greeted us, noted that we didn’t have a reservation, and directed us to two lonely stools at the long, intimidating bar. The bartender even had those old-fashioned cuffs pinning this white, newly starched sleeves.

We were the only single women there in the dim-lit “man cave,” but the brandy list was remarkable and they had a blazing fire nicely roasting the room. I could have slept right there in the Brandy Library, but there was more to discover in Tribeca.

Bar Three: Hole in the wall.

My kind of bar. I needed to remember what beer tasted like after having a hot Irish punch-in-the-face and an $18 pinot at a brandy bar. The vibe was certainly manly, but not the high-class sort, this was more like the head-to-toe-tattoo-type of masculine. I recall a faint musky scent of old, rotting wood and sweat. The beer selection was significant and I swallowed down two from the menu. I have no idea what the name of this place was, but it provided a nice respite from the swanky, decadent and expensive evening we were having. It was time to head home.

Bar Four: But wait, the night is not yet over.

While walking to find a busy street to hail a cab home, we came across another place that appeared to have men inside. Least that’s what we could see through the steamy, wintered windows. As we walked up the steps, there was a man and a woman standing in the entrance, hesitant to go inside. Basically they were on a Tinder date and she had already made post-date plans with friends. Since their date was going so well, she thought to bring him along, and then chickened out once they got there. He happened to be from London, so Abbie and I decided to play the role of his English friends visiting in town and we all met her at some study abroad experience years ago. (Note, this was NOT Abbie’s understanding, so the entire time we were telling different stories to the same people.)

So while I “retold” stories of our uni days, Abbie told the group about our days in secondary school and how she was the sister of the London guy (oops). I tried to stay true to myself as best I could, given the fact that I was lying through my teeth. I advised I was in real estate marketing (which is true) and I’ve traveled to many places like Rome and Australia (also true). But that I was born in Taunton (totally not true) and I lived in south London during uni (wth? #liar).

I did meet a few men, some of whom were married and didn’t divulge that information themselves, but one guy was quite nice, and single. The only problem was he didn’t have the courage to ask for my number (bummer). I didn’t have the gull myself to get his either (coward). But it was really fun playing a role like that to total strangers and being someone else for a night.

Eric in 1999 during Phase One and later during Phase Two in Stamford, August 2013.

I was taking the train one morning to my office in Connecticut when a very nice man and his very nice son sat next to me. The train pulled out of Grand Central station and I peeked over, taken by this dad’s gentle demeanor with his son. It made me smile and think of my own father, who was always that kind of dad to his three girls. And as this man later held a conversation with me, while keeping eye contact, he rested his protective arm across his son for the duration of our ride. The boy lay on his lap, drifting in and out of sleep, stirring every now and then, yet he would lovingly brush strewn hair away from the boy’s brow and continue to hold him close. We got to talking, and I soon learned his name is Eric Wiberg, a lawyer and published author who has traveled the world by boat – four times. He warmly accepted my request to share his story for Clairities.

Dressing for the occasion

Abbie and I met Eric for our formal interview on a sunny afternoon in Stamford, Connecticut. Just as the anticipatory tone in his emails would suggest, Eric is a passionate man, whether in work, writing, love or even a no-budget blog interview. He arrived wearing a beautiful cream blazer and light blue button-up, confirming he was ready for any impromptu photographs. I waited until the end of our conversation to pull out my iPhone® 4, cracked screen and all, to snap a photo (we’re not by any means “pros” here, yet). But this support and excitement from a complete stranger gave us a sense of comfort, and after a brief intro from each of us, we got right to it.

“One of my favorite quotes is from Admiral Samuel Morison that goes, ‘Dream dreams, then write them…but live them first.’ And I feel that describes my life. I’ve done phase one: the manic and depressive, travel-the-world and live it with reckless abandonment phase. Now I’m in the second, where I want normalcy and security, reflection and writing.”

The gentleman is born

Born to Swedish parents and growing up in the Bahamas, Eric appreciated what a European title and money could mean. His mom was a pro-tennis player, his dad a diplomat; this provided advantages. The British island community prided themselves on morality, and Eric was taught early on the importance of doing good unto others and being well mannered: the gentleman was made. He also demonstrated a genuine passion for writing; the craft being his way of completing events in his life. He wrote his first story at the age of six, and was forever hooked.

Perhaps writing also served as his mental escape, or even a sort of “personal therapy,” as he described his relationship with his parents early on as distant and formal. “My mother was like the CEO, my father her chairman.” He would tirelessly work to impress his mother, yet would seemingly come up short. “As an example, I was in athletics as a student, but since I was never any sort of professional, she insisted I wasn’t an actual athlete.” At the age of 13, he was shipped off to boarding school and maintained that same distant relationship, returning every few months.

Not too many years later, while at prep school, Eric was forced into an inappropriate relationship with his teacher who preyed on the innocence of an easy, impressionable target. It took nearly two years of ongoing abuse until an older and wiser Eric was able to see that he was being mistreated, and his teacher was soon fired. “I was filled with such absolute disdain for someone’s complete disregard for another’s, my own in fact, psychiatric wellbeing. I am forever a rooter of the underdog because of that abuse.”

We sat there in awe, taking it in as this incredible man shared his turbulent formative years and stories with us. It takes bravery and compassion to share such raw truths and shed light onto the darkness so many of us experience in life. I couldn’t help but mentally revisit my own assault those years ago. I never thought anything like that could happen to me…then it did. Then I felt the weight in a slew of emotions in the aftermath of that attack: anger and resentment, followed by denial and then a residual fear that lasted for years. Yet my attack lasted less than 10 minutes, not two years. What a remarkable man he is to remind me, and us, that we are not alone, and we all have the power to share our stories. “I am not ashamed. It’s not happening to me anymore, and now I can fight to make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else.” We caught the Eric-inspiration-bug and we were only minutes into the conversation… A gentleman indeed, Mr. Rooter for the Underdog.

A sailor of the mighty seas

By all means a gentleman, Eric was quite the “rager” as well. During his 20’s, a new manic behavior set in with irrational and spontaneous highs and lows. To optimize on these dramatic behaviors, he would set sail – sometimes for love, sometimes to create a space that allowed him to simply “feel.” Sometimes he’d just go out to sea all alone and get completely drunk, miles from anyone or anything. Alcohol was his best mate, slung along his side throughout his many journeys as chronicled in his first memoir, Round the World in the Wrong Season. He sailed the Pacific for a year, leading his crew as captain, hoping he’d reunite with his college sweetheart who was then living in Thailand. Yet that journey ended in a distant memory of faded love, adventure and men at sea. It seemed there was no rhyme or reason to his wild travels, but my guess is Eric was in search of himself, trying to find the self-worth he yearned for. Maybe a childhood built of distant relations or a certain Teacher McAsshole had a little something to do with that constant yearning, maybe not. This is Eric’s journey, so I can only speculate.

During one escapade, he was captaining a small crew off the coast of Block Island. Eric thoroughly trained his team, who adored their selfless captain, aside from the obvious lesson in manning the engine. Captain Control Freak knew how to drive the boat and he wanted to keep it that way to satisfy a sense of authority. One night a massive storm stirred around the small ship as Eric staggered above deck, wearing nothing but his underwear and wrist watch, attempting to tighten a strayed cable line. Suddenly a gust of wind wrapped the cable around him and he was ricocheted into the cold Atlantic waters as the ship sailed away. The crew frantically tried to turn about to save their drowning captain, but no one was ever taught how. Eric stayed put, attempting to salvage whatever energy he had left while screaming orders across the water, hoping his uninformed crew would miraculously learn to steer.

16 whole minutes passed as he swam in those freezing cold waters, watching his ship sail off into the horizon. “I said my goodbyes, made my peace and mentally prepared to die that night. I would never wish that sort of desolate, lonely death onto my worst enemy.” Then by some miracle, the crew was able to figure out how to drive the ship backward, right in the direction of Eric. By salvaging his energy, he had just enough remaining to provide clear directions as they grew closer. The crew hoisted him aboard and sheltered with blankets to relieve his near-hypothermia. “I remember thinking, if I could only return to a warm bed...” Soon after his near-death experience, Eric went home to visit his parents for the first time in a long time and shared his experience as a “lessons-learned” to other sailors, likely saving a few lives. And he never had another bout of insomnia again, something which had plagued him for years.

Aye, but the tides do turn

Eric continued his spontaneous, manic voyages until one day just before his 30th birthday. This particular day he awoke to a pestering, intangible “biological clock,” feeling an intense, innate need to protect something. Perhaps he wanted to share his many life experiences onto future mini-Eric's, or perhaps he was flat-out lonely. But this clear and distinct clarity also saddened him. And as he scanned through his many travel photos, it was simply unfulfilling any longer. “I was just so sick of it. It was vain, the self-absorption. I was done with that life.” Eric hit a T in the road and shortly after he met Alex, whom he married on October 23, 2004.

This new married life suited the partier in Eric, and he was satisfied having his partner in crime right by his side. But then things took a sudden turn when Alex got pregnant, and she was no longer Eric’s go-to partier. He felt at a loss without his buddy, responding in anger and resentment, drinking himself into a nightly stupor. Things continued to escalate that Christmas when Alex purchased a tree for their house. She called Eric for tree-assistance and he begrudgingly stumbled out of the bar, drove home, threw the tree into their house and promptly left to go back to the bar. “I remember saying, ‘Here’s your tree!’ to my own wife.”

On the exterior, he had this picture-perfect life: a good job, loving wife he could “protect,” a lovely home he could pay for… But in reality, it was so imperfect. Prisoner to his addiction, Eric was spiraling out of control and this inhibited him from enjoying all of these external things. He finally hit his low point while traveling back from the City one night after, once again, having had too many drinks. In his dreary, drunken haze, Eric got off at the wrong train station and couldn’t recognize his way home or even contact friends or family. It took several hours to gather himself together and head home. That next morning he awoke feeling angry and disgusted with who he was being to his wife and his unborn son. He voluntarily checked into rehab and began routinely attending AA. He was finally beginning to sort himself out, preparing for fatherhood, and he was no longer a prisoner. Eric made the rules, now. He hasn’t had a sip of alcohol since that night.

Alas, his apotheosis

On April 27, 2007, Eric and Alex welcomed their son, Felix. “It was my greatest clarity, seeing my son born.” He later described it as his “apotheosis,” meaning the highest point in the development of something. In a magical moment, his whole world suddenly made sense; he finally found his self-worth and his yearning was now over. Eric was done with sailing, drinking, manic highs and depressive lows. He was living for someone else now and his whole journey was served a purpose in a single, epic moment. The colors of the world were alive and thriving: phase two was finally here. It was now time for reflection and writing to begin.

A gentleman becomes a writer…

Since Felix’s birth, Eric has written and published four books and is working on his fifth, a real-life story which nearly brought tears to my eyes as he previewed it to us. I cannot wait to read it myself. While he might consider himself somewhat narcissistic during his first phase, he has certainly learned humility and an unconditional love – for himself and his family (including his parents) – in his second. Complacency suits him, and the inspirational writings of beautiful stories for those not-yet-revealed incredible people await the hand of Eric Wiberg. “Perhaps writing is therapeutic, but it’s also gratifying to have people read these stories. I feel I’m on the cusp of being a true writer, almost there.”

Eric Wiberg, a writer and a gentleman. And my new Remarkable friend. 

ericwiberg.com http://www.tankerdisasters.blogspot.com/

Celebrating 4th of July in Long Beach, 2012.

An old friend once told me that creativity needs a space in order to grow and thrive. Yet I was finding myself hitting that always-talked-about creative block in my writing, leaving this intangible “space” a hidden mystery. It only very recently presented itself. I will explain…

I’ve so far had seven interviews with incredible people, and while my intention has always been to focus on a great moment of clarity, I was assuming these people would just “get” what that meant. I envisioned our conversations would flow with ease and segue beautifully into a crystal clear moment of great and profound cosmic revelation, and that I would easily convey all of this in writing.  

Yet I would find myself struggling to explain this cosmic theory in any digestible context. I could only relate to my own moment, back in Paris, and repeat it multiple times, hoping that maybe my second, third, fourth, etc. attempt would finally “click” with them. “You know, it’s that doubtless view of your future, where everything is just so right and all things are crystal clear…” (blah blah blah)… My male interviewees have rolled their eyes and chalked me up into the “emotional” category, while my female interviewees have tried to mentally access back to a similar situation, but we all get cloudy again. I’ve gotten cloudy again. I’ve been so focused on finding some moment that I have been missing the entire clarity all along. How ironic that is…

I needed help, I needed clarity (again)...I needed my NYC bestie, Abbie. She is my wisdom when I can’t find any and the support I always want. Abbie is like my metaphorical mirror. She just “gets” me.

A star is made...

As a young girl, Abbie had a big dream of someday being on television. She left home at 18 to begin fulfilling that childhood dream, starting things off in New York City — a place she had never actually experienced firsthand. But without any college degree, or even any money for that matter, she had to figure out a means to live in the most expensive city in the world.

Survivalist Abbie took over and she hit the job scene, jumping from industry to industry, trying to find her niche. And like so many of us, Abbie dove straight into her first promising career path: hers was banking. She was quite good at it, too, and the company recognized this with consistent promotions. She rode that hierarchical career ladder for nearly 10 years. By the time I met her in year eight, Abbie exuded grace and poise while wearing tight black business dresses and curling her beautiful long, auburn hair. She was always primped and so put together.

But she also had this fun, quirky side. That’s Goofy Abbie, and when she is around, there is constant, hysterical laughter. One beautiful 4th of July we went to the beach toting wine, cheese and crackers while wearing red, white and blue sparkly headbands. In my planning nature, I had everything from cups and napkins to even ensuring we had screw top wine bottles so as to avoid the necessity of a wine key. Yet I had forgotten a knife for slicing cheese. Abbie looked at me, shrugged her shoulders with a “humph,” picked up the block of cheese and took a bite right out of the thing. Then she passed it to me for “my turn.”

Her co-workers began to notice Goofy Abbie, too, as she’d sport around flashy orange nails, a sparkly bracelet and a hot pink, rubber watch with those black business outfits. She even bought a pink bunny iPhone® cover and flashed that around the stiff, corporate banking offices. Her numerous promotions coincidentally followed the presentations she’d give, as it was clear she had a genuine passion for public speaking and was becoming quite the PR rep for her team. In side conversations, she’d show off her quirkiness with character impersonations and fake accents (that were really good!). It was becoming clear to everyone else that Abbie was in the wrong business as it seemed her true love was of public speaking, not of numbers.

It took Abbie a great heartbreak, like me, that impelled her to rethink her whole life’s plan. You see, Abbie also fell in love with a good friend, and that friendship turned into romance with an eventual tearful ending. She hadn’t ever had a connection with another man the way she did with him, and that love woke her up, just like mine did for me. She was even engaged to another man once, complete with a 10-year courtship to boot! But nothing compared to the connection with this guy. While feelings might be a fleeting phenomenon, they are profound and life-changing to us complex, complicated human beings. Feelings motivate us, sway us and drive us to enhanced levels of thinking. This heartbreak and these feelings caused Abbie to re-evaluate her whole life, and she yearned to get back in touch with that real passion she abandoned so many years ago. She’d ask herself how she got so off track, and how she let herself turn into this Corporate Abigail? She no longer recognized herself and realized truly how far she strayed from the personal values she once held so dearly. Abbie needed some course-corrective action to get her out of heartbreak and back on track, and so her dear friend Carrie came to visit and support her friend in need.

One of the first days of Carrie’s visit, the two went out for a lunch on a summery afternoon while on break from a seminar they were both attending. As they crossed a busy NYC street, Carrie brought up a new topic of conversation: what would Abbie would truly “be” if presented a life without the cool, Corporate Abigail act getting in the way? Instinctively, Abbie felt challenged and tried to dilute the conversation, attempting to de-escalate the topic. “I don’t know!” she’d consistently respond. Carrie continued to push her toward a confession. Little was Abbie realizing that this reducing-like behavior was the exact thing keeping her from achieving everything she truly wants in her life. So Carrie kept on challenging her, “who would you BE in your ideal life?”

Finally, Abbie blurted out, “I want my own talk show on the OWN network where I can help people, change the world. Be an impact for others!” And there it was. Carrie stood there, shocked. She always knew Abbie talked about being on television when they were younger, and recalled the countless homemade videos Abbie created as a little girl and numerous theatrical performances throughout her educational life, but this corporate banking job was all she ever saw Abbie actually “be” as an adult. Yet there was a sense of fulfillment for Abbie in that moment, and an imaginary five-year-old was momentarily contented.

So what was she going to do now? She had her big VP title, her six-digit salary with annual bonuses and her charming one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan. She had her life of comfort and familiarity all sitting there in front of her. But she knew it wasn’t what she really wanted for her life. It never was, truthfully.

Meanwhile, her banking career continued to fast track forward with another two promotions that year. Then the ultimate job opportunity came: being hand-selected to work for one of the most influential people in the banking world. She couldn’t resist such an offer! She figured television would take a backseat and convinced herself TV-time would come mid-40’s. I even remember her telling me this and being convinced she meant it.

Change is inevitable...

But Five-year-old Abbie wouldn’t shut up. She hadn’t been all along, not with the pink bunny phones or sparkly jewelry. Nope, the Real Abbie was sick of Corporate Abigail taking all the spotlight. Her first few months on this new job were rocky, at best. She was missing simple, little things, easy mistakes that upset her for overlooking. Soon she became the team’s obvious target for blame when projects would turn up with small oversights. It was as if everything she touched at work went awry. She’d come home frustrated, angry that she wasn’t up to her usual par excellence, but also flashing this new wounded ego she had accumulated. Things were simply wrong in her life. “The universe was telling me something and I was in a very dark place,” she explained to me.

Abbie stuck it out another few months until she hit her T in the road. She felt like she was living a lie, to everyone else and especially to herself. Her dispassion for this career had become so apparent now, and faking it was far more effort than she was willing to give any longer. She took a day off work to collect herself before making the biggest change she’s ever made in her 31 years. The next day, after a long self-reflection, Abbie requested to leave the company to finish her degree and move her career into television.

The next morning she awoke to a world filled with vivid, full-blown color. Everything was made right again. “I could breathe again,” she told me. The universe was all like, “Yo girl, you made the right choice. Well done, here’s a pretty summer day for you. Now go enjoy it and get a tan on that pale, Scottish skin.” Abbie’s currently taking acting classes and is on track to finish her degree within the next year. She’s also happy, finally. She’s truly an inspiring woman, leaving her whole life as she knew it for the dream she knew she always wanted to, and will, have. Oprah, I’m talking to you, this girl is your next big star. I’m completely serious.

The subconscious is a tricky thing, revealing itself little by little but ever-so-cleverly disguised beneath something else more obvious on the surface. Abbie with her flashy jewelry complimenting the serious business outfits, pink bunny phones in the middle of high-profile meetings. Or me, with my constant self-doubt, waking up in the middle of the night knowing this life was not the life I wanted for myself. And the universe will advise you when you’re on the wrong path, like Abbie’s simple mistakes at work and her genuine career unhappiness evidenced by tearful nights.

It’s not until we finally choose a path that there lies the moment of clarity. And while all along it was peeking through, it doesn’t truly expose itself amidst the distractions until one final event or mis-happening, one final love confession, whatever your moment is that then your choice is so blatantly clear. Sometimes we decide to continue ignoring the signs, unintentionally making ourselves completely unaware to what we really are and want. Some people go their entire lives that way, living in the comfort and familiar. But some people take a different path. The power is choice, and choice alone is a clarity creator. And I wasn’t seeing that THAT is in fact the moment of clarity. When a choice is finally made, and the future opens up even brighter. It was there all along, you just weren’t seeing it until that moment. Once you finally embrace it, everything around you is clear. The doubts finally diminish and there is the true you.

Abbie is incredibly skilled at opening me up, and I’ve seen her expose the psychology of a person instantly upon meeting them. Plus, she wants to work on her interview skills to prep her for the inevitable career that lies ahead for her. So I re-commit to this journey with she as my interviewer and me as the writer for these stories. She will bring her profound talent for revealing people’s true inner beauty, and together we will focus on what we truly need to focus on. What was blinding these people, and then what was there for them after removing that blindfold? It’s not necessarily this cosmic event; it’s the buildup and aftermath when the subconscious of a person becomes the conscious. Sometimes these people will have an obvious moment, some will be more challenging to find, and some might not have had their moment yet. But I finally have more insights into what we’re now searching for.

A photo from my May 2012 trip to Paris, France.

So…I fell in love in Paris. With my best friend (of all people). Though, it was the crappy kind of love – the love that never gives back the way you want; yet you continue to give everything you can, just hoping one day he will finally “see it too.” But this story does not have a fairytale ending, no rainbows, no butterflies or sunshine. There was no long-lasting kiss at the end…

Nope, this story was kick-started by more of a drunken love confession. Well, about four various “confessions” to be exact, and despite the drunken nature of them all, I took the bait, I fell for it: hard. I fell in love with him, but we had the most anticlimactic ending: we never even kissed! In summary, he said a lot of stuff to me, but the details are less important than the lesson I learned: this romance was not to be. Yet the beauty in the moral of this story is truly found in the remarkable clarity that ensued for me. It’s not that I fell in love only to find out he didn’t love me back, I fell in love and I finally woke up. This is when my world began to come alive.

An Aussie Girl at Heart:

I will back up a bit. When I was 20, I moved to Australia for a “study” abroad. I lived every single moment like it was the last; I had never been so alive. I surfed, I ate, I laughed, I drank, I traveled all over the region, I went skydiving in New Zealand, I bungee jumped twice! I was so deliciously happy. The true “me” was exposed, glowing, radiating me. Best of all, my Aussie best friend was also my love. We did everything together; we bent the rules, we raged together. Inside jokes turned into hand-holding, which turned into love.

That man exposed my full capacity for love and it was so real to me, I would have swum the damned ocean to be with him after my college graduation. But he didn’t feel the same; a heart-wrenching reality to face when I moved back to Minnesota. I was blissfully unaware there could ever be such a connection with another human being until him. And the time we were together was pure utopia…but the time afterwards was pure hell. I remember even the way I was physically affected during that recovery, crawling on the ground because my body had just shut down. I was paralyzed with hurt and subconsciously I decided I never wanted to feel that kind of pain again.

So at this tender young age, I did what I needed to do to emotionally survive: I went numb. To be in love meant to get hurt – so I shut myself off from this pain, shut myself off from my own emotional wants and needs. I began to subconsciously compartmentalize people in my life: boyfriends would be separate from my friends, who were separate from my family. How I individually related within each compartment was all very different from one another: different versions of me. Friends and family got the best of me – the real Claire – because they were safety and they were permanent. Here I couldn’t get hurt and I couldn’t scare them away. But any future boyfriends were distrusted – they only deserved the accommodating version of me – carefree, doesn’t-care Claire. She would not reveal too much so she could stay protected in this version. She won’t speak up for herself because she doesn’t want conflict, she doesn’t communicate because it is easier, this was Relationship Claire. A shell of herself. Moreover, as I’m the youngest of three sisters, I’ve always been quite accommodating and agreeable anyhow.

This system of categorization allowed me to appropriately relate to everyone in all compartments. But who I wasn’t relating to was myself. I didn’t even know who I was, or what I felt. In relating to others, I was accepting their thoughts as my own. Take my dating life: I would go on dates with people, because they were asking me out and they wanted to spend time with me – not necessarily that I wanted to spend time with them. When asked what I wanted, or how I felt, I never had an answer other than “I’m up for anything,” or “I’m good.” I had succeeded in becoming so numb that I didn’t even know how I felt myself, I hadn’t a clue how to even answer such simple questions about my own wants and needs. All the meanwhile, I wanted nothing but the best for friends and family; I believed in real love for them, but not for myself. Perhaps I was living vicariously through them.

My older sister, Jill, once came over to my then-boyfriend’s house and asked me if I was happy living there with him. I simply didn’t understand the question. My eldest sister, Ellie, stood there watching me look at Jill with a blank stare followed by a slow and unconvincing, “Yeah?” I just didn’t get it. People don’t know what they don’t know, and I didn’t know what happiness was for my own self. All I ever thought about were his actions and reactions to things; his thoughts and his feelings. I remember so vividly Ellie adding in, “I just see no Claire in any of this.” And he never did anything technically wrong, so I didn’t know what was wrong with me that I would question our relationship. Accommodating to others was my code of conduct, for all things, it was my instinctual reaction to wonder, ‘What was he thinking or needing? Would this upset him?’ without ever thinking about my own reaction.

This man and I eventually ended our run on a friendly note, and he will always be a fond memory in my life. But two days after he moved out, my girlfriend and I were violently attacked as we entered my house one evening, by a random assailant. We both came out okay (scrapes and bruises, a few x-rays, but neither of us required an overnight in the hospital), yet the fear and vulnerability from that event stayed with me for years. I don’t think it is a coincidence that being physically attacked played into my fear of allowing myself to be vulnerable in other ways; these things compound on each other. But I was beginning to sort myself out.

Not long after, I was offered an incredible job opportunity in NYC and I made the decision to take the job and move. A decision I made for Claire.

I Found My Heart in Paris: A lot had changed in my life since open-hearted “Aussie Claire” – I had closed myself off but was now beginning to open the door again, with eyes wide open – yet the compartmentalizing and the post-traumatic stress of the attack were still ingrained in me; I was still detached from myself. Meanwhile this new NYC life was thrilling and spontaneous…my inner “rager” was coming out to play, and this proved an excellent distraction.

Then I met a guy. I recall being instantly not attracted to him: he was compartmentalized directly into the “friend zone.” He was quirky and shorter than my 5’9”, so I felt safe around him because the romantic question was not a question. I could be me without having the pressure of any potential love interest coming into play. Don’t get me wrong, he is a good-looking guy (great eyes!). But I didn’t see him in that way.

And we sure raged together. He was so fun. I loved being around him. He had about a million and ten friends, I loved his friends. But he could get deep too. I remember one night we were walking around, talking about children. I figured the world was damaged and had enough people in it, no need for me to procreate. I had nieces and nephews to suffice me in that department. He quipped back, “It’s not about bringing life into a damaged world. It’s about giving the gift of life.” I just thought on that for a while afterward. I felt that. He challenged me, and I respected that. I remember most every pertinent thing he has said to me. One night, with glossy eyes, he told me my lips were sexy. He leaned in toward me while across the table at a Hookah bar and holding my eye contact he said, “Don’t tell me I’m not alone in this.” I didn’t fully understand what he meant, as this was the first time any suggestive comment had been alluded, not to mention, drinking was involved. Plus, I didn’t want to enter into that conversation. He was dating other people, so I assumed this “come on” was coming from someplace else (lower down)…and I felt disrespected. ‘I’m not one of your women,’ I contemptuously thought to myself. I never brought it up the next day. Instead, I brought over my usual batch of bagels. Taking care of people is something I love to do. I had been scolded for not being up to par in this department in previous relationships – I didn’t clean the right way or make the food the right way – but it is easy to chastise somebody accommodating (I see now). With the insecurity of this former “shortcoming,” I now speculate that I was overcompensating for doing a poor job before. And I didn’t recognize that loaded conversations like those that had occurred the night prior should be broached, and the air cleared. At that point I didn’t want to initiate anything romantic, so I kept living my life on a surface-level; lack of communication was simply easier, safer. I could get over the weird allusion and keep the peace. A few months later we vacationed in Paris, visiting my sister and brother-in-law. It was one helluva trip. We had champagne toasts on the Eiffel Tower. Picnicked at Versailles, soaking up the sun. Midnight bike rides with baguettes and wine, we sat along the Seine River and shared stories. We had a blast. At the very end of our trip, we were treated to an NYC-themed going-away party. We dressed in costume and we raged out the night together. Seriously, we took that party by storm. Imagine lots of gregarious ex-pats, lots of wine, lots of laughing, and us two interacting the way our chemistry just works. He and I just clicked, always have, and it was “magique.” As the party died down he came over and sat right next to my side. I was very aware that his demeanor was oddly different. He leaned in close and these heartfelt, confessional words just tumbled out of his mouth. What he said may forever haunt me, and the words he said and the ways in which he said them changed me; they moved me. Because in that moment, the clouds began to part, and my mindset shifted as I realized he might actually have feelings for me, but the question was left for me to answer: does any of this mean anything to me? I simply didn’t have an answer; I was drowning in confusion. What about that potential new girlfriend back home? And all his friends rooting for them to “make it?” Not to mention one of his friends also liked me a lot, and I didn't want to hurt any feelings. All I could muster up was, “I think it's really complicated, don’t you think it’s really complicated?” His response was blank, stone-faced. I added that I wanted to actually have that conversation, but he had already forgotten, even moments after he spoke, he had forgotten what he said when I tried to readdress the topic. He was dunzo for the night. The next day, it was as if nothing had ever happened. He left to fly home, he mentioned nothing, except to say he didn’t remember how the night ended. In the days following, I mulled over his confession over and over again. I wasn’t able to make sense of it: there were so many mixed messages. What does he mean? Everything? Nothing? It plagued me to the point of near insanity. At that point we were both drinking, unfit for a clear and honest conversation, but since, we didn’t have one either. Even still today, he just doesn’t recall any of it. But all the things in our relationship became so crystal clear to me following his Paris departure. I sat with my sister – talking and writing it out – and then I began to see the clarity through my foggy haze of complications, fears and doubts. Sitting there in her Parisian dining room, I began to hear the music. It had been playing for days, and only now had I actually begun to hear the song that had been playing. The room was filled with such vivid colors. Bright and bold, with lovely sounds. The beauty of the world was all of a sudden right in front of me, and I was an aficionado. Everything in this exact moment still replays to me as if in slow motion: I watched my best friend carry my 2-year-old nephew across Paris. I have cried to this man: been my real self. He has rescued me from bad dates. I met his parents, and really liked them. He has mended my heartbreaks. He misses me when he goes away on business, and I miss him too. When I look across a crowded room, I often meet his gaze and my stomach drops. There is a Yagan word I once found on urbandud.wordpress.com called “mamihlapinatapei,” describing the meaningful look shared between two people who desire to initiate something but are too fearful to start. It reminded me of a shared moment in a local bar one night, before Paris. I looked up at him as he was leaving; and the way he looked back at me…then it hit me like a slap in the face: Oh my God, these are feelings. But feelings for him? What? No…no he’s like my Bro. No! Oh shit, what am I going to do? We’re so safe here in the safety net of friendship. What do I do now? Well, I jumped over the ledge, and merged my compartments. By that I mean I communicated in the most honest way I could: I sent him an email explaining that I was nervous, too. I couldn’t convey my own feelings in any other way but writing. So I went for it: I chose me and my wants, knowing that exposing the “real Claire” was the riskiest move I could make. I chose an “us” and I tried. I didn’t get the response I was hoping to hear. He didn’t recall any of the conversation and he wanted to honor his new potential girlfriend back home, plus keep “us” safe in the friend zone. He always has a girl. I should have figured then, but I am glad I was for once, true to myself. I had a business trip to China soon after this Paris revelation which provided a necessary break from the drama. I chose to honor our friendship during that time away, and I was communicative and friendly, because, I figured, my feelings were something I could just get over. What was most important was what he wanted. Yet Holy Lord I tried to make him see “it.” I went crazy, pining for him to finally wake the f*ck up and admit that he had those feelings inside. It was totally embarrassing, and thoroughly lonely. I mean, I won’t lie: sometimes I just wanted to call him a chicken shit. But he chose otherwise, and continued to choose otherwise. Trust me, it’s been a bitch of a battle. It ain’t easy fighting a heartbreak in front of your friends, and our mutual friends (in fact it blows). Especially when you pretend like you’re not in love with the guy. I tried to change myself: I cut bangs, dyed my hair, wore new clothes, joined a dating Web site, traveled away... Yet I found myself slipping back into the cloudy haze of self-dishonesty again, miserable as my heartache kept blinding me from reality. And soon enough, I came to another T in the road, a moment where I just had enough of the irritating love bullshit. I could not wake up one more day crying. I was angry at love. It brought me pain again. Elizabeth Gilbert (whom I adore) explains this moment perfectly in her book, Eat, Pray, Love: “The only thing more unthinkable than leaving [our close friendship] was staying; the only thing more impossible than staying was leaving.” Today, I feel good. It took me nearly a year, but I managed to fall in and out of love with this guy, without even a kiss. It’s crazy to think about. But hey, I can rock the shit out of a heartbreak. I’d write the manual: How to Rock the Shit Out of a Heartbreak (By Claire). And what eventually came of this cloudy heartbreak? Well, my world came alive. My personal outlet was in writing. Plus some very good friends, really good wine, and a few terrible dates lit the way. An aside, these terrible dates were more than terrible, these were AWFUL dates. The French Dine-and-Ditcher is a classic (a story for a future blog posting!). With my writing, I have drafted so many variations of our story. While it’s painful revisiting it, each time I do something new opens up for me. I began to see and realize I was serving him and his needs over me and mine. And I was basing my whole life off the feelings, thoughts and actions of others rather than my own. I wasn’t being authentic at all with people or myself. I was not standing up for me, nor standing up for others. I was simply relating to them, cushioning them, regardless of their “Claire compartment.” Not being real honest, but rather “being real nice.” For example, I never said to him what he told me in Paris until months down the road. I was protecting him. And while that’s sweet, it’s not real. It’s not truth, and it’s constantly making me a victim. I was letting the world happen to me, not me happen to the world. So, while it was awesomely painful and it hurt so good; I opened up not only to everyone, including him (we’ve since “cleared our air”), but also to me. I learned I’m an “internalizer,” over-analyzing e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g. I won’t “get” something until I write it out. It’s the only way I gather my own thoughts, separate from the thoughts of others. Writing is my tool to communicate and through writing, I learned I love profoundly. I’m a Bohemian chick. I love being goofy and making fun of myself. If an event involves 80’s music, karaoke and/or me hosting something of some sort, I’m game. I’m spontaneous and wild, but I love getting deep with people. I want to laugh until I cry. I want to learn how to play my guitar. I want to travel the world, interviewing all sorts of Remarkables and sharing their stories through “Clairities.” I love collaboration and empowering people. I love to inspire and help others see their true inner beauty, let them see who they really are. I love “love.” I love everyone. And I love me. I’m so grateful for him and that last night in Paris. If he hadn’t said what he said, who knows when I would have woken up. And while he is still in my life in some aspects, our space has changed; it was inevitable. But I forever want the truth, even if it’s the hardest thing to hear. I will journey this world, open-minded and open-hearted. I want any future “him” to always make the right choice, even if it’s the hardest choice. He will choose me, and go into truth and right with me. He will be strong-willed and compassionate while also a complete goof ball. And in return, I will show him all of those things too. That is how I love, and want to be loved. It’s my complicated love: it challenges me, inspires me and supports me in everything I am and will be. I want to be deeply affected and unafraid, laughing my way through life. Because life is beautiful, even in those moments of heartache and pain. I forever promise myself that I will search my soul to be confident in knowing what I want, bypassing ego and fear, as that is the right choice and the right thing to do for myself and others.

I will forever be a stand for me, and a stand for my Remarkables. I am a stand for you reading this. I believe in you, and me, and us. My clarity was, and always will be, love.