Stood up ... again

Spoiler alert!

I know. I haven't even written about 1 of 10 yet and I'm writing about being stood up by someone else. (1 of 10 is on the roster. I sat him on the bench for a few days. Patience!)

Stood up. Ever notice how the word "stood" starts looking like the word "stooge" the longer you look at it?

I guess I should be glad I got the experience out of the way. When I committed to writing about 10 Dates, 10 Men, I knew there would be some negative experiences. How much fun would it be for you if every date was perfect? Not much, right? Even real life has to be seasoned by tension. So, yeah, last Thursday night I got stood up. It was only the second time in my life, which means it's disappointing .... embarrassing as hell ..... but it's certainly not a pattern.

The first time, I was 14 or 15. I was at the one-screen movie theater in our small town on a Friday night. My best friend and I had just finished sharing a Virginia Slim in the bathroom, and when we came out somebody told me a guy was looking for me. He was, she said, from Colorado!

You know how the heroine's heart leaps up in her chest in romance novels? Mine did that. It fucking leaped. I only knew one guy who was from Colorado, Duane K., and I'd had an enormous, obsessive crush on him for several years. His dad was my dad's best friend since high school, and on rare occasions his family came home to visit his uncle in a nearby small town.

Duane K. was really cute -- tall, dark, and broad-shouldered even as a kid -- but more than that, he was the first boy who had ever kissed me, several years before when I was 10 and he was 11. He was the first boy who made me feel horny desirable when he kissed me long and hard, our eyes closed, my arms around his neck, one of his around my waist, and his hand running through my hair like he couldn't get enough of me. It was just like in the movies .... until he asked me if I wanted to French kiss .... and then had to explain what that meant. 

Stick your slimy tongue in my mouth, Duane K? I don't think so. Your tongue has spit on it. There will be no tongues in my virgin mouth. It took me a few more years to wrap my head around that concept, which meant he was far more sophisticated than I was. A man of the world.

Not Iowa.

And he was from Colorado! Which is not Iowa. 

I found him in the back row of the theater with his cousin, George. We sat back there and whispered through the rest of the movie, catching up. I was cool as could be -- happy I'd worn my favorite tight yellow sweater -- but inside I felt like that 10-year-old girl being kissed for the first time. I had been fantasizing about Duane K. for 4 years and here he was, right beside me. And just as gorgeous as he was when he was 11.

When the movie was over, he asked me if I wanted to go out with him the next night. He said he had some pot and he'd get us some beer. I said yes without even asking my parents. No way my dad would say no to my going out with his best friend's son -- who was from Colorado!

The next night my parents were going to his uncle's house to play cards with his parents. Dad had talked to Duane K.'s dad, so everybody had approved of us going out together. Mom said Duane K. told his parents I had really filled out my sweater since last time he saw me. Somehow that wouldn't be something that would make me say, "Aww. You kids go out and have fun now. Buy that girl an ice cream cone!" But my parents thought it was funny.

They had to get a babysitter. Only a date with Duane K. would have gotten me out of babysitting that night, but they hired a girl from my class who didn't have any plans, and I was free to show Duane K. how much more I knew about kissing since last time I'd made out with him. Even French kissing. Especially French kissing. I imagined he had more to teach me too. I was giddy.

I waited at the living room window and chatted with the girl who was babysitting. I felt a little superior to be going on a date with a boy man from Colorado while she was stuck at my house with my little brothers and sisters. OK, I felt way superior. I felt at least 4 years older than her. She couldn't possibly  have been as impressed with me as I was with myself.

I waited. We chatted. I watched for him to pull up on the street, and I watched the hands crawl around the clock face. We hadn't really set a time when we talked at the theater ..... The babysitter and I ran out of things to chat about, and I desperately wanted to run upstairs and smoke a cigarette out the bathroom window. But I couldn't leave the window in case Duane K. finally pulled up to the curb. I tried not to show how anxious I was. I said, "It probably took him a while to find somebody to buy some beer."

"Sure. That's it," the babysitter said. Although I had no reason to, I suspected she was gloating inside. I hope so. I sure as hell didn't want her pity.

Finally about 9:30 I accepted that he wasn't coming. "I'm leaving," I said. "If he shows up, tell him he'll have to find me."

No way I was staying home and hanging out with somebody who didn't even have a date on a Saturday night.

I put on my coat and walked uptown where I knew I would find my friends circling the square. My best friend was riding around with her boyfriend and some other kids. Typical Saturday night. I hopped into the car. Somebody handed me a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. I lit a cigarette and started chugging. Fuck Duane K.

Later I went home and cried into my pillow the rest of the night as quietly as I could, so I wouldn't wake up my little sister sleeping next to me. As far as anybody else knew, I didn't give a shit about that asshole, Duane K. Not one shit.

I never did find out why Duane K. stood me up that night. My parents were surprised when they found out and disgusted with him. I saw him again maybe 6 years later at a picnic. We were both married, and I barely talked to him.

A couple of years after that his parents moved back to Iowa, and on one of my visits home his dad told me I was lucky Duane K. had stood me up that night. He said Duane K. got arrested for beating his wife, and they were getting a divorce. He said he didn't like his own kid any more. I said I hadn't really wanted to marry his son anyway. I just wanted to French kiss him.

I still feel kind of cheated that I never got to French kiss Duane K.

That was the first time. And last Thursday night was the second, when the guy I thought might become 2 of 10 stood me up.

I'd been flirting with Possible 2 of 10 for a while, and recently we'd moved on to texting a little. He asked if I wanted to join him for a glass of wine some time. I said I would like that.

A week or so later he texted and asked if I'd meet him that night for happy hour. I was sick so I couldn't go, but I told him I hoped he would ask again.

A couple of weeks later, he did ask again. This time I had a Shakespeare performance art gig in another town, and I was already on my way there. I said I really hoped we could do it soon though. He said he wished he'd known about the performance. I wished he would ask in advance and get on my calendar.

A week went by. I texted Alex for advice.

Me: How many times would you ask a woman out if she was busy when you asked? 2? 3? More?
Alex: I'd probably stop trying after 2 and let her call me after that. Is there more to the above question?
Me: The question was because [Possible 2 of 10] has asked me to go out twice and I couldn't go. The second time I said I really hoped we could do it soon, so I made it obvious I wanted to. And he really should not wait until the last minute .... but I don't know if the next move is mine. I guess I'll give it a few days.

Alex didn't give me the answer I wanted. Hard as it is to admit, I'm still trying to throw off the chastity belt some of the strict rules for romantic engagement I had shamed into me when I was growing up. I wasn't ever allowed to call a boy. Not even when I was in high school. Not even if I was already dating him. Girls just didn't call boys .... unless their parents weren't home and they were doing it with a girlfriend. Then it was OK to break the rule as long as nobody's parents found out.

Asking a boy to go on a date was out of the question. Social suicide. There were ways to let a boy know you liked him, and then he was supposed to ask you out if he wanted to.

I'd like to say reason has kicked those old-fashioned mores to the curb, but I'd be lying. I was reluctant to ask Possible 2 of 10 out even for a simple glass of wine. I hoped he would try a third time.

I waited almost a week longer. Then on Wednesday night Alex and I were at a pub, sitting at the bar.

Me: Would you even call that a date? If someone texts kind of last minute and asks you to join him for a glass of wine? That's not really even a date, is it? Is that a pre-date?
Alex: Hard to tell. It could be a date. I'd say it's at least a pre-date. Unless you don't want to date him.
Me: I would go on a date with him, but I'm not sure he wants to go on a date with me. So .... yes, it's a pre-date. It's probably not even a date.

I'm telling you, the times they have changed. I didn't even know what a pre-date was until Alex explained it to me last fall. I'm still not sure I grasp all the nuances yet. But I'll try to explain it in another post.

Later we were sitting at karaoke listening to somebody butcher the Eagles. I was on my second salty dog.

Me: It looks I'm going to have to make the next move with Possible 2 of 10. He hasn't texted me again. Should I text him and ask if he wants to go out tomorrow night?
Alex: Only if you want to.
Me: Oh, I definitely want to. I just want him to do the asking.
Alex: That's not really reasonable. If you want to go out with him, it's your turn to ask.
Me: I don't want to ask.
Alex: Then don't go out with him.
Me: He might have changed his mind.
Alex: You'll never know until you ask him.
Me: Fine. I'll text him.
Alex: Only if you want to.

I took my time composing a text. When I was done, I showed Alex the two sentences I'd come up with.

"Do you still want to go out for that glass of wine? Tomorrow night maybe?"

Me: Here's what I'm going to send. Oh, wait. It's probably too late to send this. It's 10:15. I shouldn't send this tonight.
Alex: (rolling his eyes) It's not too late. He's not in kindergarten. Let me see ..... Take out the "maybe." It's weak. "Maybe" is weak writing. I'm surprised at you.
Me: I  know it's weak. I'm a writer. I did it on purpose so he wouldn't think ....
Alex: That you were asking him out? Delete the "maybe." Do it now.
Me: OK. He's probably changed his mind anyway.

I deleted the "maybe," and then I sat with my finger hovering over the send button for at least 2 minutes. Finally I touched the screen and sent my little request out into the night, just inviting rejection.

Less than a minute later I got a reply:

"Sure. Where?"

Me: OMG! Alex, look! He said yes. What should I say? I didn't even think of a place to go.
Alex: Of course he did. Just tell him where you want to go.

I drafted a reply.

"Do you mind coming [downtown]? In that case, [generic wine bar] is nice."

I hit send. It was only 5 minutes after his response.

I waited. I picked up my phone and checked it several times. I ordered another drink.

Me: Looks like he changed his mind.
Alex: How long has it been?
Me: Ten minutes. (And then 20. And then 30.)
Alex: He won't change his mind. He said he wants to go. The hard part is over.
Me: Yeah, maybe he went to bed. You're right. He'll text or call tomorrow.

The next day every time I heard the little guitar riff that announces a text I expected it to be from Possible 2 of 10. It wasn't. By late afternoon, I was starting to feel discouraged, but I thought maybe he thought he'd made a commitment and intended to text me after he got off work to see what time I wanted to meet. That made sense. Sure, that must be it.

I got ready to go. I didn't do much more than I would normally do for a night out with friends. After all, I wasn't really sure if this was a date. Or even a pre-date.

You already know the rest of the story. I gave it away at the beginning. Let me paint you a picture.

He didn't call. He didn't text. It's been 6 days, and he still hasn't. He fucking stood me up.

That night the Hot Italian sent me an email: Did you go out? How did it go?
Me: No. He stood me up.
Hot Italian: What??? Did you call him and ask him what the fuck? Did you yell at him?
Me: No, I'm not going to call him. Obviously he changed his mind. Or .... who knows. Maybe he doesn't even remember saying he'd go. I don't know.

 On her way home from school Elvira called: Did you go out with Possible 2 of 10? How did it go?
Me: No. He stood me up.
Elvira: What the fuck? What an asshole!
Me: He probably just changed his mind. Or forgot.
Elvira: Fuck him!
Me: Probably won't happen. Opportunity lost.

I messaged Alex.

Me: [Possible 2 of 10] still hasn't gotten back to me after I suggested [generic wine bar] ... I think he stood me up.
Alex: Yeah, that's a bad sign. I'd find out for sure ....
Me: The ball is in his court. I suggested a venue...

There's no way I was going to contact a man who had stood me up -- not to yell at him or to find out what happened. It took enough courage for me to ask him to go in the first place. How pathetic would it be to call or text him and ask why he'd stood me up? Wouldn't that just put both of us in an awkward position? Nope. Not happening.

I was just glad I was still at home and not waiting for him at some wine bar alone.

And I was grateful for the impersonal distance of email and Facebook messaging when I confessed I'd been stood up. It was just a casual date after all .... or pre-date ... for a glass of wine. No big deal. But I was still disappointed. And embarrassed. Being stood up has to be one of the top 3 ego deflaters. I will admit, I might have gotten a bit teary for a while.

And then I got this message from Alex: I think the important lesson from this, regardless of outcome, is that you sent the message. Proud of ya!

That message still makes my eyes fill up. I should print it and hang it on my refrigerator with a magnet. Or write it on a Post-It note and stick it to my bathroom mirror. A tattoo would be going too far, I suppose.

I may be a dating disaster, but when it comes to friends, I'm the richest woman I know.

All I can say about being stood up is this: the second time wasn't as bad as the first. At least this time I didn't drink a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. Somewhere along the line I graduated to Chardonnay.

I don't know why Possible 2 of 10 didn't follow through, but it can't be anything I did so my self-esteem is intact. Bruised maybe, but hey, I'm not the one who stood somebody up. Am I still disappointed? Hell, yes. I would never have gathered the courage to send that text if it wasn't important. I wanted to go out with him; I wanted to get to know him better. But if he didn't feel the same way ..... 

I'll live to date another day.

As for Possible 2 of 10, his name, for the purposes of this blog, has changed. From now on he will simply be called -1 of 10.

Hi, honey! I'm home!

A significant number of readers, along with several people I didn't even know were readers, have called something to my attention: they say I haven't been writing here much. Not since the end of November when I did my last NaBloPoMo.

It's true. I fear I may be suffering from a disease I don't even believe exists: lazy ass writer's block. The reason I don't believe it exists is because the cure is so simple. You just put your ass in a chair and you write. I can't count the number of students I've said that to. I can't count the number of fellow writers. You just put your butt in the chair and you write. It's really that simple. You may not write what you want to write, but you can write. I can write.

The problem is that I do put my butt in the chair ...... I put my butt in a chair more than enough, but I don't write. Or to be more precise, I write a lot, but I don't write here on my blog. I write a lot on Facebook. On Facebook I indulge in long, thoughtful, clever conversations that could inspire me if I didn't also scroll through hundreds of photos of puppies and kittehs, greeting cards and videos. I also write lots of texts. I write reams of to-do lists. But I haven't been writing here.

I have reasons, but they aren't really good ones. It's not that I don't have time. I do all  kinds of other things when I could be writing a blog post. Things like changing a light bulb; reading novels; baking cookies; checking my email; playing Words with Friends; watching Californication ... then Shameless ... then  Project Runway (hate the groups this season) .... then The Taste ... then ....; singing karaoke; texting with 3 people while I'm messaging on Facebook with 2 more; watering my 4 plants; hanging out with friends; going to plays; stealing chocolate chips from the freezer; vacuuming; playing pool; making a cup of tea; finding the tea forgotten on my desk and reheating it; watching the police at the neighbor's house; getting my yoga mat out of the closet; meeting a friend for coffee; checking my blog stats; telling Melvin, "no, I won't go buy you some gin and juice"; playing my guitar; taking a nap; checking Foursquare; putting my yoga mat away without using it; pinning cool shit on Pinterest; writing notes for topics I want to write about ..... and in between each of those, checking Facebook. And texting.

Sometimes I think about making an appointment with my doctor for a Ritalin prescription.

greasergoth.blogspot.com

It's also not that I don't have anything to write about. My personal Facebook friends will vouch that I write plenty on Facebook. It's easier there, because the rewards are immediate. People respond. We have conversations, and I never know who will show up. Sometimes the comments -- 20, 30, 50 or more -- continue for hours. Writing blog posts, much as I love it, is lonely work. Facebook gives immediate gratification, especially for a big old extrovert like me.

This is how addictions are created. I need a 12-step program for Facebook.

I also live with my tormentor dominatrix jailer muse, Dolores. Dolores is an intolerant, anti-social, hate-driven bitch, but she's also so fucking productive I can't keep up with her.

All those things I listed above that I do instead of writing? Most of the time as I'm doing those things, Dolores is on my shoulder, hissing in my ear, "Are you on Facebook again? When are we going to write on our blog? Surely you're not going to let yet another day go by! I've kept you awake every night this week .... Is that another text? Don't answer it. I said, Don't answer that fucking text! .... You had to answer it. I'm done with you."

Only she never is done with me. She sits in the corner pouting, drinking dirty martinis from a coffee cup, and painting her toenails. In between coats of polish, she writes ideas on ping pong balls and throws them at my head. My internal landscape is littered with drifts and drifts of ping pong balls.

Here are a fraction of the ideas she's tossed at me in the past week or so: conversations with Melvin; vaginas; meeting new neighbors; revelations that change personal history; possum feet and glitter crayons; 10 Men, 10 Dates; the best gifts; vaginas; chivalry; nice guy syndrome; cheerleaders; Valentine's Day; bourbon; poetry; finding out I was married to a bigamist; vaginas; performance art; poopy diapers; getting stood up; funny things people post on my Facebook wall; do gynecologists get tired of looking at breasts and vaginas?; also, are gynecologists better lovers?; karaoke; rudeness; girdles; chameleons; 1 of 10; cookies; buying a car; dating younger men; moving on; vaginas ....

I have a short list of 35 blog posts I could write today.

Even as I write this one, Dolores, who can't ever be satisfied, is declaring her disgust. She's here beside me .... see her? .... blowing smoke from her clove cigarette in my face and taunting me, "Do you never stop whining? I give you hundreds of ideas to write about. I keep you -- and myself -- awake until the small hours of the morning feeding stories into your head ... I work my fucking ass off  for you and now you're using this time to complain about writer's block? I should walk right out that door. Now pick up one of those fucking ping pong balls and write a real blog post instead of making excuses for why you don't write. Or do I need to call you a whaaammmmbuuuulaaaannnnce?"

No more watching Modern Family with Dolores.

She's right though. I have no good excuse. So tomorrow I'm going to a writer's bootcamp with some other writers. My phone will be stripped away, and I'll  be handcuffed to my laptop for several hours of enforced writing time. I will be held accountable.

Tuesday's post

I've chosen a random ping pong ball, and this is what I'll commit to writing about next. Of course it couldn't be something fun, like vaginas.

Oh, well. Might as well get the humiliation over with. Vaginas are next though, or I'm going on strike.

Damn you, Dolores.

Wordless Wednesday: Skirts

http://roseaposey.tumblr.com/post/39795409283/judgments

This year I will....

http://moninavelarde.com/newyears

 

 

This came from a resolution generator. (Note: I am not responsible for the punctuation.) It's the first one that came up for me. No, I'm still not writing resolutions for 2013, but I know some of you made a promise to yourselves to start a blog this year.

Anybody hit publish yet? Feel free to post a link in the comments section.

If you want to blog and you haven't, what's holding you back?

 

New Year's 2013: Moving On

I’m writing my New Year’s post before I write my Christmas post this year. Sometimes I'm just really fucking lazy and I party way too much the gifts of the season come only in hindsight. That’s the case for me this year. I swear it’s not that I’m just lazy.

I didn’t make any resolutions this year. I know all the things I need to fix about myself. Those fucking resolutions are like a herd of hamsters running on squeaky, rusted wheels year after year after year. I’ll lose 20 pounds, work out every day, earn more money, finally get that mid-life endoscopy, squeeze my breasts every month, write more often on my blog (hey, sometimes that hamster gets a rest), go out more, stay home more, drink more wine, drink less wine, go on a cruise, swear off chocolate, change my oil every 5000 miles, eat fewer cookies, get more cookies ….. 

OK, that last one can be my nod to resolutions. More cookies. That one I can do. A little help here, please?

What works better than resolutions for me is to take a nap sit in meditation and ask for a word or phrase to come to me that will guide my actions in the coming year.

Three years ago my phrase was “say yes,” and I ended up making some big, live-changing moves. Like selling my big tri-level in the suburbs and moving into the city. Other things I said yes to didn’t work out so well, but I learned from every experience.

The past two years I’ve gotten the same phrase: “stay open.” That one, believe it or not, has been harder to put into action. Staying open isn’t necessarily a behavior. It can be a state of mind or even an emotion. Much harder to control with intention, and much harder to evaluate. Maybe that’s why I needed two years with it.

Of course, as I move into a new year, armed with a new phrase, I don’t leave those other two behind. I still need to say yes sometimes when my inclination is to be lazy or stay in my comfort zone. I still need to stay open, because vulnerability is really fucking scary, and sometimes people don’t care that they’re stomping on my sensitive bits. So I take those phrases with me into 2013 too, hoping they have merged, incorporated into my life and become automatic.

This year, my new phrase came to me loud and clear. I’ll tell you what it is in a minute, but first a story.

A couple of months ago I was talking to a friend about something that had happened. I felt devastated. I was trying not to cry, even though we were talking on the phone and he couldn’t have seen my mascara run down my splotchy, red face. I said to him, “I feel …. I feel …. I’m just …. hurt. Damn it! I don’t have the right word for how I feel.” Because I’m articulate like that.

He said, “It doesn’t matter if you have the word for how you feel. You’ve been betrayed. That’s what you need to say.”

I’ve never figured out how to write stunned silence, so just observe 5 seconds of nothing before you read on.

That word – betrayed – sounded like a gong. It reverberated in my head. The monkeys stopped throwing poo and listened. (Yeah, my head is a fucking zoo.) This friend uses words with the precision of a Marine sniper. He wouldn't use a loaded word like that unless he meant it.

“Yes,” I said. “You’re right. I've been betrayed. This isn’t my fault?”

“No,” he agreed. “This definitely isn't your fault. You were betrayed.” There. He said it again.

Those of you with perfectly healthy boundaries can fuck off skip to the end for the secret phrase. You probably won’t get why this was an epiphany for me. I suspect some of you will though.

That word – betrayed – stayed beside me and held my hand for weeks. Normally I’d be trying to figure out what I’d done wrong to cause the situation … how I could have prevented what happened if only I’d said the right thing or done something different or just not been me, a soulless red-head. If only I'd learned the secret handshake that everybody else seems to know.

Eventually I would have come up with some skewed scenario that made it all my fault.

Not this time. That word, especially coming from the particular friend who uttered it, kept blocking my normal desire to blame myself. And by blocking the blamer (funny how similar that word is to hammer) in my head, I was able to revisit a couple of other conflicted situations – situations that had helped make me ready to hear that word: betrayed.

And just like that an internal boundary slammed into place like a steel vault door. And the blamer was stuck on the outside of it.

This was not my fault. This was not something I should have prevented. This was …. oh, the hardest thing to swallow …. this was out of my control.

If that’s a simple concept for you to grasp, brav-fucking-o for you. You’re one of the lucky ones. Or maybe I’m just unlucky. Don't worry. I’m not going to lie here on the couch while you smoke a pipe and take notes, but believe me when I say I know why I think everything is my fault and thus my responsibility to fix. It starts with being the red-headed bastard stepchild, the oldest of five kids, and builds from there. I have been told my entire life that I’m supposed to be in control, and I’m supposed to keep people happy, and shit can get seriously painful if I don't. It’s what people expect.

Sorry. I’m off the couch now.

Anyway, that word, betrayal, applied to several heart-wrenching confusing situations where I got sucker punched suddenly removed that responsibility from my shoulders, where it hadn’t belonged in the first place.

I live so much in the gray areas of life. I always see all sides, and how this affects that, and how my actions cause shit to happen --  good or bad – and how people are doing the best they can, and of course he's sensitive to that and she's reactive to this, and how if I’d just said this differently or written that better, and we’re all butterflies sneezing and …. OMG, my mother was right all along: I fucking think too much.

There are times I’ve been betrayed. And there’s nothing I can or want to do about it. I don't want to. Because that word betrayed is a strong word to stand beside, but once it was given to me, I had to accept it.

This doesn’t make me a hater. I’m not.

But people repeat patterns of behavior. They treat other people – different people -- the same way over and over. It doesn’t matter where they learned it or whom they learned it from – whether from their mothers or the girls who turned them down or the guys who gave them wedgies or the cheerleaders or the nuns or the first boss. It doesn’t matter that it worked well enough to become ingrained. It doesn’t matter if it stopped working years ago. We all get stuck in ruts that determine how we react to, and how we treat, other people.

Nothing new here. I’m sure there are a million self-help books written about the patterns people get stuck in.

What was new for me … what broke me out of my pattern …. was that for once I stopped analyzing how my behavior might have triggered their patterns. And then I stopped obsessing about how I could go back and fix things (because that’s one of my patterns). How I could try a new tactic, say it a different way, apologize and start over, make it all better so nobody is mad …. So nobody gets punched again.

With the word betrayal beside me I just said, “Fuck that, you monkeys. I’ve been betrayed. It happened to me, and for once this is not my shit to fix. You can stop flinging poo at me because it won't stick this time.” And I meant it.

Which doesn’t mean I like it. I don’t. But I accepted the truth of it. I accepted that it’s not my business what other people whisper in their own ears while they shampoo their hair in the shower, or in other people’s ears to justify their bad behavior or to lock in their security, or even what they shout in my ear to try to make me their scapegoat. If I’m the only one who’s worried about trying to fix it, then it’s time for me to step out of my pattern.

And that’s how I was led to my marching orders from the Universe for 2013. As I napped meditated on my charge for the year, two words came to me: MOVE ON

Like a traffic sign in the middle of nowhere: move on. 

Oh, I will still say yes. I will still stay open and vulnerable, even to betrayal. But this year I will also, when I need to, move on.

To be clear, I’m not saying every time I’m in conflict I’ll walk away. I’m not like that, and I don’t want to change that pattern. If the past year taught me anything else, it’s that there are people in my life who can face conflict, disappointment, even anger with me and work through those issues by listening and sharing authentically. I've had some amazing, healing experiences to balance the betrayals.

I can tell several stories about people who amazed me with their compassion and maturity. I learned from them. Maybe that’s why I could see the contrast when the betrayals came.

Those are the people I will move on with, not away from. And there are plenty of them on my end of the teeter totter. Enough to keep the end firmly on the ground.

I also won’t only be moving on from betrayals and other conflict-laden situations. (Fingers crossed I won’t be challenged by so many of those this year.)

There are other, more positive, areas I’ll be moving on in too. Like dating and my 10 Dates, 10 Men project. And my writing career. And cookies. I definitely need to try more recipes for cookies.

Do you have a word or a phrase you intend to focus on this year? Would you care to share it in the comments below? We can always revisit this post next year to see how it’s gone.

The other thing I do at the beginning of a new year is to pull one tarot card to be my companion for the year. Last night I sat on my bed, spread out the cards from my favorite deck, ran my hands over them until I felt the urge to pull one out, and drew the 6 of wands.

That’s a happy card for me. It could mean some kind of reward or kudos in an area of creativity and passion. I've also heard some people get cookies from riding a horse. It’s a hot moving-on kind of card. I’ll take it. And I’ll meditate on the deeper meanings as the year goes on.

I put my cards back in the box and set it on my dresser, but when I turned around I saw I’d left a card on the bed. That’s funny, I thought. How did I miss that?

I picked it up. The queen of cups. Oh, boy. Anybody who knows me knows I have a special affection for the queens. Cups are the suite of emotions. And this watery queen is loving, motherly, deeply emotional …. and also sometimes fickle and overly emotional. She might blow shit up as she moves on.

It all goes together. I need to focus on the creative areas I’m passionate about and be careful not to wallow in the emotional realm, while still staying attached to those I love. Good advice for any year.

If you’d like me to draw a card for you, leave a comment and I’ll randomly choose one and post the result under your comment. You won't be asked to join a cult.

Moving on. With me?