Every word that I wrang from that washcloth was wrong.
2012 is the year that taught me that I don’t know what “love” is.
I used to believe that I could never love anyone as much as I’d loved before, that I could never reclaim what I’d given to someone else, that I was doomed to the fate that so many women I have known have shared: to love, for a lifetime, the unlovable asshole they “fell in love with” first. I believed that was my fate in 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, and even 2011. 2012 was the year that taught me that I was an amateur, and that being “in love” had never happened to me before. I’d been infatuated, I’d been consumed, and I’d been married. I’d never been in love.
Love kicked my ass.
Now I know the soul-accelerating, gut-wrenching, heart-pounding, terrifying, awesome sensations that go along with being in love with someone totally trustworthy and wonderful, and not knowing how to handle your own emotions. It’s a bit like being drunk for the first time. Some people handle it better than others.
Thank you for existing; for being you, for helping me through, for loving me when I was unlovable, and for sticking around long enough to prove me wrong. I’m not going to make any ludicrous promises never to date anyone else, but I’m not counting on wanting to, either.
Here’s to whatever karmic ass-kicking 2013 has in store. Bring it.
“Be careful who you hang around with,” Grandma used to say. “You may fall in love.”
For some idea of how far I’ve come in the last year, check out last year’s New Years post.