When The Lines On Your Hands Set You Up For A Fail

Years ago, when I was 19 or so, I had my palms read. This should come as a shock to none of you who know me an know my history. Tarot cards, tea leaves, chicken eggs, there are very few things in this world that I haven’t consulted when trying to get the inside track on a relationship. Usually it leads to doom. Okay … it always leads to doom.

One of the things that I found fascinating was what is called the “Line of Marriage”. It’s the line right under the base of your pinky finger but is right above your heart line, the line that goes across the top of your palm. Anyway, I was told that I would meet my “certain special someone” about halfway through my life. That this person would come into my world at the mid way point between birth and death. No kids were seen in our future and we would be happy. Ummm … okay then.

I was startled. Meeting the love of my life halfway through my life is a scary proposition. What if I meet him at 20 or 22 or 25? I would only live to be 40 to 50 years old. People in my family live to be in their 80’s or older, when were not killed off by disease, accidents, or “other means”. Only living till I was 40 was a wake up call for me. I woke up and did nothing.

That incident though, caused me to question every guy I came into contact with. If the “relationship” lasted longer than a night, I always questioned. If it lasted longer than a week, I would wonder. If it lasted longer than a month, I started to panic. Longer than that and I went into full on crisis mode. I did this for years and made myself nuts. As I approached my 30’s, that little nagging voice went away and I eventually forgot about it. Life went on. I loved more and had my heart-broken more.

Occasionally though, I would think about that palm reading and laugh at how sometimes we make mountains out of ant hills. I few days ago, I was doing something and I had to look at my hands. I mean really look. At the wrinkles and the lines and weird little bump that I have on my left wrist that’s been there since I was a kid. Looking at them, I remembered the palm reading and the impact it had on my life.

I also thought that maybe it had another impact on me. One that was far subtler than fear. I wondered if my being told that I was going to meet the man of my dreams halfway through my life set me up to fail and walk away from relationships. Granted, I have dated a lot of assholes. A lot of them. I then thought; were some of them assholes because of a personality flaw or because I made them that way?

How did that one simple reading influence the rest of my dating life? If you were afraid you were going to die at 40, would you be more likely or less to start something that would only last 20 years and not be forever? It’s been a question roaming around in my head for a few days and I honestly would say less. I want forever to be in my 80’s or 90’s, not my 40’s. So then the next question that popped up is; how many of the guys that I have pushed away actually deserved it?

At the time of dumping, each reason was sound and valid. Had a busy career and couldn’t make time for us. He was way too immature and had no desire to change. He said it was okay for me to have a three-way with his sister and her boyfriend who was bisexual and curious. Okay the last one had to go, but you get my point.

Ultimately, what is to stop me from doing it again in some insane need to live forever and be lonely? I really can’t answer that. I have to trust that I will see the behavior before it happens and squash it. That the man who I love will see it for what it is and call me on it. That is the one hope I cling to.

High School (Or How I Learned To Love Myself And Hate Rice Pudding)

High School. It seems fitting that it is a sentence by itself. It’s a statement. The phrase draws up memories and makes some people think that the past was rose colored and filled with good times and good friends.

These people were on drugs in high school. Some pot and maybe just a hit of acid.

High school, for most kids, is a brutal, soul-crushing gauntlet of emotions and hormones that make you want to run screaming through the streets and beat trees with algebra books. As adults, we want to look back at our experience through the fog of time and relive the good times without the bad. I personally want to take the bad with the good.

I had amazing friends in high school (Angela and the whole FNL crew …  I’m looking at you). We had some incredible times together. Road trips and birthdays. Watching The Lost Boys for the first time at Jen and Heather’s house. Trevor and his thing for Phil Collins. Trying to sit in the back seat of Angel’s bug. The Rose Parade. Watching 90210 at Shrina’s house and passing around old crime scene photos (you really had to be there). These were the good times.

For me though, a lot of high school was spent being afraid. Afraid of people finding out I was gay. Afraid of not passing my classes. Afraid of not being what everyone thought I should be.

Getting out of high school was a godsend for me. I felt like I was finally free of my fears, though as an adult you just get new ones, I didn’t know that at the time. I was able to express myself, however I chose to do it.

I came out the first week of college to one of my professors in paper I wrote for a class. I got an A and a note thanking me for sharing my experience. That was an amazing experience. It meant so much.

I would have never done that in high school. I made the mistake of wearing all yellow to school one day as a sophomore. I was still a toe head at the time. My friend Robin took one look at me, snorted, and called me Big Bird for the rest of the year. There are pictures of how blond I was in my Facebook profile if you need proof. Go look, I’ll wait.

…

Are we back yet? Good. Did you have fun down memory lane? Good.

I want to remember high school the way it was, good and bad. It made me who I am now. I have to remember all of it, or none of it mattered.

***

The title is in reference to that our school cafeteria sometimes served rice pudding with the meals for kids who had tickets. The tickets you got once a month and allowed you to eat breakfast and lunch at school because your parents were “low income”. I never liked rice pudding before that experience and I hated it after.