Five of Cups

Three years ago, on the night of the harvest moon, I pulled the Five of Cups from the witch's deck of tarot cards. She told me what I already knew.

G and I were in the French Quarter on Valentine's Day to see the parades. She wanted to see the fortune tellers with their crystals and cards, lined up at folding tables in front of the cathedral. I was blonde again that day, loose Goldilocks curls tucked under a snapback. G had her palm read by one of the ladies dressed in floral print garb. At first, I didn't want to partake in the fortunes, but in the end some feeling I can't quite describe made me sit down at her table.

Perhaps due to my external appearance, her palm reading was laughable. She told me I had a flair for drama, that I would likely have twins, that I had a tendency to go after the bad boys because I wanted to fix them, and that when I had enough of being a girl and was ready to be a woman, I should stop looking for a bad boy and find a good man. There were a few things she said that gave me pause, but considering the statistical odds of saying something remotely accurate, I was mostly unimpressed. But my interest wasn't in palm-readings. My fascination has always been with the cards.

The first card I drew was Death. Most people would shudder at the Death card, but I already knew what it signified. That rebirth and great change were on the horizon.

I was asked to draw ten cards, but an eleventh slipped out of the deck. The Four of Cups, the Five of Pentacles, the Six of Pentacles, the High Priestess, the Eight of Rods, the Seven of Rods, the Fool, and the Devil. But there were two more that gave me pause.

I'd kept a poker face through the entire reading, but when I drew the sixth card, I couldn't help but laugh out loud. There was the Lovers card, as if I needed a reminder of the thoughts that had been running through my head all day.

Then, there was the Five of Cups. My old friend.

#

When I saw my third-year roommate at the parade yesterday, he asked me how the date on Friday had gone. Normally, I consider myself a fairly articulate person, but every time someone has asked me about how Friday night went, I find myself eliciting a series of "I don't knows" and embarrassed silence. That was when he said to me, "You know, you're the chillest person I have ever met.... Correction, the chillest person I have ever met who isn't stoned. But I have never seen you stress out over anything except for this."

This, in fact, refers to the person who has knocked me into a cesspool of uncertainty. After two months of circling like two panthers, we finally went out for dinner on Friday night. When someone asks you how a date went, what criteria do you judge it by? Awkward silences, stilted conversations, bad food? There was none of the above, but when I went home, there was a strange feeling sunken in my chest.

My friends tell me I overthink things, that I take this too seriously, but the reality is that while I am generally relaxed about most things in my life, I cannot help but react this way to anything that could potentially upend my entire sense of being. And our interactions have all been completely foreign to me, and the unfamiliarity scares me. I have never had anyone pursue me like this--initiate all these text messages, pay for my dinner, walk me to my car almost twenty minutes away, give me a teddy bear he caught from a parade float. The attention is both baffling and flattering, and I have never been so uncertain of how to behave in my life.

Someone once said to me that it was better to be with someone more in love with you than the other way around, but I can't help but think about how off-balance I have felt in this situation. He has made his interest in me abundantly clear, yet I can barely eke out a series of "I-don't-knows" when others ask how I feel in return. I have studied him for two months and can delineate all the ways that our personalities are compatible and analyze all the ways he has treated me exceptionally well, but the part I cannot rationalize my way out of are the spilled cups splayed out before me. The all-consuming intensity I once lived and breathed on is a ghost that still haunts my memories, and the fact that I don't feel the same way now makes me wonder if my brain has overrun my heart.

Valentine

It had been a casual decision. The IV freshmen girls decided to ask the guys to have dinner together at Sushi Love on Valentine's Day. Not in a romantic sense, but as a way to appreciate and treat them. Each girl wrote a letter to one of the guys -- a note of prayers and niceties. Some were signed, others were anonymous. They were letters of thanks, of appreciation, of admiration.

What the girls didn't realize was that after they invited the guys to dinner, the guys began scheming plans of their own. As the group of nearly thirty girls and guys stopped in front of the off-campus restaurant, the guys formed a crescent formation. Two guys who had managed to smuggle along two bouquets of roses during the walk began handing out the roses to each of the guys. On cue, the guys began to serenade the girls with a rendition of Lion King's "Can You Feel the Love Tonight."

When the song ended, each of the guys went up to a girl and handed her his rose. And to top it off, the guys ended up footing the entire bill, which totaled to more than 500 dollars.

When it comes to Valentine's Day, my roommates and I don't see eye-to-eye. My roommates were bitter for either of the two reasons: 1) her "beloved' did not express his care for her in the way she wanted him to, or 2) she hated being alone and single on Valentine's Day. They complained about each couple walking hand-in-hand that crossed their path. They refused to listen to any cute Valentine's Day stories that people were sharing. They bemoaned their lack of a romantic other who would shower them with love and adoration.

I listened to their bitter complaints in complete apathy. Granted, I could not judge them fairly. I have never been in a relationship. The life of a single girl is the only life I have ever known. Perhaps, because I don't know what I'm missing, I don't feel bitterness. I watch my friends' Valentine's Day videos to each other in delight. I listen to other people's Valentine stories like a sweet-tooth wolfing down candy.

I may never be kissed. I may never be the most beautiful girl in someone's eyes. I may never know it is like to love someone so much that you feel yourself filled to the brim. But this kind of love -- where the warmth of being cared for melts all over your bones -- no other Valentine's Day has ever tasted so sweet.

Espoir

Don't be afraid to let your heart go.

Each day in college, I become more and more aware of what an anomaly I am.

Valentine's Day is in three days, and not a minute comes by when I don't come across a flyer advertising some sort of Valentine's Day event or listen to someone talking about Valentine's Day plans. Marlowe (who I've been getting along perfectly well these days) has vowed to go out and "get some" this weekend as retaliation against her "bunny" (I don't even know what to call him... he's like a strange hybrid of (ex)boyfriend and best friend) who didn't buy the $40 ring she demanded him to buy for her. M has lamented her lack of a relationship fairly frequently in the last few weeks.

Then there's me, who doesn't really give a shit because Valentine's Day doesn't mean anything to me.

I have no memories of Valentine's Day. None. I can't recall anything from the last seventeen that I've experienced. I didn't enjoy a romantic day with a significant other, nor did I wallow in misery with Ben & Jerry's and leftover holiday chocolate. I have a feeling I was probably doing homework and playing tennis like any of the other 364 days of the year.

So anyways. This afternoon, I received an e-mail from DSG with this excerpt:

"Duke Student Government is proud to bring you a fun, simple way to celebrate Valentine's Day this year.

GoodCrush allows students to list the Duke emails (not net-id) of five students on whom they have crushes. Those students then receive e-mails telling them that an anonymous student has a crush on them.

If two people have entered each other's names, the website sends another e-mail revealing the students' identities to each other. Students can only log onto the website once."

Before I get into my reaction to this, I'll share my roommates' reactions. I think you can get a pretty good idea of their philosophies on love from this.

Marlowe: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard? I'd be so pissed if I got an e-mail about an anonymous crush. That's so third grade. Why would I want to be crushed on by a pathetic loser who doesn't even have the guts to tell me in person?"

M: "Awwwwwwwwwww that's so cute! I wish I had a crush right now, because I'd totally send them one! Oh, and I'd be so happy if I got one of those anonymous e-mails! It's like, 'Yes! I'm loved by somebody!' Can you imagine how legit this could be -- you could really get people together!"

Marlowe and M ended up having an argument about how Marlowe is "messing with the system" by putting in guys she doesn't even have a crush on. M was actually excited for K when he told her he got one of those e-mails, even though he already suspected it was from Marlowe. Marlowe thinks it's the most ridiculous idea she's ever come across; M thinks it really could bring people together. Marlowe argues that if she likes someone, she'll tell him out right; M argues that not everyone is brave enough to put themselves out there with the possibility of rejection.

In the end, I feel that whatever your opinion is on this depends on your personality. M and I are nowhere near as forward and aggressive romantically as Marlowe. That's the appeal of this program -- being able to dip your foot in the water without taking the plunge. I suppose ideally, being too chicken to confess things in person is problematic -- but I think the majority of us can relate to the fear of rejection.

Having said that, there's no way in hell I'm sending one of those in. L'espoir, c'est une chose dangereuse.

Valentine

I've spent the last week writing a short story inspired by "Lady and the Tramp". The objective was to have it finished in time for today, but just in case I don't reach my goal by the end of the night, here's wishing you have a good day, for those of with you significant others out there. And for those of you who don't, no one loves you more than yourself. So treat yourself.

I used to have expectations for Valentine's Day when I was younger. An unsigned letter, a mysterious delivery of chocolate. But now, I expect nothing more than adding some pounds to my already bulky weight.

I fell asleep on the living room couch again last night. I don't know, there's something about that couch that's like a mouth to unconsciousness, because I hopped onto it with a blanket at 9:30 PM with the intent of taking a nap and slept like a rock until around 3 AM. I went on the computer for awhile, changed into pajamas, and then went back to sleep on the couch.

I don't take stock in dreams. The only thing predictable about the dreams I have is that if I dream it, it won't happen.

It was at lunchtime on a school day. The usual mob of people crowded around the area where I eat lunch were there -- I don't know what the occasion was, but everyone was making a big deal about being paired with somebody. For some reason, the group of friends I normally hang out with were absent. Instead, I was standing all alone by myself, not really caring about what was going on, until Tournesol called out my name. I walked over to Tournesol, who whispered that she knew who I wanted to be paired with. I replied, "Hell no, you fucking don't." Clearly, I was not in the best of moods. Unfazed, Tournesol pulled out a book and handed it to me, saying, "Look at Page 85 and 163." I did as she said. I found Your name underlined in pencil on both pages. When Tournesol asked me to confirm, I did not deny. Instead, I said, "Nothing ever happened, and nothing will ever happen." She, in turn, responded, "Only if you stand there and do nothing."

Sorry, Tournesol. I don't hope anymore.