Have We Met Before?

— A December Warning

December does something to the nervous system.

The lights are softer.
The air smells like cinnamon and regret.
Everyone is paired, posted, or pretending.
And if you’ve been competent for too long, December whispers:

Surely it’s my turn. That’s when the door opens.

December amplifies three things:
Loneliness — because everyone else looks busy loving.
Nostalgia — memory masquerading as intuition.
Urgency — “If not now, then when?”

None of these are reliable advisors.
They are seasonal hormones.

This is when it happens. Someone says,
“Have we met before?”

In December, that sentence doesn’t mean destiny.
It means: You feel warm because the room is cold.

December romance often begins in places no one would recommend in any other month.

A coffee date that turns into a walk to see the lights.
A holiday party where everyone is louder, flirtier, and one drink past wise.
A text that arrives at 9:14 p.m. that says:“Guess who?”

December answers: Anyone. Literally anyone.
You sit there thinking, This feels different.
Of course it does.
There’s a tree involved.

You notice things you would flag in April and generously reframe in December:

He talks about himself for forty-five minutes.
He hasn’t asked you a single question.
He’s “not usually like this.”
He’s “been through a lot this year.”
So have you.

That does not make this a meet-cute.

December is the month where loneliness puts on lipstick, exhaustion borrows a sweater, and poor judgment smells faintly of pine.
You call it chemistry. It’s actually seasonal fog.

Here’s the shortcut no one warns you about:
When two people meet in depletion, speed feels like depth.You skip curiosity.
You skip observation.
You skip earned trust.
And land straight in meaning, projection, and relief.
It feels intimate. It is not.
It is relief dressed as romance.
And then — usually by January or February — the familiar question arrives:
Why does this always happen to me?
It doesn’t. It happens when you’re tired, the year has taken too much, and the lights make everything look kinder than it is.

Now Dancer, now Prancer, on Donner and Vixen…
December gallops.

Texts speed up.
Feelings accelerate.
Assumptions put on antlers.

You blink — and suddenly you’re emotionally trotting behind a man you met three weeks ago because he once said something tender near a candle.

Ho ho ho.

December is not a month.
It’s a tempo problem.

The sleigh is moving.
The music is loud.
And everyone is shouting “Just enjoy it!” while steering directly toward February confusion.

---

Here’s the rule worth taping to the refrigerator:

If it requires antlers, lights, or carols to feel alive, it does not yet require your heart.
Let the sleigh pass.
Real connection doesn’t need a soundtrack.
It walks.

Now Cupid, now Comet — slow the whole thing down.

This isn’t a ban on love.
It’s a pause.

December is for warmth, not decisions.
For the company, not contracts.
To notice what you need, please don't assign it to the person nearest to you.

If something is real, it will still be there when the decorations come down.

And if it isn’t?
You’ve saved yourself the cleanup.

With steady clarity, and wishing you Love
Terry