As beloved AA speaker Chuck C. has observed, when we first began working the Program, we thought that alcohol (or drugs, or overeating, or whatever) was our problem, because we have a body that can’t tolerate it, coupled with a mind that can’t leave it alone.
But when we first used alcohol, it wasn’t a problem for us—it was an answer. That’s why we drank—or shot up, or overate, or gambled away our savings. This means that our foundational problem existed before we began drinking or drugging or overeating.
By the time we reach Step Ten, we clearly understand what that foundational problem is: overreliance on self. That was our single biggest character defect, and for much or our life, it blocked us from having a spiritual experience.
I smile when I hear people refer to the Twelve Steps as a self-help program, because it’s exactly the opposite. Our “selves” need help. The Twelve Steps teach us how and when to ask for help from a Higher Power—not how to rely more on the self and self-centeredness.
When we reach Step Ten, we are no longer drinking or using or overeating. But something much greater has also occurred: we’ve sobered up to our humanness—to our limitations. We’ve also sobered up to our need to grow and serve on an ongoing basis. We know that we cannot simply settle for chemical relief. We know that if chemical relief is all we focus on, we have taken the first step toward relapse.
As we work Step Ten, we also come to understand some subtle aspects of the Program that are not generally visible to newcomers. Our attitude toward the Steps has shifted—and continues to shift—in profound ways. Let’s look closely at some of these shifts.
From Dependence to Service, and from Domination to Assertiveness
As we work Step Ten and it becomes integrated into our life, we let go of trying to control the world—or other people.
We see that our former strategies of demanding, dominating, manipulating, wheedling, flattering, and people pleasing were all forms of overreliance on self. We also come to see that these strategies were the source of most of our (and anyone’s) defective interactions.
Now, as we practice Step Ten, we stop looking to others to fulfill us. Instead, we focus on how we can be of service—while also noticing and acknowledging our own needs.
Being of service doesn’t mean becoming a doormat. It’s exactly the opposite. We learn to become assertive instead of aggressive or dependent. Instead of trying to get others to do what we want, we do whatever is compassionate, or just, or most appropriate for the situation.
We also speak the truth about who we are and what we’re feeling. We learn what our real needs are, and we learn to express them clearly and directly, without trying to manipulate others into fulfilling them. We understand that assertiveness is our perfect right—as well as the antidote to the demands we used to make of others.
We are also aware that we can never know exactly how others will respond. When we express ourselves and our needs clearly and directly, they might happily accommodate us. Or they might say “Not gonna happen” or “Not interested” or “Screw you for asking” or even “Screw you for needing that.”
Throughout my drinking years and during the first few years of my recovery, I was a compulsive people pleaser. I would do whatever I felt would make others happy and comfortable, in the hope that they would think favorably of me. This was one of my biggest character defects. It was also a subtle form of domination, because I was trying to get everybody else to do my bidding. Through my people pleasing, I demanded that others meet a need in me, which was to be liked. I was focused on myself, and I compulsively tried to get others to focus on me as well.
Bill W. had the very same character defect. In his 1958 Grapevine article “The Next Frontier: Emotional Sobriety,” he observed that his own painful dependencies caused him to demand that other people in AA meet his needs. Repeatedly, he tried to get others to do his bidding and depend upon him. Eventually he recognized that he lacked emotional sobriety. From an emotional standpoint, he was still acting like an addict.
During those years when I too lacked emotional sobriety, I radiated an essence of neediness and unsteadiness that blocked me from having a spiritual experience. Now imagine the essence you radiate when you simply show up as yourself in a spirit of compassion and service, and let other people know exactly who you are and what you feel.
Over time, as we work Step Ten, one of the things that changes is the essence of what we radiate. Some people call it a vibe or an intangible influence. This is the energy behind the Ripple Effect.
Discerning Character Defects and Shortcomings
In his preface to Drop the Rock: Removing Character Defects, Bill P. wrote:
During the early 1980s I worked in the archives at AA Headquarters in New York and one of the most asked questions was, “What is the difference between character defects and shortcomings?” The answer is that there is no difference. Bill W. and the authors of the Big Book didn’t want to use the same word in both Steps. The same approach is used in this book—“character defects” is used interchangeably with “shortcomings.”
When we work Steps Six and Seven for the first time, there truly is no difference between the two. We ask God to take away everything that blocks us, holds us back, or keeps us locked inside the grip of self. We don’t analyze which of those things are too big or too small, too strong or too weak.
And we don’t need to. If we’re giving away a bunch of old clothes that no longer fit us, we don’t need to separate them into those that are too small because they shrank and those that are too big because we lost weight. We just place everything together in the same bag.
Now that we are working Step Ten, however, we begin to see some subtleties that weren’t visible earlier in our recovery. In long-term sobriety, we are able to take a finer measurement of our flaws.
For starters, we begin to realize that most shortcomings and character defects aren’t aspects of our personality that are inherently wrong or bad, and therefore need to be destroyed. They are normal human emotions, impulses, and actions that are over-expressed or under-expressed.
We can call our flaws of under-expression our shortcomings, because they fall short of healthy and compassionate behavior. And we can call our flaws of over-expression our character defects. Or, to borrow a phrase from Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, our character defects are normal, healthy things that exceed their proper functions, while our shortcomings are normal, healthy things that aren’t reaching their minimal levels of effectiveness.
For example, the impulse to speak is normal and healthy. But if I routinely talk too much, or too often, or too loudly, that’s a character defect—an over-expression of that impulse. And if I don’t speak up when I witness abuse or evil, that’s a shortcoming—an under-expression of that same normal impulse.
This viewpoint has profound implications for how we see ourselves and our recovery. We’re not—and never were—bad people who needed to become good. We’re good people who needed to get well—and who now need to stay well.
Our shortcomings and character defects are our hardwired human traits and instincts that need to be adjusted up or down, day by day, through the process of recovery. In working Step Ten, we can begin to discern which of our flaws involve the over-expression of these traits, and which ones involve their under-expression.
One example is fear. For our survival and well-being, we all need to be afraid—but only when there’s something worth fearing. If we’re afraid when there’s nothing to be afraid of, that is surely a character defect. And if we feel no fear in the face of genuine physical danger, that is clearly a shortcoming.
Here’s another example: when we first began working the Steps, some of us had too little self-esteem—an under-expression of a healthy, humble sense of self. Some of us had too much self-esteem—an over-expression of that same basic trait. Some of us suffered from both flaws.
As we work Step Ten, part of our responsibility is to be as alert as we can to any overdevelopment or underdevelopment. Then we do what we can to bring that character trait back into balance. We do this by working Steps Six and Seven—and, if appropriate, the five-Step sequence of Five through Nine—as soon as possible after sensing that imbalance. We recognize and name each flaw, and then ask our Higher Power to remove it from us.
If we do at least one thing each day to achieve better balances, then we are on the path of a balanced life. And when we discover that we can’t restore balance on our own, we ask our Higher Power to restore it for us by removing the shortcoming or character defect that unbalanced us.
When we first worked Step Four, making our first searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves, we did so carefully, deliberately, and methodically. In Step Ten this process becomes more fluid and spontaneous. We have developed the discernment for spotting and identifying our character flaws. We’ve put in place an internal sensor that lights up when a shortcoming or character defect has appeared. We then use the information from this sensor to take personal inventory as soon as possible.
The Big Book summarizes this process on page 84, suggesting that we “continue to watch for selfishness, dishonesty, resentment, and fear.” This is the Step Ten version of Step Four.
It’s important to draw a distinction between a flaw and the emotion associated with that flaw. In the above passage, selfishness and dishonesty are clearly flaws. (Selfishness is a character defect: an overdeveloped sense of self-interest. Dishonesty, too, is a shortcoming: an underdeveloped sense of truthfulness.) But resentment and fear aren’t flaws; they’re the primary emotions typically associated with selfishness and dishonesty.
This is a crucial insight, because the emotion we feel often points to the shortcoming or character defect that gives rise to it. So when our internal sensor picks up resentment and fear, those feelings guide us to look for the selfishness and dishonesty behind them.
The opposite is true as well. When our internal sensor tells us that selfishness or dishonesty has shown up, we learn to look for resentment and fear, knowing there’s a good chance we’ll find them.
One last thought on this subject: Every human being shares the same foundational character defect: an overreliance on self. This is the deeper truth of Step Three, which requires us—not once, but time and time again—to turn our will and our life over to the care of the God of our understanding.
In working Step Ten, we learn from experience that overreliance on self will manifest over and over, in a nearly infinite variety of forms, guises, and situations. And when we see that happening, we also learn to address it by working Steps Six and Seven as soon as we can.
Sustainable and Unsustainable Emotions
As part of working Step Ten, we learn to pay attention to our emotions as they arise in each new moment.
When used properly, our emotions help us stay alive and healthy. Fear keeps us safe. Guilt prevents us from repeating a harmful action. Awe keeps us humble and grateful. In a balanced life, our emotions serve as valuable and faithful indicators of how we’re living and how we’re using our free will. They often also point to what we’re planning to do next—and, sometimes, to what we need to do instead.
Before we began working the Steps, we viewed our emotions as a posse of friends and a group of enemies. Our life consisted mostly of wanting to experience pleasant emotions and avoid unpleasant ones.
Now, however, we realize that this was a hallmark of our lack of emotional sobriety. We also understand that simply trying to feel good is a road that leads to relapse. In working Step Ten, we let go of the distinction of pleasant and unpleasant, and instead we focus on whether an emotion points toward a sustainable or unsustainable recovery and life.
The emotions that point us toward a sustainable life are themselves sustainable. No matter how much of them we experience, they continue to support our lives. Sustainable emotions include peace of mind, connectedness, love, compassion, joy, serenity, and peace.
The emotions that lead us toward an unsustainable life are themselves inherently unsustainable. The more they grow, the more they can get in the way. The most common unsustainable emotions are the unpleasant ones: shame, guilt, remorse, resentment, anger, rage, irritability, and so on. Quite a few are forms of fear, such as anxiety, unease, panic, and terror. When we feel these emotions briefly, we pay attention to them, identify their source and whether they’re cues to some action we need to take to regain balance in our lives, and then we let them go. Treated this way, they’re not a problem. However, if we cling to them and keep feeding them, eventually they will harm us—and, often, allow us to harm others.
But there’s another group of emotions that are equally unsustainable—yet they feel pleasant, at least at first. These include arrogance, overconfidence, excessive pride, superiority, self-righteousness, and hubris. Others include the relief we feel when we avoid discovery or punishment for acting badly and the pleasure we take in someone else’s pain or failure. (The German language actually has a word for this: Schadenfreude.)
We work Step Ten with the unshakable knowledge (faith) that we can’t live a sustainable life with a primary focus on self. Knowing this, we carefully observe our own emotions on an ongoing basis. We nurture those that, in turn, will nurture a sustainable life and recovery. We also notice those that will not; we take the appropriate actions if needed and then let them go. All the while, we keep in mind that the more we sustain our recovery, the more it sustains us.
Overreliance on Self: Two Common Manifestations
In long-term sobriety, some clear differences become visible regarding the expression of the spiritual malady all humans are vulnerable to. Understanding these differences can help us be more self-aware, understanding, and empathetic as we work Step Ten.
The observations I’m about to offer are generalities. They are based on decades of working with many thousands of people in recovery. They’re usually true, but not always. There are certainly exceptions, and you might even be one of them.
These distinctions apply across cultures, countries, religions, and races. But they appear in many variations, based on individuals’ unique backgrounds. Some of the differences I’ll describe in these traits are the result of nature. Some are the result of nurture—how people are raised. Some are the result of cultural forces. Many have a combination of causes.
The two distinct tendencies I’ve observed in people are that some are more likely to express character defects as selfishness and self-centeredness, while others are more likely to express character defects through self-sacrifice.
In presenting the wisdom of Step Three and what blocks us from having a spiritual experience, the Big Book describes two sets of character traits on page 61. Here is the first:
This actor may be quite virtuous, kind, considerate, modest, generous, patient, even self-sacrificing.
When we express these positive traits in the right balance—along with others such as assertiveness and self-care—then those traits are very healthy. But when they are over-expressed, they become character defects. Here is the second set of traits described in that same paragraph:
On the other hand, he may be mean, egotistical, selfish, nasty, and dishonest.
On page 62, the Big Book provides a third list of tendencies:
Driven by a hundred forms of fear, self-delusion, self-seeking, and self-pity, we step on the toes of our fellows and they retaliate. . . . The alcoholic is an extreme example of self-will run riot, though he usually doesn’t think so.
Whenever I read these passages aloud in Twelve Step seminars and workshops, my observation is that, in general, more women relate to the self-sacrificing traits and more men squirm at the self-centered traits. Clearly, the Big Book lists many, many more examples of the self-seeking variety than the selfless variety. And I find it noteworthy that there was a significant gender imbalance in the “more than one hundred men and women who have recovered from a seemingly hopeless state of mind and body” (Big Book, page xiii). According to some historians, there were ninety-seven men and four women. This helps me understand the source of the lingering male-gender bias throughout the first 164 pages of the Big Book, before the first-person stories begin.
It’s a matter of balance. Any healthy human trait, when over-expressed, becomes a detriment. One person’s generosity, when pushed too far, becomes exhausting self-sacrifice. Another person’s self-care, when pushed to indulgence, becomes self-centeredness. Either way, a healthy trait becomes a character defect.
Regardless of our motives or methods, when we sacrifice too much of ourselves, nobody is likely to say, “Please stop. You’re being too virtuous.” They’re much more likely to tell us, “This is great—keep it up.” Or sometimes, “Do it even more.” Whereas most folks encourage those who are self-centered in their efforts to change.
An important part of working Step Ten is observing ourselves for any of these imbalances of self-sacrifice. It’s easy to delude ourselves—and others—that what we’re doing is compassionate, spiritual, kind, and the trait of a balanced person. But it’s possible—and, for some of us in recovery, quite easy—to over-express that aspect of ourselves while ignoring other equally important parts of our personalities.
As we work Step Ten, we learn again and again that any imbalance of character traits can create problems. A life run on self-sacrifice is just as blocked as a life run on self-centeredness. Both imbalances are forms of spiritual illness that prevent a spiritual solution. Both are forms of improper use of our free will. And a life out of balance is always unsustainable and unmanageable.
And remember, “But as with most people, we are a combination of these traits” (Big Book, page 61).
Les learns the hard way: Too much self-sacrifice
I’ve been recovering and sober for twenty-seven years now, and I’ve been a licensed addiction specialist for over a decade.
At a certain point in my sobriety, I felt that I wanted to make a career out of Step Twelve: “. . . we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.” Partly I wanted to make a positive difference in the world. Partly, too, I wanted to be in an environment that is based in Twelve Step recovery. So I went through an addiction counselor training program and earned an MA in psychology. Soon afterward I got hired by the county for its detox and outpatient program.
I quickly learned that the job is not actually Twelve Step work. It’s case management. The people I work with are usually in bad or very bad shape. Usually they’re at the lowest point in their lives. Each week I might experience a moment or two of Twelve Step–style fellowship—that feeling of common peril and a common solution—but that’s about it. Mostly it’s difficult work with tough cases and a big caseload. Like most county programs, we’re understaffed and underfunded.
That’s the downside. The upside is that I love the work. I love the challenge; I believe I’m good at it; and I’m constantly learning a lot.
The other plus is that, from the beginning, my superiors have recognized and rewarded my commitment and the quality of my work. I’ve gotten a lot of praise, several raises, and a service award. In all, it’s been very gratifying.
But in some ways, too gratifying—so gratifying that, a couple of years ago, I lost my balance and my emotional sobriety.
Officially, my job is forty hours a week, but I don’t think I’ve ever spent fewer than fifty. Doing this job well requires that kind of time. I understood this from the beginning, and for years my wife and I have planned our lives around a fifty-hour-a-week commitment.
We were able to keep things in balance until about two and a half years ago. Then two things happened at once. For reasons I still don’t understand, many of my cases became especially difficult and time-consuming. Maybe it was just the luck of the draw. Maybe it was because I had a good reputation, so I was given the toughest cases. Regardless, suddenly fifty hours a week wouldn’t cut it—not if I wanted to continue to meet my own standards. I figured that things would slow down again eventually, so I bit the bullet and spent more and more of my time and energy at work. Of course, the more hours I worked, the more praise I got from my boss.
But not from my wife. She was upset with me. We’d agreed to host an exchange student from Austria for a year, and she arrived at just about the time things got crazy at work. Just when I was supposed to be spending more time at home, I was doing exactly the opposite.
Looking back, I can see that my life was getting more and more unbalanced—and that I had become addicted to my job. I kept thinking, Things will settle down any day now. Only they didn’t. They remained challenging and time-consuming—for three months, then five, then eight.
During the fifth month, I stopped going to AA meetings regularly. The time pressure at work was enormous and relentless, and I told myself, I’m in the midst of this stuff all day. It’s almost redundant to go to meetings. I started substituting my career work for my personal recovery work.
Any addiction professional or longtime Twelve Stepper would immediately see the folly in this attitude. And I would have seen the folly in it, had it been anyone else. But I was blinded by my own self-sacrifice and the sense of accomplishment it gave me.
So here I was, juggling too many things and not working on my own recovery.
Then one day I met for the first time with a new client. His name was Bernie F. and he was an Orthodox Jew. He had a long beard and wore a skullcap, a white shirt, and black trousers and jacket. He was a pleasant guy, at least when he was sober and in my office, but he’d wrestled with alcoholism for decades. This was his third time going through detox.
So he and I were talking about scheduling, and I gave him some dates for treatment and aftercare appointments. He started shaking his head. He said, “That won’t work. I need to be in synagogue for the High Holy Days.”
I just looked at him and said, way too loudly, “You need to be in rehab.” And then—I don’t know what made me say this, because it was so totally inappropriate—“God will understand.”
Even as the words came out of my mouth, I knew what a big mistake I was making. But it was too late. In that moment, I suddenly realized how out of balance my life had become. I actually remember thinking, Look who’s turned into Mr. Lack of Resiliency and Tolerance.
I also knew it was time to do a Step Ten, right then and there. So I said to Bernie, “Wow. Was that ever not the right thing to say. I’m so sorry. Give me a moment, please.”
I put my hands on my desk, closed my eyes, and took a few deep breaths. Then I opened my eyes and said, “What I said to you a moment ago was probably painful and insulting. I shouldn’t have said it. It’s beneath the standards of respect and professionalism that the county sets—and the ones I set for myself. My own life has been difficult recently, and I obviously blew a gasket. But my own difficulties are no reason to treat you disrespectfully.”
Bernie actually gave me a small smile. He nodded and said, “Apology accepted. So now, maybe, you can find me some different dates?”
The rest of the meeting went fine. We found dates that would work for him and that fit county guidelines.
But as soon as Bernie left my office, I said a silent prayer. God, please don’t let me do something like this again. Please restore balance to my life. Please remove the character defect of self-will that masquerades as self-sacrifice.
Projects and Project Managers
If you’re in a committed relationship, you may notice another distinction as you work Step Ten.
In long-term partnerships, usually one partner’s needs primarily get taken care of. I call this person the project. The other partner, who primarily takes care of the project’s needs, can be called the project manager.
Projects like being taken care of. Project managers like taking care of them.
This arrangement can be perfectly healthy, since we all go about life getting our needs met through some dominance and some dependence. In fact, it often creates a good footprint for a family. In a generally healthy couple, it generates a balanced partnership out of two people’s natural differences.
In a less healthy couple, however, the person with the overdeveloped sense of dependence becomes the 24/7 project, while the partner with the overdeveloped sense of dominance becomes the 24/7 project manager. The classic example is the addict and the codependent.
In practice, things are often more nuanced. For instance, one member of a couple might be the financial project manager in the relationship, while the other is the emotional project manager. One partner might manage most of the couple’s relationships with neighbors, while the other manages most relationships with extended family. The roles of project and project manager can also shift over time, for example, in an emergency when one partner has a long-term illness, or as couples age.
In couples—especially those with kids—the project manager is the primary caregiver. In part this is because most primary caregivers are hardwired to protect their kids and their families. And, in most couples, the primary caregiver also serves as the family’s project manager in another way, providing much of the emotional security.
In American culture, the role of primary caregiver is often represented stereotypically by a female. Listen to a dozen random country western songs sung by males. Many of them will involve a man struggling to feel emotionally safe and secure through his dependence on a woman.
As we work Step Ten and recovery becomes more and more of a way of life for us, these differences become increasingly visible. Project/project manager relationships—whether balanced or imbalanced—aren’t just a heterosexual relationship phenomenon, of course. These roles tend to evolve in all committed couples, whether they’re straight, gay, or otherwise. All of us are variations on the same theme: human being.
Latisha: I was Kari’s “project”
I’m twenty-seven now, and I started working the Steps when I was twenty-five. I go to Narcotics Anonymous groups twice a week. I had a problem with coke that started when I was in college. I’ve been clean for over a year and a half, and I have no interest in going back to using or my old life.
I met Kari soon after I stopped using. We’ve been living together for nine months. We’re planning to get married next year, and we’d like to adopt at least one child. Until recently, I’d have to say that my life was the best it’s ever been.
Over the past few months, though, things have changed between Kari and me. She’s always been 100 percent supportive of my recovery. But recently, she’s been more like 140 percent supportive, if that makes any sense.
It used to be, when I had a Twelve Step meeting in the evening, she’d kiss me goodbye and say, “Drive safely,” and I’d go to my meeting, and we’d have dinner together afterward. That was great. Now it’s still all of that—but if my meeting is at seven, she’ll say at six thirty, “You need to leave for your group in ten minutes.” And I’m like, “Yeah, I know. It’s the same Thursday night meeting I’ve been going to for the last year.”
It would be one thing if I procrastinated, or missed meetings, or made excuses not to go, or was chronically late. But none of those things is true about me. I’m not saying I’m perfect. I have my share of character defects. But routinely being late isn’t one of them. Neither is missing meetings.
Things kind of came to a head three weeks ago. I was getting ready to leave for my meeting. As I’m putting on my shoes, Kari shouts to me from the other room, “Hon, remember, there’s a detour on Highway 7. You should probably leave for your group now.”
So I shout back, “I’m on it.” But I’m starting to feel pissed. I mean, I know how to tell time. And she knows that I know about the detour because we’d had to take it just that morning.
I grab my coat and my purse and my keys. As I go to kiss her goodbye, she hands me a notebook and a pen and says, “You can use these to take notes. My brother takes pen and paper to his AA meetings, and he says they’re really helpful.”
That’s when something shifts inside me. I turn to her and say, “Girl, what’s up with you? I ain’t no eight-year-old.”
She looks at me like I called her a whore, and she says, “Don’t you want to stay clean?”
At that point I lose my mind. I shout, “Of course I want to stay clean. But I don’t need no 24/7 recovery monitor. So just back off, okay?”
Now Kari looks like she’s been punched in the gut. In a tiny little voice she says, “Tish, have you started using again?”
I throw my purse down. Honestly, I’m feeling ready to throw that gut punch. And then a door inside me opens and the words just go torpedo-ing out. “No, I haven’t started using again. And I don’t need you to decide for me what I take to meetings or whether I write shit down or not. You can take your goddamn notebook and fold it five ways and stick it.”
Soon we’re both crying and holding each other and apologizing, and all the while a voice in my head is going, What the hell?
And the really crazy part is, because of it I was late to my meeting.
We both simmered down after that, and we talked again later that night. Kari’s thing was basically, “I do so much for you and you don’t appreciate it.” My thing was basically, “I don’t appreciate it when it’s over the top like that. Stop trying to nag me healthy. I don’t want you to be my helicopter mom.”
Eventually she told me she was feeling scared because one of her friends, who was in the same AA group as her brother, had relapsed and gone on a serious drinking binge. Hearing that helped me. Then I told her, “Kar, thank you for caring so much for me. But I would appreciate it a lot if you would remind me when I’m five minutes late, not before I’m five minutes late.” She said okay. Things were kind of shaky for the next week. Then, at the following meeting, which was an open meeting, the focus was on Step Ten. A guy told the story of him and his wife, and it was exactly like Kari and me. She was loving and supportive at first—and then, after a while, too supportive. And he had an explosion a lot like mine. Then he said that over time he developed some patience and tolerance around what he felt was her nagging. Instead of getting upset, he’d just say, “Honey, thanks for your support.” And when he started to get pissed off, instead of yelling at her, he’d just say softly, “Baby, are you really sure this is necessary?” And, eventually, most of the time she’d go, “Um, maybe not.”
So I decided to try it myself. A few days ago, Kari started doing her recovery monitor thing, and I smiled and said, “Kar, are you sure that I needed that reminder?”
I swear, she just stopped dead in her tracks and looked like she’d seen a ghost. For a couple of seconds she just stood there, silent. Then she said to me, “Tish, do you think I should start going to CoDA meetings?” That’s Co-dependents Anonymous.
So Kari had a wake-up call. I also think she finally understands that I’m almost never late for things.