One of the more interesting parts of dating in my thirties has been the ex-files. At this stage in life, it's inevitable that my date and I both have stories of dates (and partners) past. These stories seep out over time, and you know I'm a sucker for the story about anyone's life. I like to listen to them. After hearing about "the one who got away" and "the one who never left" and "the one who called six times in a row at two in the morning crying," I wondered about my story. What does my "ex-file" say about me? I can't even answer that question because it's entirely framed in the perspective of the other person. Like everyone else, I like to think that my exes remember me as a beautiful, generous, and fun woman. Yet, I know there's a possibility that they frame me in the light of my flaws. Sometimes I wish I could be in the room listening to the new woman as she hears the story of "this woman I dated". None of

The wee hours of the morning are my favorite time of day. The world is still and filled with a subtle sense of promise just before the new day unfolds. I've savored this precious time across the country and never seem to get enough of it. But I like this time on my own terms. This morning I was wide awake at 4:00. I looked at the clock, closed my eyes, and tried to drift back into what slumber I could still get in the next hour. No such luck! Instead, I crawled out of bed and went out to my porch to enjoy what I could. This wouldn't be such a big deal to me, but I haven't slept in 3 days. I've been waking every hour, and nothing is worse than opening your eyes just to see 1:00...2:13...3:07...4:42. I'm not a big fan of sleep, but I do like to get at least 4 or 5 straight hours of shut-eye. I'm coasting through my day on energy fumes! Anyway, if I've learned anything in my time on this earth, I know to listen to my body. Something's up in my world. I don&

Since the writer in me has re-emerged, I thought it only fitting to get off my butt and do something with it. So I joined a local writers group that meets on Tuesdays. I RSVPed for tonight's meeting and cranked out an essay about saying good-bye. With my wares in hand, I drove to the meeting. And drove. And drove. And drove. Why do buildings not put their address number on the outside? Will I ever learn to get directions BEFORE I leave the house? I never found the coffeeshop. I suppose tonight wasn't supposed to be my night. It's a good essay. Really good. I read it to a friend tonight over the phone. She loved the essay, but was surprised to hear that I was so willing to share such a personal story with strangers. I guess she hasn't read my blog. I can't imagine NOT sharing personal informaton with strangers. Since I didn't get to do it in the glory of a coffeeshop, I'll share a little bit here with my friends in cyberland. So grab a cup of your favorite ho