I used to be a small-town newspaper reporter.

I owned a car and rented an apartment and spent my days ambling from village to village, covering tractor festivals and 100th birthdays and town council meetings.

I used to buy my eggs from the farmer down the road.

I used to take dance classes with menopausal women at the YMCA.

I used to live with a man I was in love with for six years.

I used to be a little lonely and unsure of myself.

I used to write a blog.

Then, as it does, life started to pull the rug out from under me. Never a fan of falling, I opted to take a flying leap. And kept right on leaping.

Now I’m a city-dweller. I take public transit and rent a more expensive apartment and spend my days working in a shiny glass rectangle.

Now I buy sushi from the place around the corner. Or the one up the street. Or the one down the street.

Now I do hot yoga with trendy 20-somethings and go dancing with my girlfriends.

Now I go on first dates.

I’m lonely and unsure of myself in new ways.


Now I laugh more.

And now I write a blog.