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.
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