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There have been times that I liked to feel sorry for myself. I'd be experiencing such deep loneliness that I'd cry, but it wouldn't last long. I'd sob a little bit and my chest would heave a few times and it would be over, just like that. Hardly any tears. It lifted the burden somehow. I would be stronger then and I could face the world for awhile longer.

I lost the man in my life at 28 to bone cancer, and that's all I want to elaborate on that subject.

Anne-Sophie, my best buddy, is a runner, and I am more of a cyclist outside the gym. She has not-so-recently divorced and I have hoped for awhile that she was only temporarily going through a phase of being against the entire male gender in any form. We rely on each other heavily for company and companionship and spend time together nearly every day for one reason or another. Both of us have found that exercise and then group whining over a glass or two of wine are good releases when it feels appropriate.

Actually, we really don't have anything to complain about. Considering the country we reside in and the upscale neighborhood we enjoy, our plates are full with bounty and every material need is satisfied. Yet we have those longings and yearnings for what is missing to make us whole again.

...

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