In lieu of working out last night, I decided something constructive had to be done. So after calling my grandma last night to wish her a very happy birthday, I cleaned out a few of the boxes that have been obscuring my view of the carpet since I moved into this apartment in June. After pulling out the tangle of random cables and telephone cord that I keep for some reason, and a stray pair of TV rabbit ears whose purpose has been lost since I decided I couldn't live without cable, I came across a bag that has been hauled around with me since well before I moved out of my parents' house 8 years, 9 apartments, and a few boyfriends ago.

By the time I moved out of my parents' house, I had had one boyfriend and had dated a one or two other men who didn't stick around very long. Into this bag went the mementos and memories from these relationships. When I got to San Francisco, I met Matthew, my first love, and we were together for several years. The only mementos I kept from this relationship were the letters we wrote to each other, both when we were in love and when we were breaking up.

So anyway, I found this bag last night and I pulled out the letters, thinking I was in for an evening of emotional masochism, especially since it's taking much more effort than I had imagined to get over my latest relationship.

Rather, I found that it was a rather therapeutic exercise. Having a little over a year of perspective on our relationship, it was nice to see that at one time, Matthew really did love me, and he loved me a lot. And it was good to see that, even through the bad times, we had a lot of respect and love for each other. And damn, when I'm in pain and I have time to think, I write really good letters.

Anyway, knowing that I had a love like that and lived through the demise of that love has made me feel better about making it through this latest ending. And the bag will be returned to its rightful place in the back of the closet, where I'll find it again next time I move.