2002-07-01 - 11:19 p.m.

I believe that relationships that are begun when you're older, over 30 or so, are better in most ways. You've both made some mistakes and (hopefully) learned from them. You've had a heartbreak or two, and some triumphs, maybe, and you've learned a lot. Just, you know, more life, more life experiences.

I know that I am far more grounded now, far more stable and at peace with myself. I've learned, through trial and error, what I NEED. As opposed to what I want. We've both had relationships, we've both got pasts, (granted, mine is far, far worse than his) And for the most part, I think that's a good thing. For me, anyway. I'm more emotionally mature, I've learned to not sweat the small stuff (ok, well, I'm trying, ok? Cut me a little slack) and I've burned my fingers enough times to know what NOT to touch. My relationship is by far the healthiest and happiest I can ever remember. Because of all those mistakes, all those bumps on the road. You try to make better choices, you know? Think things through. Still, no guarantee, but I feel like the odds are much better.

And then, in this sorting and combining of things, we bump into our pasts. The puppy phots of the Freakshow, with the ex's arm around her, wearing a wedding ring. A deck of cards from a golf resort, or a picture of him and his ex in Paris. You know that last one is the one that matters, right? Because the others, you know, they're ME. So that's different. They don't bother me at all, although I'm sure it's uncomfortable for him. The whole marriage thing. And we look at each other, a cargo plane full of baggage between us.

And for a second, I wish for that innocence back. Even though I'm better now, stronger, happier, more myself. That FIRST TIME. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy, very happy. But sometimes I wish we didn't have those pasts. That we could have met when we were in college, and not have those things between us. I will never forget that first time, sitting at the breakfast table with the ex, when we first moved in together. We sat there, at our little counter-table in the big, bright kitchen and had coffee and looked at each other with big goofy smiles, sure we were the first people on the planet to be so lucky.

We had a moment, the boyfriend and I, that first morning. Sitting in the little dining area, looking down at the people and the cars and the little park, drinking coffee. And we smiled and thought about how lucky we are.

The difference is, now we know we're not the first.

And I know that this is already way too long, but on the new place update: I HATE having an elevator man. I'm not a big fan of doormen, either. It just feels so UNNECESSARY. And in this building, we have an elevator man too. They don't wear uniforms or any stereotype like that, they're just guys who work in the building, but I always feel bad for making them come up and get me all the time. I mean, I'm moving in. Every two hours I realize I need paper towels, or that I ran out of toothpaste, or left my Saran wrap at the old apartment. And I feel like I'm IMPOSING on him.

And there's a crazy cat lady on the floor, too. Her story later.

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