it would take an acrobat

In which our heroine cuts loose a little. Seriously, made-my-mama-proud kind of cut loose.

Stayed out until five am on Friday night, tagging along with a posse of lifelong friends who kept me up with margaritas and music and impromptu debates about the Universe. Dawn was just starting to seep under the door frames of my neighborhood when my overpriced car from Brooklyn finally delivered me home.

Saturday I slept til one, made myself an epic egg salad sandwich with fresh dill and cornichons and watched The West Wing on my couch until it was time to stroll through the park on my way to a movie with . . . (and I'm almost ashamed to admit this) the G.I.Q. Now, before you all start ranting and raving and pushing the panic button, I'll say this: it was not a date. I repeat: not a date. Also, I have no intention of reopening that can of worms. I'm not stupid.

Truth is, he's lovely. And erudite. And I've never met anyone like him for talking literature. On some screwy level, we get each other. (This is the man who read me E.B. White essays in bed.) So I caved. We saw an old movie, had a slice at Joe's, then he walked me to my train and we parted ways. Drama free zone.

As a gesture of our germinating friendship, I gave back the Bukowski. The beautiful Black Sparrow Mockingbird Wish Me Luck. Now, here's the kicker: In the thick of the trauma, the stomach sickening aftermath of "us" (if such a thing there ever was), I wrote him a letter—a letter I never intended to send, one of those exercises in woman-scorned catharsis. Not thinking, I stashed that letter in the aforementioned book to properly isolate all mementos of him in one pernicious corner of my bedroom. It was only when he began flipping through the pages on the street corner that I realized my flub. There it was, compactly folded and tucked neatly into the spine.

"Is this for me?"

Ah well. Perhaps subconsciously (or consciously) I've come to a place . . . and in that place I no longer care if people know how I feel about them. In lurid and humiliating detail. In florid, unapologetic prose. If he's got any redeeming quality, he'll do the old smile and file and we can move on as bigger people and better adults.

Let's just put it this way: I've never met anyone who would offer to leave me voice messages full of Melville—even after an ugly break up. Until I determine he is not worth having around, I am strong enough to quell the revving engines in my underpants and be his friend. Lord knows he probably needs one.

That said, I did just hand the man a letter that included a line that went a little like this: "You took a woman made frigid by Pavlov and turned her on . . . awakened appetites in me that will long prowl the alleys we leave behind us, hot on your scent as it sours and fades." I am, therefore, a little worried. My life did, I'll admit, flash before my eyes on that corner of Broadway and Prince, but I pulled myself together, we parted cordially, and that was that.

I got through a Sunday as busy as a conveyor belt without thinking twice. A great stretch of rehearsal bookended by lovely brunch and lovely dinner with people worth caring about. Leap and live, they say. And keep on living.

Rather unwisely (yet not altogether unpredictably), I ended up dancing. I had one of those epic whirlwind nights of tango that, though they may deprive you of a REM cycle or two, give you wings.