was startled. She stared at me as if I had stepped on a hidden bomb and my body burst into hundreds of pieces. In a way, I had tapped into something dangerous: my anger. As I unleashed my fiery response to her complaint about me, instead of defending herself or fighting back, she did something unexpected: she apologized.

Tommy so loved our house on Dakin Street in Chicago's Independence Park neighborhood -- with its front porch, back deck, and his vegetable garden -- that he vowed he'd only leave, "feet first." And sadly, that's how my second husband departed the home we had shared for 12 years. I'm reminded of his declaration because now, in my latest apartment, I'm having similar feelings about permanency.

watched as she stepped on the scale. After she dropped the large white towel that our health club provides, I continued my gaze while she studied the digital numbers roll, and then settle.

 She's in her 30's; I thought to myself, for if she were any older, certain body parts would've begun to plunge. The tush was delightfully rounded, unlike my flat one - an unfortunate gift from my mother's side of the family.

Prior to their tears, I had explained that during a conversation about my life in my 30's, I interrupted that chat with this epiphany: "You know, I just realized something, my 30-year-old self would be thrilled to see how her 80-year-old self turned out." My eyes brightened; I sat upright. I felt triumphant, as if my discovery had been gold instead of a vintage clue.

Dog Park is nearly empty at this hour. Only one toy-sized, caramel-colored pup prances towards a thrown ball. When he spots a thin black hound also on its way to the target, the little one, like a marathoner nearing the tape, speeds up.