I was 21 years old and working as managing editor of a weekly newspaper. I had just gotten out of a three-year relationship and I wasn’t dating anyone. As I worked alone at my office on a Sunday afternoon, a young woman dropped by to see me.
She was on her way back to her college after a weekend visit home. We had had a flirtatious relationship but it hadn’t been anything serious. Now that I wasn’t dating anyone, though, she had come to see whether I’d be interested in turning our flirtation into something serious.
I felt conflicted. I was attracted to her, but I knew I wasn’t going to date her. Maybe I wasn’t really completely over the relationship that had just ended, I told her. She understood. I kissed her as she left and we remained friends.
We both moved on to other relationships and I didn’t think any more about the conversation. I assumed she hadn’t thought about it for years, either. About a month ago, I realized that I lied to her that day — but only because I had lied to myself.
I decided it was time to call her — after all these years — and explain what had really happened.

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Why did we slowly let them strip our neighborhoods of most trees?
When strangers tell us things we want to hear, we want to believe
How could we take responsibility but avoid self-destructive shame?
Door in my dream keeps trying to take me to the life I’ve needed
For rest of my life, I’ll constantly re-interpret mother I didn’t know
No matter how admired you are, your work won’t make you special
Major parties compete to see who can tell the biggest lie about jobs