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.

I’m paralyzed by fear my choices won’t match needs of future wife
We like to think we’re complex, but personality gurus pegged me
Barbarians with evil ideas taking our entire culture off deadly cliff
Folks all around are waiting for someone to say, ‘Hello in there’
My endorsement goes to the man who can make coercive state work
Film’s tortured protagonist feels uncomfortably familiar to me
Our voluntary decisions can lead to a new beginning for America
I’d be thrilled if Ron Paul were elected, but I won’t vote for him