Read All Over the Map for Free Online

fall back on, to saddle her horse and dust her off when she got home. My parents have been married for about fifty years, and though they’ve had some bumps along the way, they are best friends, still make each other laugh, and are impossible to imagine apart.
    I, on the other hand, have no man in my life to say, “Go ahead, honey, be independent, it’s adorable.”
    I N THE EARLY morning, the sandstone glowing pink from the brand-new sun, I pull out my notebook. Normally, I love to sit and write, especially in front of a stunning landscape. But since Dennis told me I
had
to write and to make it meaningful, I can’t put down a word. That undoubtedly says something about me that would be worth writing about in itself, but I just can’t. It’s pretty here in this canyon, but it isn’t the momentous experience it was for my mother, and my stomach is grumbling.
    So I sit in my spot and come up with nothing. Bored, I finally write a list, as far as I can remember, of all the men I’ve slept with. I put a star by the one-night stands, of which there are disconcertingly many, but at least not in the last few years. That has to be personal growth. There was a decade in there where there were only three men, my period of long-term serial monogamous relationships, two with wonderful guys I’m still friendly with—my grand-ex and my great-grand-ex, as I call them—the third being my ex-husband, with whom I am not. After my divorce, I see, the list goes haywire again.
    Along with being hungry, this list isn’t doing anything for my mood on this otherwise rosy morning. Why have I been so spectacularly unsuccessful with men, in the long term, especially since my marriage ended? Apart from my sweet and scrumptious rendezvous with the Professor, things have been disappointing and unsubstantial in the romance category. I can’t remember when someone unrelated by blood told me he loved me, much less the last time I dug my fingernails into the side of the mattress, tossed my hair back, and let loose a cry underneath a happy, energetic, sweaty man. Okay, I’m forty, but that’s not so old, and though I could stand to lose a few pounds, one good thing about being forty is that you finally realize that fat is a lot more in your head than in the minds of most men. I can’t fathom what the problem is all about. God knows I have tried to find a relationship, going on dates, writing hopefully witty online profiles, suffering through coffee with men who recite a litany of achievements or bad past relationships, my hopes continually raised and dashed, attracting dull or disastrous men and even one dangerous creep, being appraised and found wanting, suspecting I’m too independent,neurotic, oversensitive, smart, talkative, reserved, tough, edgy, whatever. Who knows. There is no explanation, no reasonable rationale for the vast chasm between my friends, who find me lovable, funny, generous, and warm—if occasionally difficult—and men who guzzle down one Sauvignon Blanc and head for the hills. At a certain point all you can do is laugh.
    Dennis twitters like a bird to collect us for breakfast, and we gather back on a big smooth rock in a circle. I’m surprised at how glad I am to see these people and give everyone a big hug. Over heaping bowls of granola and powdered milk, everyone reads what he or she has written. I’m quite moved at how Tina describes losing her friend, saying this challenge of being in the wilderness is making her feel like herself again. The Realtor does a sensitive postmortem on her last relationship. Gretchen is delighted with herself for making it through the solo, and she seems visibly stronger. Even the CEO of the institutional food company is sweet and self-revealing. I’m the last one to speak, and everyone looks at me expectantly, but I don’t want to share what I’ve written. No way.
    “But you’re a
writer,”
the venture capitalist insists. I shake my head no, embarrassed. Dennis insists that