I cried yesterday for the first time in many months.  It felt great when I stopped, so I did it again in the evening.  It felt like I squeezed my brain clean like a sponge - now I am refreshed to soak up new emotions and am being much more selective about which feelings get to stay.  Love stays, longing gets a one hour limit, lust is pretty much carte blanche, but there is another I evicted which I am having trouble naming.

I once dated a man who said he hadn't cried since he was 19.  He said that at age 36.  That is 17 years with out a good ol' ringing out of the emotional brain sponge.  At the time, I shrugged it off as part of his tough-guy act.  But as the days of our relationship carried on, I realized he was telling the truth.  Anytime I became emotionally down and out, he responded militantly.  I still recall the face of defiance he would make at me - as though it was completely irrational for me to feel sadness, grief, loss, or mourning.  "Nope, no way, not here, not ever."  Looking back now, he was an internal mess.  Off-kilter in every way: incapable of making decisions, reneging any forward motion, speaking untruths, making unfair and unfounded judgements at every turn.

I cried for him in October.  I cried again in December.  And now again I cry in March.  Each time for men.

This time I cry because I am happy, absolutely brimming over with joy and contentment.  I am loved and I know it.  I have found an amazing man and he feels the same about me exactly.  Our relationship is full of longing and adventure.  He is 2000 miles away in Mexico but we have surpassed the usual roadblocks by the use of technology.  Technology is our friend.  A toast to technology at our wedding!  Oh, well, I suppose I should see him in person again before I start writing my toast speech.  I digress...I cried because I felt like the nightmares of my previous relationships are dying.  Bad memories, emotional scars, times I hated my choices but felt trapped in them, they all are fading. I cried at their funeral.  And then cried at the birth of a new beginning.  Then I cried for fear I was making it all up: that I would go down there and it would just be a week of regular dates with a regular guy who happens to speak Spanish.  That it would not be my dream come true: a latin lover, a man with tattoos and a motorcycle, a man with an advanced degree, a man who plays music, a man who owns a house and new car, a man who thinks I am the greatest gal in the world.

I cried just a little bit more after that because I realized it is true; my dreams are coming true.

I am completing a Master's degree in Anthropology - my specialty is West Mexican archaeology and museums.  Edy lives in West Mexico where he is finishing his law degree.  My work is in in Guadalajara; he is in Hermosillo where he owns property and a new VW Jetta .  He's already applied to transfer to Guadalajara because it is a better school - he was, of course, accepted.  Edy used to play bass in a punk rock band.  I played in gypsy punk band.  I have studied Spanish since Middle School and after traveling to Spain, I realized my soul speaks Spanish.  Edy lived in France but wants to go back to live in Spain.  His arms are covered in tasteful tattoos: peacocks, sparrows, stars, cards, and pin-up girls (I love pin-ups).  We both own Specialized mountain bikes and love riding bikes at night.  He hates Mariachi music; who doesn't?  He wants to name his children after his mother, Victoria, who is named after her father, Victor.  Nichole means "victory of the people." He has never been married and doesn't have children, student loans, high blood pressure, bad cholesterol, or herpes.  What is he, the last decent man on Earth?  And he's gorgeous?  With an accent?  Boo-hoo-hoo I am SO LUCKY.

So lucky, so scared, so happy, so nervous, so so so...alive. BeHereNow, NowBeHere.  Don't screw this up, Nichole.