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I openly admit that I was bitter at first—and rightly so, given how things unfolded.

But the unpleasant feelings didn’t last beyond the sunrise.

Sometime around the holidays, I realized that I would be spending them by myself again.

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He bent his knees, bolted into the air, and planted his feet on a riser nearly four feet off the floor. The only bolting I do these days are the locks on my loft door and I save the planting for my makeshift indoor herb garden. and, if I make good time, I can file my column, attend the daily editorial meeting, and scramble uptown to a radio studio for an hour-long interview.

It would be my second of the day, thanks to a 5 o’clock cable news show, and I’ve been out of bed since 3 a.m.

Every once in a while, I can still catch myself thinking about the thirtysomething brother who temporarily swept me off my feet a little over a year ago. Right Now was decidedly less bookish than what I had been accustomed to—preferring Timberland boots, sagging pants, and 2 a.m. For a few enjoyable weeks, I suppose I was caught up in the way he kept me steady and grounded.

After a little coaxing, I got a tattoo on our first date.

I have figured out how to enjoy going to the movies and traveling alone, but I have yet to crack the code on Christmas morning. I am a writer, so I spend most of my time in a dimly-lit coffee house working on my next great adventure.

Since I don’t go to nightclubs—out of fear of bumping into my kids or their friends—and derive most of my excitement from trips to Chelsea Market, meeting new people hasn’t been easy.

The remote control is exactly where I left it and I decide when it’s time to empty the trash.“Honey, if I meet a great guy, it’ll be because he ran up on me in the vegetable aisle,” I told a girlfriend, over a half-empty bottle of champagne.

If I am being honest, dating has fallen somewhere behind getting adjusted to living in Brooklyn, a never-ending search for the perfect pair of jeans, and Face Timing with my granddaughter.

Frankly, I’ve been more concerned with the broken icemaker in the 9th floor snack room than the heat of a kiss. Tweeting under the hashtag #Waking Up In Brooklyn, I often chronicle my travels (or travails, as they were) and most often I am alone.

This ain’t exactly an episode of Sex in the City and, while I adore a pair of Christian Louboutin stilettoes, neither Mr. A bookstore, a new restaurant, a fresh blanket of snow…

It’s been several (better than decent) years since I walked out of an eight-year relationship that lasted seven years, 11 months, and 29 days longer than it should have.