Does this make me an adult?

Last weekend I did some serious housecleaning--mopping floors, dusting, endless loads of laundry, the whole bit. When I was just about ready to collapse, I decided to tackle the giant pile of mail and other assorted papers that had piled up on our desk. About three quarters of the way down the pile I unearthed the recipe card on which I'd written the phone number and email address of the long-lost friend I'd encountered at Williams Sonoma, pre-London.

At the time, I gave her my phone number and then wished I had left it at that and put the burden of future contact all on her. For the first week or two, I walked on eggshells, wondering if I'd hear from her, trying to decide whether to send an innocuous email. Then we were getting ready for our trip and I put it aside to focus on more interesting (and more British) things.

Maybe the travel gave me a sense of perspective I'd been lacking. When I fished the card out of the pile last weekend, the whole incident no longer seemed so monumental. I had pictured us getting together for an emotionally fraught (on my part) meeting where we tiptoed around the events of the last five years. Now, frankly, I don't have the energy. Or the interest. Although it didn't seem like it at the time, I think I got the closure I was looking for.

Of course, I didn't throw the card away. But I'm content to let it be reburied in the pile of papers. It seems like a step in the right direction, at least.