100th Best, Worst, Last, First

My one hundredth blog post is today. The blog is called First Date, Worst Date Ever, but it has morphed into something else. I now tell many types of stories, including how people started their 50 year marriages, along with the bad first-date stories of so many others who weren’t so lucky. Sometimes the worst date turned into a four decades marriage anyway.
I’ve also talked about a lot of worsts, firsts, bests or lasts in my life when I couldn’t corner anyone to tell me their worst or best date story.
Remembering things that happened forty years ago is doable. Once I started thinking about those things, it is amazing how they came back to me as visual memories. I don’t know if that is considered a photographic memory, but to see the place where these things happened is still possible after all these years.
I just looked up photographic memory, and Wikipedia says it’s a myth and no one really has it. All I know is that when I write, I see images in my head of the characters I am creating. They are a bit fuzzy but clear enough to watch them as the story unfolds onto paper.
When I sing with my chorus, I can see the page turns and sometimes the musical notes when trying to remember the words. Isn’t that how everyone memorizes things? That’s how I do it.
I am a good speller. I see the spelling in my head before I write down the word. You’d think I’d be better at Wheel of Fortune than I am.
If I lose something, I envision where I saw it last. This often works for me. Instead of thinking where it could be, I see where it could be.
I don’t always get the details of my memories right, and I have old friends pointing that out. Everyone has their own memories of an event, and they may not match. That’s why they’re called memories; they belong to you, not someone else. It is pointless to argue over someone’s version of what happened.
It’s been 100 days since I started this blog. I am running out of friends to hit up about bad first dates. I hope to post daily, but please forgive me if I miss a day here or there. I’ve told some pretty personal stories. I don’t know what else to say until some event or comment triggers another memory.
It has been freeing to write some of this stuff down and to let it go. It’s been a goal to tell it in a funny way. A couple of memories couldn’t be told with humor since they were so awful. But they all make up who I am.
A recent ex-boyfriend complained to me that I wasn’t giving him enough of my time.
“You have time for your blog,” he said in a pouty voice.
“If you want me to give up my writing to make more time for you,” I said, “then I am with the wrong guy.”
We broke up for other reasons, but word to the wise, don’t ever ask a writer to stop writing. It’s who we are, since we were children. It’s what keeps us sane in an insane world.
You can always go back to the beginning and read Julie Takes a Ride. I might even re-post it tomorrow.
Thanks for reading!

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