This is my journal entry from October 22, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Learning to Live Alone Again — my real, unedited days, published in order.
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The woman from yoga was at yoga again today. I was genuinely happy to see her. I’d debated going to the 9:30 class instead of the 9:00 a.m., wondering if she might be there, but she ended up showing up to mine. That felt like a small win. She seemed just as glad to see me as I was to see her, and we talked as much as we could before class started. Afterward, I was determined to ask for more time to talk, but she seemed in a hurry to get to work. I asked when we could hang out or talk more, and she said she’d see me tomorrow at the 9:00 a.m. class. I really hope she comes.
She’s beautiful, and I love how animated she gets when we talk—how her face lights up and her voice lifts. I do need to ask if she’s single, though. That question matters because it completely changes how I think about her. If she’s single, then maybe there’s something real to explore, a chance worth showing up for. But if not, I should probably just enjoy the connection for what it is—a friendship formed in yoga class—and not feed any expectations that would just get tangled up later.
Still, I felt a little sad watching her leave. Part of me had hoped for more time with her today, but I reminded myself how soon it is to feel that way. I literally just told her my name yesterday. Even so, it’s nice to have something to look forward to—to know I might see her tomorrow. She’s the only woman on my radar right now, which feels simple and refreshing.
This morning I managed to record one dream. It was about playing Texas Hold’em. In the dream, I was watching a hand unfold—one player had pocket jacks and went in against someone holding queens. The flop came down with a jack, and the player with queens folded. But I could somehow see the next two cards that would have come out—both queens. If that player hadn’t folded, they would have had four of a kind, nearly unbeatable.
The symbolism hit me immediately: don’t fold too early. I keep wondering where in my life that lesson applies. Maybe my guides are hinting at something—perhaps about not giving up on finding an agent for my publishing, or not backing down in dating, or even not losing patience on the tennis court. I want to do better in tennis. The last two times I played, I let frustration get the best of me, and I know I’m capable of handling myself better than that.
At the same time, I can see that my frustration is a call to action. Earlier today, the guy from the tennis ladder sent a message to the tennis club Men’s Singles Ladder asking if anyone wanted to play at 6:00 p.m. I was the only one who replied, but he never wrote back. Later, when I was thinking about using the ball machine, I noticed he had booked it at the same time. That stung. I couldn’t help but feel rejected—like he’d literally rather hit with a machine than play with me. A wave of rage ran through me, even though deep down, I agreed with his choice. I did get frustrated last night, and while people often say, “It’s fine,” when someone gets irritated during a match, nobody truly enjoys playing with that energy.
It’s clear I’ve reached a crossroads: either quit tennis or step up my game. Quitting isn’t appealing, so stepping up means committing—taking a couple of coaching lessons a week, attending clinics, maybe adding shared lessons. I started thinking about who could coach me. A coach I know came to mind. I could ask him to teach me more about strategy and technique instead of just rallying. I love hitting with him—it’s great exercise—but I could use a bit more structure. When we first started, I told him not to be too clinical because the last coach I had spent nearly the entire time talking instead of playing. But now I see there’s a middle ground.
By the end of the day, my emotions had worn me down. I drove to my mom’s house, where my ex-wife and the kids were already visiting. My mom immediately started talking—again—about someone getting hurt. Lately, she’s constantly telling stories about pain, accidents, and hospitals, and this time, I finally asked her to stop.
Right when she began her story, my daughter rolled her eyes, and I felt the same wave of irritation. I told my mom, “Stop talking about people being hurt. I’m tired of hearing this.” Of course, she got defensive, saying it was her house and her rules, and that everyone else wanted to hear about this person who had fallen and hurt their tailbone. My ex-wife and my son stayed quiet, just trying to keep the peace.
I admitted my daughter had rolled her eyes—it was the truth. She gets tired of these stories too. I’m frustrated because my mom seems completely unaware of her audience. She doesn’t listen or pause; she just talks, moving from one topic to the next without considering how anyone feels. After she reminded me that it was her house and she could say what she wanted, I decided the best move was to leave. I didn’t want to sit through another round of injury talk or feel my blood pressure climb higher.
So, about five or ten minutes after arriving, I got up and left. I didn’t hug her or say I loved her. I walked home and decided to burn off the tension with a two-mile run. My body was buzzing with energy, fueled by the conflict with my mom and a general restlessness that had been building all day.
Even the positive emotions from the morning—seeing the woman from yoga at yoga, feeling her attention on me—didn’t settle me. Yesterday, I had felt thrilled by the idea of meeting her, imagining what could happen between us. Today, I swung to the opposite extreme. Even though her showing up to the earlier class felt like a clear sign of interest, and the fact she wants to meet again tomorrow should have made me happy, my mind turned against itself. I started spinning in negativity: she probably doesn’t want kids, she’s too young, I’m too old, this won’t go anywhere.
If I had to guess, she’s in her mid-twenties, and instead of feeling excited, I found myself thinking it was all pointless—that I should skip yoga tomorrow and end the story before she does. I recognize that these thoughts are predictable and irrational, part of a familiar loop my mind runs whenever I start to care about someone new. Still, I know I need to look closer at what’s underneath all of this—to investigate it fully instead of folding too early, both in tennis and in love.
All those emotions—frustration, rejection, anger, restlessness—spiraled together until I felt completely on edge. I figured the best thing I could do was channel that energy into something productive. So around 7:30 p.m., I went for a run. I hadn’t run since mid-August, about two months ago. I took just my phone and left the door unlocked because I didn’t want a key bouncing around in my pocket.
Despite having to stop several times for cars, I ran two miles in under twenty minutes. That might not sound impressive to some people, but it felt great to me, especially since I haven’t been running lately. Back in ROTC in 2004, when I was twenty, I once ran two miles in under sixteen minutes to pass an Army PT test, so tonight’s time was only four minutes slower than my best ever—after a long break. That felt good.
For the last mile, I clenched my fists and ran with intention, using each stride to release anger. I let it burn off through movement—anger at my mom for always focusing on illness, pain, and injury as if that’s all there is to talk about; anger that I’m not having sex with anyone right now; anger that when a woman might actually be interested in me, like the woman from yoga, I spent most of the day trapped in anxiety instead of enjoyment; anger that the guy from the tennis ladder would rather hit with a ball machine than play with me; anger that my tennis game isn’t good enough for anyone to want to hit with me; anger that liars and cheaters seem to thrive in this world while people trying to do things honestly struggle to be noticed.
But underneath the anger, gratitude started to surface. I felt thankful that my body is healthy enough to run two miles out of nowhere, comfortably, and still average under ten minutes a mile. That’s a gift. At forty-one years old, it’s something I couldn’t have done easily ten years ago. And the best part is that I didn’t even push myself that hard. I stayed at a comfortable pace, breathing through my nose the entire time. I probably could have run a minute or two faster if I’d gone all out, but that wasn’t the point. I just wanted to release the tension, not injure myself or prove anything.
When I got home, I took a shower and cooled down. My ex-wife texted, asking if I was coming over for bedtime. I went over and spent about ten minutes tucking the kids in. After that, she handed me the divorce papers I needed to fill out. Since she filed as the petitioner, I now have a few forms to complete as the respondent. I’ll need her help to make sure our answers match and stay consistent. I filled out what I could tonight, taking my time and writing neatly instead of rushing through it. It felt symbolic somehow—doing it carefully, acknowledging that this part of the process deserves attention and respect rather than avoidance.
After finishing the divorce paperwork, I put on More: A Memoir of an Open Marriage by Molly Roden Winter. That book has my mind spinning—it’s one of the reasons I was angry tonight. Listening to her describe an open marriage made me think about my own situation, and about boundaries my ex-wife and I never fully agreed on. I could respect where she stood, but it still frustrated me.
Part of me feels like an open marriage could have been a better path for us—still living together, supporting each other, raising our kids as partners without having to go through all this divorce crap. Instead, here we are, untangling our lives on paper. It feels silly at times, unnecessary even, though I also recognize that divorce does free me to eventually be fully with someone else. Listening to Molly’s memoir reminded me, though, that open relationships are far from simple. You need a certain kind of relationship—deep communication, trust, and honesty—to make that work. Maybe we never had that combination consistently enough.
Another layer of my anger tonight came from not knowing what to do with myself. I had thought about going to the tennis club with my son but realized it too late. I’d been waiting around to see if the guy from the tennis ladder wanted to hit, but he never responded. That left me restless, pacing through options that went nowhere.
Still, there were bright spots in the day. I recorded over two hours of audio for I Was Famous on the Internet. I came straight home from yoga after seeing the woman from yoga, full of energy, and recorded nonstop before eating anything, wanting to ride the creative momentum. I made it through the entire “Crypto Still Sucks” section and am now more than halfway done recording the audiobook.
Getting all my books into audio format feels increasingly important. More and more people seem to prefer listening, and I want my work available however people best absorb it. When I start promoting the books more seriously, they’ll need to be on audio. It also feels like the universe keeps sending me reminders in that direction—like one of my former sponsees mentioning this week that “audiobooks are where the money’s at.” Even Courtney Maum, in Before and After the Book Deal, says audiobook sales have become one of publishing’s fastest-growing areas.
It makes sense to me. I mostly consume audiobooks myself these days because I can listen while driving, running, or cleaning—times when reading wouldn’t be possible. So, it’s settled: every one of my books will get an audio version. It’s another way to keep my voice out in the world, even as I continue moving toward a life built more on presence and real connection.
After finishing my audiobook recordings, I picked the kids up from school and dropped them off at my ex-wife’s house. I spent about thirty minutes there, petting the dogs, talking with the kids, and playing Uno No Mercy with my daughter and my son. It turned into one of those playful, chaotic games where luck just isn’t on your side. I had to draw twenty cards in multiple rounds, and once I was down to four cards, which meant I didn’t get mercy-rolled—small victory. Still, I didn’t win a single game today. My daughter was on fire and took every win like a champ.
At 4:00 p.m., I went to my AA meeting. Lately, it’s been all men, which is funny because when I first started going to this group, the meetings were filled with women. They seemed to enjoy it, but for whatever reason, most of them haven’t come back. Still, it was a solid meeting. The topic was the Tenth Step—continuing to take personal inventory and admitting when we’re wrong. Someone even drove in from out of town because a friend had recommended the meeting. That’s dedication. I’ve lived here for nine years and have never once been to a meeting in Tampa, though maybe I’ll try one someday.
After the meeting, I went home and kept working on my books while hoping a tennis match would materialize. It didn’t, and that’s how the day wound down to where I am now.
I have to admit, I feel much better tonight than I did earlier. Before my run, I’d been sad, angry, and tightly wound, but after the run, the shower, putting the kids to bed, and a quiet evening alone, I finally felt a sense of relief. My emotions have been all over the place, but I take that as a sign of being alive, engaged, and honest with myself.
It feels good—really good—to be getting to know a woman again, to have that spark of possibility without guilt. For the first time in fifteen years, I feel free to date and explore, to see what happens without hiding or holding back. I’m curious about what tomorrow will bring with the woman from yoga.
I’m also certain now that I don’t want to quit tennis. When I ended my the tennis club membership before, I missed it almost immediately. I love the game, and I want to get better. So instead of quitting, I’ll take more lessons and keep showing up.
It’s 10:00 p.m. now, and I’d like to be in bed by 10:30 to get a little more sleep tonight. This diary entry might not be quite as long as some of the others, but it feels complete. I wrapped up adding new material for my third diary book today and started processing the transcripts to turn them into a publishable manuscript. I haven’t decided on a title yet, but with some focus, I should be ready to publish it next week.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.