Our trip to Central Europe is still on, but I’ve lost some of my enthusiasm for it. Apparently, in my pre-departure excitement, I’ve been texting too much about our impending journey and that’s annoying the very busy, very important Supreme Court justices and foreign heads of state on my guest passenger roster. The two-legged travel issues are always the most bothersome.
So, even though we leave exactly three months from today, I’m tamping down the texts, the calls with trip news and my overall external displays of excitement. I will instead reflect on much earlier disappointments, the ones known as ex-boyfriends.
M: Jr. High silliness. You were my first boyfriend. Heavy emphasis on the “boy” portion of the word. I was 12, you were 13. We were so in love, yet you broke up with me prior to every gift giving holiday. I never asked you for anything, nor did I ever expect anything. All I wanted was to spend time with this cute boy with the greasiest hair (I was never sure if that was the result of over-active pubescent oil glands or heavy applications of Brylcreme). For the two years we were us, you broke my heart my consistently…I’d cry my eyes out every February 14th, Easter, my birthday and Christmas. All these years later, my Veteran’s, Arbor and Columbus Days are sacrosanct.
The best thing I can say about you now is that I no longer harbor any unhealthy, sentimentality where a portion of our shared childhoods are concerned.
J: Forbidden love. You were Hispanic, I wasn’t. What we had, while juvenile, felt real. The fact it was frowned upon in Small Town South Texas in the mid 70’s didn’t make it more enticing, it made it more painful. We tried two make a go of it again in in a more progressive time and place, but we failed a second time. Maybe, the word failed is too strong. Hell, it might not be strong enough. I’m not sure. It was all a milion years ago.
To be honest, I’ve tried to block out this relationship as much as possible. Not because it was necessarily bad, but because even trying to remember two failed attempts at co-mingling with you is mind-numbingly boring.
I mean no disrespect but to be honest, time has dulled the very last bits of idealistic luster.
A: Sweet, kind, generous, but limited. You were too scared to leave your comfort zone and I was frightened at the thought of staying in mine. You had the misfortune of entering my life in the worst time of my life. Circumstances turned you into more of a guardian than a boyfriend. I’m sorry for that.
Despite a negative ending (I seem to remember you started covertly seeing the the small town woman who’s now your wife), it wasn’t a tragic break up by any stretch. I was just as ready and eager to end things. I wanted start flirting back with handsome coeds who were soooooo different from you.
No ill feelings. Never had any where you were concerned. Instead, I’ve always wished you happiness. Feel honored: you’re the only ex upon which I’ve never wished a severe case of Tetanus.
L: You loved me too much, but that didn’t keep you from hurting me. The timing for your indiscretion sucked. But fortunately, I didn’t love you enough for that to matter, not in the grand scheme of things. But you certainly did everything you could to secure a small place in my romantic history. You made sure you were nothing but a blip.
A: You were from Mexico. You were educated, poised, from a wealthy family. On paper, you were perfect. In the flesh, terribly milquetoast. Bestezo means yawn in Spanish. You defined that in two languages.
R: My involvement with you is my second biggest regret.
L: You will always remain my biggest regret.
A: Phantom. A waste of time, money and emotion. You’d be in the top tier of regrets if anything about you was real.
Player to be named later: The ubiquitous ‘they’ say you’re out there. If you are and you’re to enter my life, you’d better hurry. We’d better hurry. Something tells me time is of the essence.