Hello, again

There is love in our bodies and it holds us together
But pulls us apart when we're holding each other
We all want something to hold in the night
We don't care if it hurts or we're holding too tight
-Florence and the Machine

I saw my old friend Jake the other day for the first time in a year. As we drank whiskey, mine mixed with flat Diet Coke and his in a mug because there was no ice, I updated him on my relationship. I, as people in happy relationships are wont to do, gave a monologue about how great my boyfriend is and how much I look forward to our life together. Jake listened politely while smoking a Pall Mall out the bedroom window. He was quiet for a minute and then turned to me. “Mo,” he said, “now you've found that feeling, run from it as fast as you can.” Yes, he actually said that. He's an indie rock musician, everything he says sounds like an Elliott Smith lyric (he's going to read this and fucking kill me for saying that. Sorry, Jake.). Anyway, I couldn't help but think of his ex-girlfriend after his perfect little soundbite. She was a beautiful girl, the kind of girl who had an existential crisis more often than she did her laundry, and, of course, she was hopelessly charming. She took a lot from their relationship: money, emotional support, and his cat. She left him more cynical than before (and I had no idea that was even possible). It's been four years, and he's over her now, but to my knowledge, he hasn't had a serious girlfriend since. Maybe I'm making way too big a deal about this, but the whole conversation got me thinking about how my current view on love and commitment has been shaped by my past relationships. Because I've had a bunch, as long as you use the term “relationship” loosely. Watching a guy you're on a date with shotgun a Foster's in the backseat of his car outside a dive bar, well, it counts for something, but not a whole lot. But when I reflected on the convoluted route I took from first love to current bliss, I realized that some of the most important boys in my life were never really boyfriends at all. They were variations on a vaguely romantic theme. None of them ended up working out the way I planned, of course. But countless fights, tears (some mine and some theirs), orgasms, flowers and drunk dials later, I finally found the boy who things just work with. Is it him, or did I finally learn something after all these years? I like to think it's a combination. But I won't undermine the influence all those boys had on me. This is an open love letter to each of you. This is for all the boys I've ever loved.