Expelling the ghosts of my dating past and shaking those pesky relationship skeletons from the closet before I get married. In no particular order:
Primary school: I develop a hopeless crush on a blond-haired blue-eyed French boy in my second grade class. And by hopeless crush I mean I feel intense rage and competitiveness when we battle it out for best marks in our weekly spelling and math tests and pretty much make it clear that I hate his stupid shiny-haired big brain. I've always been attracted to the smart ones. I've also always been really great at expressing my feelings.
Early College: Meet a dark haired French Persian engineer during my second day of college. He laughs at Friends episodes in accented laughter (it totally exists: I'd do an impression, but I can't do any impressions other than, for some reason, Minnesotan) and is so genuinely, earnestly nice. He's also into commitment, and unfortunately, I'm not that into him. I feel a rush of euphoria when we break up and immediately put on Walking On Sunshine after he leaves. He never speaks to me again.
Early College: Can't for the life of me remember how I met this one, but unfortunately, that was the entire problem with our relationship. He was tall and geeky, bland and unmemorable. All I remember are fleeting images: a ski jacket, roses on Valentines Day, the way his glasses misted up with tears when I said I wanted to break up. I was a heartless turd.
Kindergarten/Reception: He was a chubby little English boy named Tom and my best friend. He was literally the He-Man to my She-Ra, the Michaelangelo to my April O'Neal, and the Tin Man to my Dorothy (I really have no explanation as to why we used to pretend we were in Wizard of Oz). I wrote 'Iman + Tom' in all my storybooks and all over my bedroom wall, much to the irritation of my parents, who really should have been delighted that I was learning to write in the first place. He moved back to England before first grade, and I was devastated.
Primary school: Another academic rival. He drew me intricately detailed aliens and predators on illustrated love notes, and I never mustered up the nerve to tell him that I've never seen the Alien movies and while I admire the effort that goes into drawing the spaceship from Independence Day, I don't quite know what to do with the drawing after. I will always remember him fondly as the boy who still liked me even though I had frizzy hair and more facial acne than face.
Middle school: He was way, way too old for me. I can't remember how I met him, I can't remember if he was attached. I've blocked out pretty much everything out about him except for the fact that you liked Sheffield Wednesday (WHO likes Sheffield Wednesday anyway?) and he should really have been dating people his own age. Douche.
High school: He was a high school jock and I was the complete opposite of a cheerleader. I would be nerdy Taylor Swift to his football hero in the Love Story video (did I just reference a Taylor Swift video?! Yes - yes I did. These are the high school years after all). We had nothing in common and nothing to talk about. He was popular and I wasn't. He was a good brother to my sisters, and ignored all the signs that pointed to the fact that I wasn't really into him.
High school: He was much older. He had dark sparkling eyes, a deep belly laugh and told me he was in love with me. It wasn't love - he seemed so much older but looking back he must have been a kid then, and I was even younger - but I shouldn't have agreed to date him and then changed my mind. He passed away in a car accident. He really did have the happiest eyes I've ever seen.
Middle school: He was the class clown, and I was in public school. He teased me incessantly, made my life a living hell, insulted me constantly, and we were teenagers: of course it meant that he liked me. He made me laugh, and I remember the terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach right before I told him that I wanted to break up. He wasn't laughing then, and we don't talk now.
High school: He was my first real relationship. He was older and fascinating because of it, but he was also ditzy, and so ultimately, not fascinating enough. I fell out of puppy love, and broke his heart and wasn't sorry. I missed hanging out with his friends more than I missed him. I should have been nicer.
High school: He was my best friend. We spent hours and hours talking on the phone; hours and hours dissecting poetry together (seriously, because we were cool like that). He was the first person who showed me it was possible to have higher standards in relationships and to expect more things - a deeper connection, a shared sense of humour, the ability to keep a healthy debate going (and we had MANY) without it venturing into a full-blown fight. The sad thing is that I wasn't attracted to him, but that's just the way the cookie crumbles.
High school: He was South American, sarcastic and sharp-tongued, which was a defense mechanism for his weight. He had spiky hair, pink cheeks and a Fender guitar. And after I dumped him, he tried to hit on my sister.
Mid-College: He was the best friend of the guy I liked. I knew what was happening while it was happening but I never thought he'd articulate it and make it real, but, unfortunately, he did. He told me he felt strongly about me, and just like that, our friendship was never the same.
Mid-College: He was the one who broke my heart, who promised so much, and delivered so little, who was insecure, immature, and unsure. I thought that we were taking care of each other, but I was the one who took care of him. I can draw a line in our relationship, and I would draw it in the middle of the second year, when I realized that I cared about him more than he cared about me. And while I can view the period before that with a detached fondness, like watching a movie starring strangers I don't know, strangers who were so young and optimistic and naive, who met at a fraternity party, she with flowers in her hair, he with his baseball cap and ruddy cheeks, who were overtaken by the rush of infatuation, how he became the most important part of her support system and she was so far away from home, how they were happy; I don't think of the second half at all. It has been poisoned by what he did at the end, and if I think about it, or if I touch it, I'll be poisoned too, and his sickness will infect me. He was selfish and pathetic, and I'll never forgive him, because that would make what he did forgivable.
