My Initiation into Tennis

     Early this morning I played tennis -- doubles, because singles is simply too exhausting. My league, comprised of ten lovely and remarkable Staten Island moms, converge on two courts every Wednesday morning for 90 minutes of fun. Playing well is hit or miss, no pun intended, and today was my lucky day. My partner and I killed both sets, 6-1, 6-0.  As the foursome ritually shook hands at the net before we all proceeded to breakfast, someone lovingly joked, "Wow, Gracelyn, great playing. Big change from that first time we played."

     Did she have to bring THAT up... one of the most humiliating experiences of my life? 

     Five summers ago, I decided that I was not getting any younger -- or fitter--  in the mostly sedentary lifestyle I led. After all, how many calories do I burn, sitting all day doing crown and bridge, after which I sit some more, driving my kids to basketball and swim practices? Not much.

     I resolved to take up tennis.  I delved into group clinics, bought a couple of cute outfits at Modell's and bit the bullet.  I joined a summer tennis league at the urging of a fellow racquet-wielding dentist friend of mine and soon opening day arrived.  The sun was glorious, the sky was blue, and was it me or was everyone -- except me -- a size 2 and glowing with their perfect smiles and impressive tans? And what was up with all the 3:2 leg to torso ratios and looking fabulous in very short tennis skirts, anyway?

     To say the first few points of the first set was underwhelming is the understatement of the year. My insecurities about my backhand were palpable, my racing heartbeat probably audible. As wonderfully welcoming and polite as everyone was TO me on my tennis court debut, I distinctly sensed the pity they must've had FOR me.  I double-faulted and missed some easy lobs, coming at me so slowly it was practically going backward. 

     Generally uncomfortable with people feeling sorry for me, I stepped up my game a little. I took a deep breath and focused, and let it rip. I used visualization and applied everything I'd ever learned in tennis lessons.  I channeled Serena and Maria in every Grand Slam I'd ever watched in my life, and -- whammo! -- things started looking up.  Soon it was 40-15, us, and then 5-3 games, us, then even a set victory.  It worked!  Perhaps I wasn't the worst tennis player they'd ever had the misfortune of inviting to join their league.

     Tennis ego inflated at this point, I played the net for the second set. I moved easily to and fro, returning lobs, slicing away.  Then it happened... an angled shot came at me with such velocity... a shot that clearly I was too new (and too old) to ever get... but I went for it.  At top speed, I raced to the right from the midline, hyper-extending my forehand to make contact... lost my balance on the gravelly, true-hard court... and ran right into the fence.  Oh, the humanity!

     I wanted to die, not from my injuries, but from embarrassment. The next few seconds were a blur and found me lying there, on the side of the court, knees scraped, shoulder bruised, and my tennis whites not so white.

     I'm not sure if I lost consciousness, but for sure I found out first-hand what being "winded" was. I couldn't, for the life of me, catch my breath enough to answer the gasps of horror from all who witnessed my wipe-out of epic proportions. 

     Trying desperately to regain my composure I had left, everyone hovered over me, to make sure I was still alive, as I lay pathetically on the tennis court. I couldn't find my racquet.  Or my dignity.  Then the questions started from what seemed like far-away voices started.  There were lots of "Are you ok's?" and "Oh my God, Gracelyn, are you hurt?" Then there were, "Did you break anything?"  "Should I run and get ice?"  And my personal favorite, from my fellow-dentist friend, "Is your disability insurance premium paid up?"

     They picked me up and dusted me off. I walked it off for the next few minutes, checking to see if I had fractured any bones, pulled any muscles. I hadn't. Just a bruised ego.  I forced a smile on my face enough to finish the second set, which we lost, and went straight home. I took a shower, iced my knee, Neosporined my cuts, and went to work. I downed two Motrins.     

     Looking back, I can now laugh at the events of that morning now, thankful I can hold my own of late on the tennis court, thoroughly loving the two tennis leagues I play in now. Tennis and photography are still my MOST favorite things to do in between work and taking care of my family. I still have the tennis outfit that was ruined that day, however, just as a reminder  of my truly unforgettable first day of tennis. In the worst possible way.

      

Mornings... UGH!

     I get more done on weekday mornings from 6:30 to 8:30 than I do any other part of the day, including some days at the office, drilling teeth for crown and bridge.  When that dreaded alarm clock rings,  I pop out of bed, and my heart races from 0-60mph in 3 seconds flats. I feel around for my eyeglasses (too chicken to go for Lasik), trip over a few toys and hangers in the hallway, and make my way into the rooms of my three sleeping beauties, as my Mom used to sarcastically call my two sisters and me when we refused to get up in the morning.

     My repeated pleas for my twin 9-year-old girls to lay out the clothes the night before that they want to wear the next day fall on deaf ears, so one of two things happen: they tear their closets apart looking for something cute (and clean!) or they go to school with an atrocious, mismatched outfit. When the latter happens, I tell my friends that I had a board meeting and it was Michael's turn to dress them.

     My eldest, 12-year-old daughter attends a private school, so she wears a uniform. You'd think this would simplify things. But it doesn't. Someone has to wash all these blue blouses, skirts, sweaters, navy socks and "fleece" and that someone is yours truly! Thankfully, however, she is pretty much auto-pilot in the mornings and is on her school bus by 7:05 am.

 

     Making the twins' lunches in the morning is usually met with the falling in to queue for me to do their hair for the day, brush and "pretties" (what we call ponytail holders in my house, which seem to be disposable;  I am pretty sure I'm putting Mr. Scunci's -- the hair accessories maker -- children through college with the money I spend at CVS on his stuff).

     As I place their lunches in their school bags, the eggs are sizzling in the frying pan... two eggs scrambled and two eggs over easy, because twins liking their eggs the same way would be too easy and less annoying.  For third grade last year, it was cold cereal and whole milk and a banana if I had gone to Key Food the night before. Then, at Costco, I noticed they were piling my cart high with Frosted Flakes and Cocoa Puffs.  That was the end of cereal. 

 

     At the bus stop, I find a 5 minutes reprieve from the hustle and bustle that is my morning when I get to chit-chat with other bus stop moms. They are smart and funny and usually snap me out of  daily early-morning heart attack. But as soon as the bus pulls away, I rush home, clean up breakfast dishes, put a load of the aforementioned blue uniforms (and towels for their swim practices) in the washer.

     Then, I chop up some onions and potatoes and put them in the slow cooker.  Add to that mix some soy sauce, paprika, baby carrots and chicken breasts (thick sliced, because the thin slices are more expensive and it's all thin, anyway, if you slices it up into strips) that I defrosted the night before... and voila--  dinner will hopefully be ready tonight at 5 pm.  I make sure to press the "on" button.

     At this point I breathe a sigh of relief. I saunter upstairs and put my makeup on, pop my contacts in, tie my Medusa hair into a bun, and head to work. My children have recently taught me how to blast some dance music on from my iPhone while docked in the iHome thingy, so all that blares on while mentally mentally make the transformation from "mom" to dentist."

     My patients sometimes ask me why I'm always in such a great, happy mood at home.  Truth be told, my hours at the office are my relaxation. My hours at home, being the best mom I can be for my three daughters, is the real work.

 

 

    

 

    

 

 

My Senior Year at Curtis

     Another school is year is upon us and I ran into a fellow mom who I call my "bus stop friend" because I only see her at drop-off and pick-up.  Anyway, she was second-guessing her decision to transfer her daughter out of Catholic grammar school this year and into public school for the fifth grade, and asked my opinion on the matter.

     I reassured her that everything would be just fine. I am the middle child of three daughters in my family, and at the end of my junior year at an all-girls Catholic high school in the late 1980's, my parents got upset over something school administration-related, which escapes me at the moment but was pretty earth-shattering at the time, and -- whammo! -- I started my senior year, and my younger sister, her freshman, at Curtis High School.

     Make no mistake, I was a major dork at sixteen, but I was a straight-A student, Vice-President of the Student Council, and Editor of the school newspaper. It was quite a transition for me and I was understandably anxious to bid adieu to uniforms and my friends and hello to everything new.

Curtis High School, Staten Island, New York

     

     But the move proved to be a great one in that I was placed in the Scholarship Program at Curtis and took all college-level classes, including an AP English class taught by the excellent Mrs. Trefousse. She has since passed, but left an indelible mark in my unforgettable senior year in high school. Her teaching style was tough but elegant and I held her in high esteem.

     Mrs. Trefousse inspired creative writing in me like I'd never experienced before and I'm not lying when I tell you that I relished every moment in her class and pored over all her assignments endlessly into the wee hours. I had trouble falling asleep the nights I completed a story, in the hopes that in the morning she'd select my work to read aloud to our class of what I believed to be very talented writers.  And when she did, I basked in the glory of her approval, and this warm feeling of pride was one of the sweetest in the world, making all the writing and rewriting worthwhile. And it was all in long-hand back then.

     She was also one of the chaperones on Curtis' senior exchange student trip to France, where I had the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and privilege to live with a French high school senior, Arnaud, and his family.  Yes, I was assigned to a male student, since I was "subbing" for the boy who couldn't make the trip that year and there were no "girl families" left.  Looking back on this, I'm kind of surprised my parents allowed me to go. On the other hand, I had never given them one iota of a doubt to not be completely trustworthy in my youth (which really speaks to my aforementioned dorkiness).

     Arnaud is also now a dentist, and we have since lost touch, but I will never forget my time with him, his family, and my new-found Curtis friends, studying and enjoying ourselves in Paris and Montchenot, France. The culture shock and the laughs, the black turtlenecks and dark trench coats I picked up from Canal Jean Company in the Village to wear out on the town, "playing the part" to fit into my pre-conceived notions of the European fashion landscape... all delightful parts of an incredible experience.

     Incidentally, I'd been back to Paris in the late 90's with my husband, before the kids were born, and it was also great, but markedly different. Experiences in our youth will always be in a dreamy, unparalleled class of their own, right?

     My great Curtis memories are certainly the stuff to keep me company in old age. But above all, there is a singular person whose memory I'll cherish most of all: my best friend at the time, Daniel. We became fast, good friends, and he single-handedly gave me a social life that year, making sure to include me in his elite circle, comprised of the same kids with whom I took the AP classes, with whom I travelled to France, who I suspect were very ready, were it not for Daniel, to let me languish in my transfer-student awkwardness.

     Daniel was one of the funniest people I'd ever had privilege to know. He was smart. And kind. Once, there was a flower fundraiser on Valentine's Day at school, and he thoughtfully sent me a white carnation during homeroom, signifying our friendship, so that I wouldn't feel left out when the other girls in my class were delivered dozens.  He asked his friends to include me when they had parties. He accompanied me to senior prom. We'd take the ferry after school and explore Manhattan, visit museums. Were it not for him, I'd be telling a sadder, lonelier story right now. 

     The last time I saw Daniel was at graduation and we drifted apart as we headed to college, but not without appreciation in my heart for all he had done for me. Three years later, one of the most difficult days in my 20's, in my life really, was speaking at Daniel's memorial service. A junior at Vassar, he had perished on Pan Am Flight 103 in Lockerbie, Scotland. 

     So as the bus screeched to a halt to bring our children to school that morning, I reassured my bus stop friend that her decision to transfer her daughter to a different school would work out just fine. At the very least, I told her she could always change back. At the very best, her daughter will make some unforgettable memories.

Danny Rosenthal, my date for Senior Prom, Curtis High School, June 1986
 (Photo credit:  my dad, Jess Santos)

"Bring Your Friend to Work" Day

Yesterday was "Bring Your Friend to Work" day. Well, not really. But my friend, Jude, a professional photographer, asked if I wanted to assist a shoot to which he was assigned and I jumped at the chance to see "how it all goes down."

And before you envision Kate Moss, Yves Saint Laurent and moody, arty types all dressed in black, please first envision a stationery company, a bright, sprawling office in mid-town Manhattan, my friend Jude... and yours truly, a middle-aged dentist with a fierce passion for photography.

The view from the CEO's window.

At 10 o'clock on a steamy summer morning, I met Jude on West 44th Street. We got on line (and not the type where I am Googling Ryan Lochte) for the freight elevator behind the UPS guy who, like Jude, had a hand truck piled really high with stuff to haul up to the 14th floor. How much gear does a photographer need, anyway?

Well, a lot it seems.  For all you pro togs and camera enthusiasts out there, you'll be interested to know he had not only a Canon 7D, but also a 5D, the f/2.8L 20-74mm AND the f/2.8L 80-200mm, myriad umbrellas/strobes, cobblestone-sized generators (I think), cables like crazy, mountable flashes that bounce off walls and such, and filters galore.

The shoot was for the CEO of a popular card company, to be used in an alumnae magazine. Evidently, this industry magnate was a successful alum... and I believed it! Beautiful stationery filled every last crevice of this 40,000 sq. ft. office space... on Fifth Avenue. That is a whole lot of note cards just to make rent.

The weirdest thing was hearing the CEO's introduction of me to his staff, "... and this is Gracelyn, his assistant."  Not Dr. Santos. Not Mrs. Mroczek. I was the help. And I loved it. I loved seeing my friend, a REAL photographer, in action.

I delighted in that I was somewhat anonymous, in charge of plugging things in, opening and closing blinds till Jude found the available natural light to his satisfaction, and moving stuff around. I commandeered the assortment of stuff on the shelves behind the CEO's head. Is there a by line for that? No matter. I took pride in it.

My other main task was engaging the CEO in conversation (easy) and coming up with some witty remarks to make him smile so his expressions woud look believable and natural (not so easy). Jude said I "done good" when he reviewed the shots he made after each set-up.

After two hours and goody bags of stationery for my three daughters and his one, given to us as parting gifts, we packed up Jude's gear and re-entered the concrete jungle. We picked up some hot dogs and Dasani. He gave me a little photography talk on intensity and duration, which I lapped up. I asked him some questions about prime lenses and lighting.

What I did NOT ask him was how preparations were going for his father's memorial service to be held in two days. Jude's dad, a well-loved scientist and teacher, had passed away two weeks ago in his sleep after a long illness. He was 91. Jude had been busy working on his heartfelt photographic tribute and a description of his incredible life.  "Anyone can sound interesting if you compress a lifetime into a few paragraphs, Gracelyn," he had remarked.

I begged to differ. Jude was just being modest. I knew that. Besides, it was already clear to me that his Dad had raised a wonderful human being with a keen eye for composition, a dry, quick wit, and a penchant for detail and beauty. Above all, I believe his dad taught him kindness to help people learn from his passions, like me.  And for that I was grateful.

Random New Yorker, West 44th Street, Manhattan

St. Elizabeth Chapel, Battery Park, Manhattan

Gracelyn's 50 Random Thoughts While Riding the Staten Island Ferry and NYC Subway.

Yesterday I rode the Staten Island Ferry and the NYC subway for the first time in 12 years. That's right, twelve. I used to ride it daily when I commuted to college from 1986-1990, and then less frequently but still regularly in dental school, when I lived in Manhattan for four years. I was a little nervous the night before, hoping I'd be able to navigate some of the changes made since I was a daily straphanger in my late teens to early 20's. 

But at the end of the day, I made it to Manhattan and back home alive, using mass transit, but not before I jotted down some thoughts in my yellow notes icon on my iPhone. Although many items only New Yorkers will "get," use your imagination and think of me in case you ever visit the Big Apple. So here it is.  Enjoy.

Gracelyn's 50 Random Thoughts While Riding the Staten Island Ferry and NYC Subway:

1. JFK ferry boat looks the same as it did 40 years ago, when I first rode it.
2. Uptown #1 is going the wrong way!
3. Why do people think it's ok to vomit on stairwells?
4. There is no better view than Manhattan from the ferry.
5. I miss subway tokens with the cool New York cut-out in the center.   
6. Commuters are unabashedly apathetic.
7. A real New Yorker does not look like the ones depicted on television.
8. New Yorkers are a very sleepy folk. Look at them. So peaceful.
9. Rector, Chambers, Franklin, Canal. I had this memorized all the way up to 138th a million years ago. And the time it took to get to each one.
10. I wonder if anyone else besides me reads the ads above the subway seats?

                                                                                           
11. Do NOT lean on the doors. So it says on the doors. Meanwhile, 6 people are crushed up against it right now.
12. Zooming subway sounds are rhythmic, almost soothing.
13. Nobody makes eye contact. 
14. Be concerned if anyone DOES make eye contact.
15. If I swabbed a sample of the subway pole onto a petri dish, would I be horrified?
16. I need to give this guy across from me my business card. Heck, I'll even do it pro-bono.
17. I always imagined in a parallel universe I'd have two kids and name them Christopher and Sheridan. If you rode the #1 regularly, you'd know where I got that idea from.
18. Walking down the stairs to the subway platform, I was a little nervous. Sitting down on this orange subway seat, I feel like my old New Yorker self again.
19. They should pipe in music in subway cars.
20. Memories of mending my broken heart while sitting on the #1 with my Walkman blaring in my ears are flooding back to me right now.
21. I miss Walkmans.
22.The hot smell that wafts in when the subway door opens is... umm... interesting.
23. The Sbarro's at the 34th Street station used to be very good. That's right. It was undergound Sbarro's!
24. The touristy couple across from me are in love. Ahhh... young love.
25. Some New Yorkers are very fit. Note to self:  go jogging tonight.

26. The 23rd and 28th Street stops are too close together. What, you can't walk 5 blocks?
27. The "man purse" has become very popluar, of late.
28. Senior citizens are really quite the hip demographic in NYC.
29. If one of my flip-flops ever flopped onto the rails, I'd be doomed.  Platforms look a little icky to walk on barefoot.
30. Note to self: don't lose Metrocard.
31. Can the announcer guy be more muffled, please? What's the use? You're just distracting me from writing these notes.
32. Everyone has an iPhone. Or an iPad. Many times, both.
33. Zombies, every last one of them (... as I type this furiously into my iPhone...)!
34. Gnarly, skeevy wooden benches on the subway platform that I would never be caught dead sitting on in the above-ground world are a major coup in the depths of the NYC subways.
35. Bloomberg needs to stop regulating soda size and start mandating deodorant use on hot days.
36. Stepping off the express and hopping onto a waiting local is akin to hitting Lotto.
37. I'm pretty sure this guy at 9 o'clock has lice.
38. The time I fell asleep on the N line and landed in Brooklyn was frightful when I was 18.
39. What, no free Wifi?
40. I love how Europeans dress. And I love this gal's outfit, sitting across from me.

41. It used to be only the first 5 cars opened at the South Ferry.
42. Subway car hopping is very dangerous. And fun. I'm glad all 10 cars open now.
43. I really love New York.
44. New Yorkers take New York for granted. Why isn't everyone wearing a camera necklace?
45. I miss the shoe shine guy.
46. In 40 years as a New Yorker, I've never used the ladies room on the ferry. Ever.
47. In 40 years as a New Yorker, I've never bought food on the ferry. Ever. Terminals, yes, but only when I was desperate.
48. Lady Liberty never gets old.
49. I miss the Twin Towers. I miss the people we lost that day infinitely more.
50. New Yorkers are the coolest people in the world.

Welt City

     The other night was like any other night, as my husband, Michael, and I were getting ready for bed. He was watching some mindless television, and I was responding to emails and checking my Facebook newsfeed on my iPad.  Around midnight he reached over to give me a kiss good-night, but was stopped dead in his tracks before his lips met mine. I did NOT like the look of horror on his face. That's right: horror.

     What, I thought, could he possibly be seeing on my face to make his eyes bulge out so and render him speechless? I saw him take a big gulp, as he calmly recommended that I get up out of bed, march directly to my bathroom mirror and check it out. I did NOT like his calm, controlled tone of voice, the kind one uses to disguise sheer panic.

     I flicked on the vanity lights in the bathroom and there it was, staring right back at me in the mirror:  welt city!  ACK!  All over my face! My forehead, my cheeks, my noise, my eyelids, my under-eye area, the skin that covers my jawline and that leads up to my ears, you name it. New ones were emerging by the minute.

     Every last inch of my face was covered almost completely with fiery-red blotches the size of quarters, some of them misshapen nickels, all of them very scary, monstrous, and ugly. I was afraid if the kids woke up from my loud gasp, that I'd really frighten them. And why weren't they itching me? They looked downright painful, but oddly were not.  I rued the suspicious shellfish I had for dinner at that restaurant earlier. Grrrr......

     I was frozen in shock for a few minutes, assessing the enormity of my welty breakout and, weirdly, my first impulse was to photograph my allergic reaction. It had crossed my mind that I should document my condition just in case the medical examiner wanted proof of what finally did me in.  Crazy, right? I even asked Michael to take some shots from angles I couldn't reach. The welts slowly spread across my body as I snapped away, red bumpy blotches traveling from my face to my shoulders, down under my arms, and slowly creeping down my torso. It even made its way down to the old legs!

    
     Then it occurred to me that it WAS getting worse and that maybe I should treat it, somehow. I popped two pink Benadryl pills and gulped down some bottled water on my night stand and, being generally a non-alarmist, I tucked myself back into bed. As you were. Nothing to see here, folks. It would be all gone by morning, surely. Antihistamines are pure gold in these cases, after all.

     I tried to cozy back into falling-asleep mode. Back to where I was. Now, where was I? Oh right, getting ready for bed, I was. I rattled off random thoughts to Michael- my car needed an oil change, softball registrations were the next day for our eight-year old twins and after work I'd pick up our older daughter from a play date (which is now referred to as "hanging out," by the way).  But mid-sentence, I had trouble speaking. Uh-oh.

     My mouth felt weird. My upper lip was swelling up!  That was it. Sorry, Michael, no sleep for you tonight.  I roused him back to fully awake mode to show him. His eyes grew wide open once again, this time even more so.  He declared I needed an Epi-Pen, the epinephrine intra-muscular injection that is self-administered to stop full-blown, allergic anaphylaxis. Welts were one thing, but inflammation of my lip to the hardened size of corn kernals were another. Who knows if the swelling would travel down my throat and suffocate me.

     Soon Michael was on the phone with CVS, having located one on the computer that was still open at almost one o'cock in the morning. As dentists, we are both licensed in New York State to prescribe medicine, and pretty soon I overheard Michael talking to the pharmacist about my symptoms, telling him his license number, my date of birth, and our office address. This was all very sweet, his loving concern for me.

     What was NOT sweet, however, was my overhearing the next thing Michael started discussing with the pharmacist: the COST of the Epi-Pen! It seemed that a single dose cost $106.00.  A double-dose was $225.00.  Michael had just read in his Epi-Pen Google search articles that 20% of patients requiring them need a second dose. But why, he wondered, were double doses more than just double the price?  If anything, there should be a discount, he complained.

     He rambled on to the poor pharmacist how this math and pricing did not make sense to him, and at one point, covering the telephone speaker, craning his neck from the other room, asked me, "Grace, do you think you'll need a second dose?  I'm not sure if I should get a second dose or not."  I couldn't believe my ears!  There I was, golf-balls for lips and a fire-engine red of welts on almost every last inch of my body, and all he could think about was haggling?! Over $13.00?!

     I calmly replied that it would probably be better that he spend $225 now, buying the stupid, double-dose Epi-Pen, rather than paying someone to be cook, chauffeur, maid, tutor to his three children, not to mention finding another dental partner for our dental practice, when I am dead and gone.  I think he got the message, from my tone and the daggers with which I looked at him, because pretty soon he was out the door to pick up my double-duty medicine.

      He returned about thirty minutes later, and thankfully, I was still alive. We opened the Epi-Pen packaging together, read the instructions carefully, and each practiced how to stab me in the thigh muscle, should the need arise later that night. It was almost two in the morning. Pretty soon, we were satisfied with our epinephrine preparedness and Michael was lying next to me in bed with me once more.

     The Benadryl was starting to kick in and I was getting drowsier by the minute. My exasperation with him was starting to wane. Michael whispered to me that he was so glad I seemed to be okay. He told me not to worry, that he was right there if I needed him. I was very tired at that point, eyelids heavy as can be. He massaged my feet, because I mentioned they were feeling a bit swollen and itchy from the rash. As always, for the past 20 years, having him near me was a great comfort, and especially now in my time of welty need. He stroked my hair, which I love, till I completely drifted to sleep. I felt safe, in his arms, realizing  my life with my husband is nothing if not funny and anecdotal.

     I slept like a baby, and woke up welt-free and completely refreshed the next day, but with the Epi-Pen always within reach. Ha.

Text from My Ex

     Texting is all the rage nowadays. Throughout the course of any given day, I'll receive about 30-50 texts, usually from my oldest daughter, my dental assistant, tennis buddies, and book club friends. Weekend plans are made, soccer and basketball practices are rescheduled, and entire fundraising events are organized by the tap-tap-tapping away on my iPhone. 

     So imagine my surprise when I received a text that simply said, "Nice pictures," from a number I didn't recognize.  I assumed it was a reader of my blog or a fan of my photography page on Facebook, both public and easily accessed on search engines. And I was right. But how did this person get my private cell number?  A touch nervous and a bit curious, I texted back. 

     After hitting the send button, I waited. In 15 seconds, my phone chirped. It was Mark, my ex-boyfriend from college, formerly known as the love my life.  He had gotten my number from a mutual friend. I made a mental note to complain to said friend.

     They say that romance thrives and emotions run more deeply when relationships are begun in high-stress situations. I can't think of a more pressurized four years in my life than college. Except maybe for dental school, when I met my Michael, my husband of 17 years. But that's another story.

     I had met Mark at the very start of freshman year.  I was a pre-med Biology major and when the time came for me to pen my first scientific article, my Biology professor shook his head in disgust as he looked it over, glancing at me as if to ask why in heaven's name was I not an English major. My writing style was too creative. And Biology papers would have none of it!  He promptly assigned me to a tutor. What a disgrace, I thought. Me. A tutor. I ranked #1 In my high school graduating class! A tutor! Really?!

     Enter Mark, my college-issued, scientific writing tutor. Quickly, I fell madly in love with him, primarily because he was brilliant. And funny. And easy on the eyes. Once a week we met to work on my scientific writing and pretty soon, it was twice a week.  In a few weeks' time, we were inseparable.

      He seemed to bring out the best in me. I was smarter when I was with him, wittier in his company, and even learned how to cook, mainly because of him and his encouragement for me to do so (kind of selfish, now that I think about it. Or is it masochistic?) and our general lack of funds to eat out too often.  Did I mention he was also a great kisser?

     In the tiniest spurts of free time between studying for Calculus 101, Microbiology and Organic Chemistry exams, and sitting through Statistics and Probability lectures, we couldn't wait to hold hands. We spent afternoons playing chess in Central Park, played one-on-one basketball in playgrounds around school (he occasionally let me win), and discovered our love of photography together. We talked for hours on the phone until the sun came up.

     Mark was even able to firm up my scientific writing style, a miraculous feat in itself, and by our junior year, we co-wrote a research paper that spring semester. We got an A+. We went to college parties as a couple but always invariably couldn't wait to leave to be alone. He had introduced me to his family. He had told me he loved me.

     IPhone in hand, waiting in the car for my children's school bus to pull up, Mark and I exchanged pleasantries via text. He was now the assistant chief of radiation oncology for a major hospital on the West Coast, which did not surprise me. We spoke of our siblings and how many nieces and nephews we now had. We spoke of our children. Like him, I also had a set of twins.

     Mark proceeded to tell me how much he admired my photographs for the last few months, and how great it was that I'd been so prolific lately. He had been somewhat depressed of late, reeling from a nasty divorce. I was sad for him. I let him ramble on, trying to digest all his heavy life events, hoping not to see the flashing lights of the yellow school bus till he was finished.

         He said he thought about me often during the last few years of his tumultuous marriage, about the hilarious notes we used to pass each other during Psychology of Human Sexuality lectures, and the fun we had playing darts in the wee hours of the night, brains numb after non-stop studying. He had thought about our first kiss.  I was silent as he spoke. Hearing his voice was surreal. So many memories flooded back, memories filled with laughter. Memories of innocence, of good times.  

     However, as I reminisced, two memories in particular eventually stuck out in my mind: one was of me crying in my room after I had discovered his infidelity; the other, the moment I met my husband, Michael, THE love of life, my best friend and father of my three beautiful daughters, the OTHER loves of my life. And at that moment I was happy Mark had broken my heart all those years ago.

     And a few moments after that, my children's school bus screeched to a halt, alongside my waiting car. I said goodbye to Mark for a second time and continued on with my life.