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.