Thanks be to the power of Facebook which has allowed me to keep tabs on people who, without ubiquitous social networking, might have just as well fallen off the planet. One such subject of occasional inquiry is my first boyfriend, obtained at the tender of age of 16. In fact, if you dig deep enough, you'll find several entries devoted to him on this blog. On the day we broke up, I came home, paralyzed by overwhelming grief, and managed to string together some sentences in his honor. I made that entry public so he could see what I was thinking. God, was I stupid back then. I thought I was in love. I thought he had changed my life and offered a wonderful experience when in reality he was just a teenage dirtbag whose Nirvana posters and long hair had mesmerized me. In high school I was all about the tortured musician. The rebel. The boy who hung on the fringes of society and occasionally came up for air. He was exciting. He smoked pot. He was funny and strange and his wardrobe consisted only of band T-shirts. When he dumped me in the hallway while I was on my way to algebra, I felt the ground beneath me give way. I felt my heart rip, my existence shatter. I loved him and for some reason he no longer loved me. He went on to tell me that he thought I was boring, that we have nothing in common, he's surprised we dated for as long as we did and that I'm ruining his reputation. I'll never forget those things he said to me while leaning back against the brick wall outside the gym.

I'll never forget them because five years later, I can look back at the silly teenager who stood before him and marvel at how far I've come. I suppose we all find ourselves slapping our heads in frustration at the decisions we made. I wasn't in love then. How could I have even had an inkling as to what love really was? I didn't understand relationships. Boys were cute, that's why you dated them. He, on the other hand, hasn't changed a bit. He still dons the band T-shirts, he still goes days without shaving. He still smokes pot and brushes his long hair behind his ears. College? Forget it. He's off on some commune, discovering himself and burning incense. I recently clicked through his pictures and wondered what I ever saw in him and why I was so devastated when it all ended. He sent me a message not too long ago saying I was pretty. Please. He probably still thinks I'm pining away for him, even though I've been exposed to infinitely greater men than he could ever hope to be. Perhaps I'm just mad at myself for ever becoming involved with someone so childish. Even today it's evident through photographs that he's still relishing in goofing off and drinking lukewarm beer in someone's basement. To each his own, I suppose.

I've greatly refined my tastes since those naive days of high school. I like my men clean cut. College education is a must. None of this hard partying rock band crap. I want intelligence and humor, respect and ambition. A few band T-shirts are permitted. To me, the ideal man will not go out of his way to prove he is the ideal man. I can't understand why women date the guys they date sometimes. It's almost as though they are completely blinded to the fact that their boyfriend isn't worth the time of day. I was fooled, though. We all can be fooled.