After a long, painful recovery after the rigmarole of the holidays, I am back to my old self. Rassmussen might argue my old self has room for improvement, but I am thrilled to feel normal again, at least normal for me, and just in time too! Dear readers, I am thrilled, simply thrilled, to report that my first true love has re-entered my life.
Too many years ago, we were starry-eyed youths together. He was tall with the most amazing blue eyes but quiet enough to disappear in a crowd of three. I still remember his smile and, most impressively, his kisses. How lucky was I to have a first love whose kisses were Oscar worthy? To this day, I have only kissed one or two others with whom I could truly get lost in the act of locking lips. I would do almost anything to compare his kisses now to those from my memories; but alas, the man is married to someone he deeply loves, and I am left with my gargoyle who wouldn’t know romance if it bit him on the nose. Not that I’m attracted to mythical beasts with food bits between their teeth and toe gook staining my best blankets, and the turning to stone by daylight is definitely a deal breaker.
My first love and I had a deal breaker, too. I was determined to leave home and earn a college education. His path took him elsewhere. The distance and the break up broke my heart. I mourned the loss many years. Such is life. Sometimes those we love best are never meant to remain permanent fixtures in our lives. It doesn’t prevent us from loving them or cherishing our memories while we scrub mud stains out of Persian rugs; the mud left by an uncaring snot who calls my cooking pretentious gruel just because I floated a floral garnish in the midst of his oatmeal today.
Unappreciative beast. It is a miracle I didn’t starve during my little break from reality. But that is all behind me now. I am alert, alive and so aware that I still have a heart with a large tender spot right there for my first love.