To All the Men I've Loved Before...

The weirdest thing: over the past year, out of the blue, I have been contacted by just a whole whack of former lovers. I don't mean guys from last year, or even ten years ago: these are men I haven't seen in twenty, twenty-five, thirty years.

And, weirder, each e-mail or letter is essentially the same: we had a time, didn't we; I still think of you; you are in my heart/mind/soul/wherever. Hearts, roses, violins softly playing, the whole Julio Iglesias ball of earwax.

Now, I could understand it if these guys were, like, losers, you know? But they include a professor, a doctor, an ex-husband and philanderer, an engineering type, others of that ilk. All educated, intelligent, successful men. All, please note, married, mostly for a long time, and, as far as I know, either not divorced, or not recently.

And all old enough to know better. I mean, we won't specify how old I am now, but let's just say the bloom has most definitely off the rose, and no amount of cosmetic surgery or self-delusion is going to bring it back. And only one of them was younger than me: some of them were, in fact, significantly older. I imagine they still are.

So, what is it, guys, mmmm? What makes you not only daydream about former lovers, not just contact one, but do so in hues of hearts and flowers? I mean, it's been decades. You've got on with your life, or I sincerely hope you have. Guess what: so have I.

Maybe you are remembering the woman I was when we parted. Okay, I will admit, I was a sexy little thing. Didn't see it at the time, but recently our family did the old photo clean out, and I was astonished to discover that I had, in fact, been a beautiful woman in my twenties, thirties and even early forties. Maybe you are remembering the abstracted intellectual, or the ditsy bohemian poet. Yeah, I was those, too. They were stages on the road to here, and, I rather hope, beyond.

But, know what? I'm not beautiful anymore. Gravity has grabbed my chin -- always a bit prominent -- and those tiny breasts, not to mention my once flat belly. And menopause has done wonders for my skin, let me tell you. Oh, I'm still a blonde, if do-it-yourself blondness counts. The best you could say, if you were inclined to charity, is that you can see, under the right light, at a certain angle, and if you squint, the beauty that was once there.

Nor am I particularly abstracted anymore. At some point, even the most intellectual must apply her intelligence to the issues of living: for a single woman in a demanding profession, that will certainly take the woolliness out. I have learned to focus my resources on practical solutions to everyday problems: I'm told by those who know me now that the best word to describe that focus is ferocious.

And I avoid poetry. Oh, yeah, sometimes I can't help it, but you know what? It doesn't have to be published. The best can go on a website like this one, the worst can be turfed with a laugh, and I can go do something important, like clean the toilet, collect for a charity, call my Mom, or march for a cause.

So, probably not ditsy or bohemian anymore, either. Okay, not mainstream either. One of the things about learning to think later in life is that it doesn't encourage mindless acceptance of anybody's trite truths. Love won't save the world. Neither will God or gods. Butterflies are beautiful and crystals fascinating, but neither has any more special properties than a garden slug or cat litter. And rebelling by looking like all the other rebels just turns hippies into yuppies, mmm? But thinking also unfits one for the mainstream. After all, not thinking is pretty much what being mainstream is about. So, yeah, I am still on a road less travelled, but the stuff here interests me a lot more than the stuff I glimpse on other people's televisions, and the little company I meet sometimes along the way is okay.

And, know what? I don't dwell in the past. It's done. Can't change it. Yes, it helped make me what I am, but another thing I figured out is that the past is not a determinant: it merely gives you the material you choose from to create yourself. I chose to use the brain I was born with, to live in the present and think in the future.

Okay, I did think through my past, quite a long time ago now. I gotta tell you, guys, I have thought of you. It did not lead me to look you up on the internet, or give you a call, did it? There's a reason for that.

To the guy who quoted Piaf: why should you have regrets? I didn't run around on you, did I? And, please, don't tell me your philandering was my fault: you were doing that already, or I would never have met you in the first place. If you found me difficult to deal with, maybe it was because you saw no reason to extend me the respect you demanded for yourself and your whims. About the only thing I can say in my defence is that I was pretty young, and awfully stupid. Older and wiser now, and, no, you had a time: for me, you were just a hard lesson in the capacity of a certain kind of male to be the star of every movie.

To the guy who says I am still in his soul: it's amazing what one can get over. Not only do I not miss you, I count myself lucky that I got out with my mind relatively intact. Go play your games on someone else's head.

To the professional man who would have lost his profession had our affair been found out: I hope you were more careful thereafter. No, you are right, I didn't fight it, but, have you ever wondered why I left town so abruptly? You weren't the only reason, but you were the largest one. When you followed me, I was ready to pack again, too....

Please, don't romanticise: you had a position of authority and I had problems opposing male authority. Maybe you didn't think about that. I did. Ironically, I owe you something for that. I finally realised that I was going to have to deal with those issues myself, and did. You weren't the first in your position to get between my sheets, but you were the last.

And to the other guys: you know what, just like guys have affairs, so do women. You were good at the time, but I don't see it as a big deal that we had sex decades ago. If you want to get in touch, don't butter me up with blatant sentimentalism. Don't dwell in the past. Tell me what you've done with your life. Tell me what you're doing now, what engages your interest, what you are doing for the future. Who knows, maybe the people we are can have an interesting conversation now, but, I guarantee you, if you are looking to talk to the woman I was, boy, have you got the wrong number.

And, oh, yeah. I am married. Ecstatically. Have been for ten years. To a guy I knew before I met any of you, and with whom I never lost touch. We used to have really long talks about the stuff that interested us: we still do. We both have reputations for eccentricity. We don't own a televison or a car. We share books and housework, concern ourselves with politics, the people around us and the future. We rarely talk about the past, although it does occasionally come up. Like when one of you sends me a mash note, and I do one of my patented anti-Romanticism diatribes.

I just went and asked him: you know, he has never even tried to contact the girls he loved before. So, maybe instead of mooning to Ol' Julio, you oughta listen to some Paul Simon:

If you took all the girls I knew when I was single,
brought'em all together for one night,
you know they'd never match my sweet imagination
and everything looks worse in black and white....

     -- Kodachrome, Paul Simon, 1973

There it is, guys. In black and white....