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From the New York Times : "Before I Say ‘I Do,’ a Word to the Exes"

my comment ; "I dedicate this to my friend and partner Guido Sciarelli "

 

 

 

Before I Say ‘I Do,’ a Word to the Exes

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By Maggie Parker

    • To All My Exes,
    As people continue to congratulate me on becoming a bride, I’ve realized I don’t deserve all the credit. I couldn’t have gotten to this point without you.
    Before I say “I do,” I want to say thank you, and a few unprintable sentiments to the ones who came before the one. I need to honor the romantic and sexual experiences I’ve had in my life, and not just because of the effort that went into them. Each past relationship gave me an experience that served as a clue in a scavenger hunt to find my future.
    This letter is also a farewell to my single self. Marriage is a big deal; I feel like it would be irresponsible if I didn’t formally and thoughtfully put a period on that period of my life.
    I always knew this day would come; I identified my future husband at the age of 12. And up until I fell for my fiancé, no one could have persuaded me I had the wrong guy all those years.
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    H, the first time I laid eyes on you across the field in sixth grade, I decided we were to wed. And as I got to you know via hourslong instant-message conversations and passed notes, I became even more sure. You ticked all the Nicholas Sparks boxes: athletic, popular, sweet when no one was looking, and had great hair and the most pinchable cheeks. You confided in me, made me giggle and humored my Buffy obsession. You were my first real guy friend. But I wanted more.
    Unfortunately for my melodramatic preteen self, you were also my first and worst unrequited love. So, when your best friend, the cutest boy in school, asked me out, I said yes.
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    A, you and I spent the next six months attached at the hip. You were my first boyfriend and while first boyfriends are always unforgettable, you were worthy of a Taylor Swift song. You took me on dates, bought me gifts, wrote me poems and weren’t shy about how much you “luv-ed” me. But this was more than “luv”; it was pure, passionate puppy love. We spent hours exploring each others’ bodies like science experiments (we did those together, too). You told me things you’d never told anyone, and I told you everything.
    I’m sorry I dumped you in an email; I thought I could do better in high school. I was wrong.
    Re-enter H.
    We didn’t date, or even talk regularly, for that matter. But we had the rest of our lives for all that! H, my split with A was further proof that you were the one. My belief in our eventual marriage was sort of like how some people cling to religion; you tell yourself it’s true to cope. Every time I got burned by someone not nearly as wholesome as my middle school crushes, I told myself, “It’s O.K. I’m going to marry H one day.”
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    The two of you gave me puppy love; the most innocent, intense and rewarding love there is, in my opinion. The type of love you cry over while listening to Lisa Loeb or Dido. The yearning that you scribble in your diary about and inspires you to create Boy Boxes to house movie tickets and used ChapStick.
    Thank you A, for dedicating a song to me at your bar mitzvah, making me feel like the most special girl in the room; thinking of that moment still gives me butterflies. You knew before I did that I needed grand gestures, which I dropped hints about to every guy after you, leading to a Central Park proposal you’d be proud of. Thank you H, for giving me hope all those years, but also for not ever being ready to commit, leaving room for someone who was.
    It wasn’t all puppy love and unicorns thanks to the next memorable man. D, you tricked me into trusting you and took things farther than I gave you the right to. While you staked a claim on a part of my consciousness for the rest of my life, I won’t give you much time here.
    It wasn’t easy telling my fiancé about you. Now he knows why I can’t watch certain movie scenes and why I take the #MeToo movement so seriously, and there’s nothing he can do about it but tread lightly. I wish I didn’t have to mention you. But the person I’m choosing to spend the rest of my life with is patient and gentle. Maybe what you did to me had something to do with that.
    He wasn’t the only love interest I had to share this with in order to feel safe and understood. Shortly after that experience with you, D, I met my high school turned college sweetheart.
    J, you were understanding of the fact that we wouldn’t be stealing any bases because of what D did to me.
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    Years later, you drove hours to whisk me to West Virginia University on days when my college-induced-depression spiked, and held my hand as my body adapted to antidepressants. Our bond was so strong, “I love you” didn’t quite encapsulate it, so we made up a word, just for us, to express our feelings for each other.
    Thank you for introducing me to the best feeling in the world: worshiping someone so much that you didn’t need anyone else, or the sun (we would spend days in that basement bedroom).
    Eventually, I had to crawl out of that warm and cozy hole. Thank you for letting me go.
    It was time to be a single adult in NYC. There were a few flings, but my long-term hookup buddy is the only one worth mentioning. S, you didn’t buy me gifts, or drinks, even, but you gave me confidence. And you know what they say about finding love; you won’t find it until you love yourself. With you, I was “the best kisser,” sexually adventurous and interesting. You taught me how to enjoy sex and how to be in a mature relationship, even though we weren’t in one. After I finally gave up on turning you into boyfriend material and settled for sex, I felt like such an adult. It was healthy; there were no expectations or letdowns. It might not have been love, but it was just as life-changing.
    Around that time, with no boyfriend or career holding me back, I fell in love with traveling. And with an Israeli soldier. B, you gave me the heart-wrenching love everyone deserves to feel at some point in their lives. It was the kind of passion that inspired that corny quote, “‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
    We spent 10 crazy days entwined, then two years trying to figure out a way back to each other when neither of us had the means to make such a big move. It was painful yet fulfilling in a self-destructive way. After two years of Skype calls and visa rejections, we finally reconnected in Delaware for six hours. We rolled round in my hotel bed and talked as if you weren’t about to get on a plane shortly. When you did, it felt like you were being ripped away from me, and I never wanted to feel that again. I was ready to close this chapter.
    Whenever you pop into my head, my heart breaks all over again (on a more bearable scale), and I kind of don’t mind. I feel lucky to have felt so strongly about someone that I almost moved across the world for them, and that I was scarred when it fell apart. After that roller coaster of a relationship, I was ready for a real one.
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    To all my exes, I am grateful to every single one of you for not working out. The scavenger hunt wasn’t always fun, but it led to the most worthwhile prize: my very last boyfriend.
    The one who didn’t wait at all to text me after our first date, and hasn’t stopped the conversation since.
    The man who told me he loved me after four months, and didn’t give up on me when I didn’t say it back right away. Who challenges me to open my mind, while promising to let me open his. Who doesn’t like when we’re apart, but encourages me to have a life outside our bubble.
    The guy who will stay up all night with the sick dog and let me sleep.
    The man who couldn’t wait to propose, but did until I was ready. Who wants to become my husband despite the above proof that I have some baggage. And who didn’t try to stop me from making it public.
    To the one I ended up with: While I hoped each of these guys were the one at some point, I’m so lucky they weren’t. Thank you for having everything they lacked.
    To those reading this who aren’t my exes: May my sometimes embarrassing, sometimes sweet, sometimes scarring love story give you hope that with every romance that doesn’t work out, you get closer to the one that will.
    Maggie Parker is a freelance journalist based in New York City. Her wedding date is Sept. 22.
    Continue following our fashion and lifestyle coverage on Facebook (Styles and Modern Love), Twitter (Styles, Fashion, and Vows) and Instagram.

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