Swiping through perspectives on breakups
By Matthew Fraser, Opinions Editor
Years ago, I met this girl shortly after she came back from tree planting. One night we took the blankets out of her parents’ car and had sex in the park. I almost broke my thumb swiping right when I saw her on tinder last week. It must be part of growing up to make memories that bring a smile to your heart every time they cross your mind. You can’t go through life unarmed or uncomforted by memories of good times now past. How could you continue without knowing things will be good again? Some of them will be lewd of course—all work and no play really did make jack a dull boy. Still, the day will come when the young man becomes old and it’s just grandpa trapped in the prison of senility squawking about the great parties of 2014.
They say I’m too young to be jaded, but am I old enough to be sentimental? I’m convinced that there really is a hierarchy of men according to the shallow nature of our hearts and affections. The best men have one love that they cherish and kindle throughout life, the great men hold a few intense attractions but have one that stands above all else, and finally, the good men have loved and lost many times but won’t lose again.
And here I am with my collection of squandered relationships. It’s a long list of could-have’s, should-have’s and if-only-I-knew-better’s. A bunch of “if only I had another chance,” a few “maybe in the next life,” and at least three “once in a lifetime” flings. Let me be bad with all my good memories. I can’t drink coffee without thinking of my French ex-wife (why did you have to run away, mon Cherie?) I can’t hear “Lady” by D’Angelo without thinking of the first time I stuck my hand down so-and-so’s… I can’t say that in print, now can I? The word “fickle” still irks me since [she] described me as such. And even though [redacted] is only in my head, I wish she would stop talking to me like that and come back to bed.
Every heart has its rhythm, no two fires burn the same, some things you just can’t live twice. You can try. You can look high and low, long and hard, through days and nights searching in every place—but you know it’s just not the same now that it’s over. There must be 10,000 songs for moments like this.
Which great rapper hasn’t crafted a song about carnal exploits? Which RnB singer has neglected to croon over their biblical knowledge of such-and-such’s daughter? Not even the poet avoids a verse about loves so tender that it just might hurt. We all fall victim to the basest of earthly pleasures. Yasiin Bey told us the truth: “memories don’t live like people do; they always remember you. Whether things are good or bad, it’s just the memories.” Well, it was fun but it’s not yet real Jazzy Belle. I’m not done playing house yet, and I’m certainly not the doctor whoever’s mother dreamed of either. I’d like to be the evil that people talk about laying on the other side of their bed. Wouldn’t that be nice? Maybe I’m not, but I relish the thought of it. Who didn’t dream of being the bad boy girls lusted after once in a while?