What makes us such prisoners to the grip of first love?
Or is it just me?
I have a theory that we fear never being as close to someone (non-familial) again, and it is this fear that magnifies the pain of letting a first love go.
I'm fairly certain that some of my most embarrassing moments occurred with my first boyfriend, and vice-versa. The next time around, in a new relationship, things won't be as new or awkward, I won't be as green or young. I'm not just talking about sex either, I'm talking about every portion of first love. The incessant feeling of butterflies -- really just a kinder word for nausea -- that accompanies the first month of the relationship. The I-can't-believe-you-just-said/did-that, moments. The terror of meeting the family. The family dinners in which one parent spots a hickey and then brings it to the attention of everyone at the table. The "accidental" sleepovers. The first big fight.
There is nothing quite like first love.
When Judith Jones' husband Evan died, she wrote, "I doubted that I would ever find pleasure in making a nice meal for myself and sitting down to eat it alone. I was wrong. Instead, I realized that the ritual we had shared together for almost fifty years was a part of the rhythm of my life, and by honoring it I kept alive something that was deeply engrained in our relationship."
Evan may not have been Judith's first love, but he was certainly her greatest. And my ex-boyfriend may not be dead, but sometimes I feel I've lost a loved one.
How do we find pleasure in relationships past? Is it possible to maintain rituals, to celebrate what was, to cook with first love?
Is it healthy?
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