With all the bullets I've dodged, I'm like Wonder Woman.

With The Boy away for a week, I've had lots of thinking to be done.  To be honest, my experiences in the past with boyfriends going away have not yielded positive results.

It started with my high school boyfriend who was bipolar and didn't take his meds.  He went away on vacation and cheated.  Not 1 summer but 2 in a row.  I think he adhered to that rule about not being in the same time zone, so the cheating doesn't count.  Or maybe he blamed his meds (or lack of).  Not sure, but back then the drama of "I'm sorry - I'll never do this again" and the being treated like a princess and showered with guilt gifts was very exciting.

Then, the worst ego blow was my college boyfriend, whom I was with all throughout college and a little thereafter.  The summer after my Freshman year, he went to Italy for a month for a study abroad thing.  Basically 2 weeks into his trip, he broke up with me over the phone from Florence.  

I later found out it was so he could screw a big boobed blonde named Tina guilt free.

A week after peeling myself off the bathroom floor, dry heaving and dried out from crying (we were going to be together forever!!) I managed to get out and promptly start sleeping with a way too old for me, but still managed a music store and smoked massive quantities of pot boy named John. 

John very quickly became a bit of a stalker.  In the time before cell phones he would repeatedly call my house and leave pathetic messages on the family answering machine.  He went as far as keeping the watch I left at his house for ransom until I saw him again.

Ahh young love.

When my ex came back from his sordid romance in Florence, of course he wanted me back.  Apparently Tina Ta-Tas wasn't more than a set of boobs with blonde hair (how many times does that happen and when will these men learn?).  I, the 18 year old birdbrain I was, was happy to oblige, open arms and all.  He wasn't a stalker and it gave me an excuse to give to John: "Uh sorry, my ex came back and we decided it was meant to be forever, keep the watch, bye".

Years go by and Mr. Popularity couldn't keep his little man in his pants.  This fact, I wouldn't find out until years later when we're living together.  He'd taken a few family vacations, sans the GF (me) and I've come to find out he'd screwed Dolphin trainers in Florida, family friends in New York and little chickies that lived in his college dorm.   

I found all this out when he left his e-mail open on the computer we shared.  Vacations and weekend getaways (as well as the nights I worked) were a time for play.  Who saves e-mails from NAKED chicks from 2 years ago and then "forgets" to sign out?  Someone who wants to get caught.  He was like David Duchoveny or that dude that was married to Hally Barry.  I swore he had a sex addiction.

Where was I going with this?

Ahh yes, so now The Boy's away.  And I am calm and cool as a cucumber.  I have no fear of Dolphin trainers, family friends or any kind of fornicating while he is on this trip.  He puts my anxious heart at ease.

I think of all the bullets I've dodged in my life.  Sometimes, when I'm feeling extra introspective I'll read old journals (I have them ALL) and take myself back to the breakups.  I really try to recall that feeling of panic, pain, fear, chest tightness when you realize it's over.  The "why didn't this work out"? lament.  And I realize why it didn't work out.  He's usually sitting right next to me.  And then I take a deep breath and sniff his armpits and relax.

The Power of Smell, Good Playlists and Past Relationships

I read somewhere that the sense of smell is most closely related to making memories.  I think that explains why I love the smell of The Boy.  And my dog's breath.  And certain subway stations.  Each and every one of those scents brings me back to a certain time in my life.

"Stop smelling my armpits - you weirdo.  I told you, you can only do that when we're alone.  Not in public".

That's an excerpt from a normal conversation between The Boy and I.  I remind him that I'm making memories.  I'm half kidding.  But I really mean it.

I remember one day a long time ago, I was on the subway.  I had just broken up with my high school boyfriend of four years and everything set me off.  I was like a time bomb.  Some guy standing near me smelled just like the drug store cologne my ex wore.  I remember wishing to the heavens that I could just forget that smell.  Because I was 18 and dramatic and breaking up is hard to do.  I thought I would forever be haunted by that smell.

A thousand years later and I wouldn't be able to identify it anymore.  It's been replaced by the smell of growing up.  Certain areas of the ER where I work, the perfume I pull out for first dates and new beginnings.  My own shampoo.  Spring.  A lot of memories were created between then and now and my mind has (thankfully) replaced that smell.

The sense of smell is crucial to my existence.

Another memory maker is music.  I think if you polled 100 people with a variety of songs - they could assign a place, a time, a feeling and an event to many of the songs.  And they would all be very indivdual.

The Boy has a very eclectic list of songs on his pod.  I love his pod.  I love sitting in the car, playing DJ from the passenger side - because I know he has songs that I'll like.  And because he has no qualms about me playing songs on repeat.  The way I like to listen to them  But sometimes, when I'm feeling masochistic and retrospective, I let my mind wander.

Do some of these songs have a meaning assigned to them?  Does he think about his ex when he hears certain guitar chords or certain lyrics?  I try not to dwell on the past.  If you get me on a logical day I'll tell you all the many reasons I know I have nothing to fear when it comes to the past.  

I think the fact that I obsess over it sometimes has to do with how little I know.  He never really talks about why it ended, who she was or any of those little details your stomach can't handle but you have to know.  He doesn't do this to be secretive.  I know if I asked he would share.  (I think).  But I don't ask.  I don't want to know.  But I do.

It's not as though I've diagrammed out my entire relationship with my ex either.  He doesn't ask.  And I hate to sound bitter, so I don't tell.

But, sometimes I can't help but wonder if it's crucial to the "now" to know about the "was".

But then I turn up "This Must Be the Place" by the Talking Heads real loud (to drown out my insecurities) and realize - this song is our memory maker.  

That and his arm pits.