I’ve never gone through a breakup with a boyfriend. I’ve had a few of them — five, to be exact. The sixth guy I dated ended up being my husband. But I’ve never had a breakup, not a real one, not one where you both decide that things are not working out, or where one of you walks out, not one that breaks your heart into tiny little pieces.
Sure, I have experienced sadness and heartache, but usually because we had to say good-bye, not because we broke up.
I met my first serious boyfriend at the beginning of my senior year of high school. He was a college student, a foreigner in my home city. At 17, all of that seemed so sophisticated — his independence, his money, his relaxed schedule, his distance from his parents. My parents weren’t happy, but I was delirious with the first taste of love and sex. Perhaps not such a great thing when you are supposed to be finishing high school and applying to colleges.
I see that now, but of course back then all I could think about was spending time with him. Someday I’ll have to apologize to my mom.