Perhaps spurred on by my single oblique reference to him, my first boyfriend, Michael, has LIKED By Estella Dot Com’s page on facebook. While I welcome readers from anywhere and everywhere, it perplexes me that someone with whom I have no discernible mutual interest wants to read all about me. The last I checked, Michael was all about the money, with nothing but derision and scorn for the less practical among us; yours truly included.
Granted, we’ve both grown older since we broke up in 1999, but why now and why me? Do you make it a habit of staying in touch with all your ex-girlfriends or do the others not have a blog? Friends tell me that being affected by one’s ex is a sure sign of still holding a torch for him or her but I beg to disagree. I, for one, lack the necessary motivation to maintain an association fraught with painful reminders of the past and staying connected, however remotely, exposes me to that.
I get that you’re curious to know how I’ve done, especially since you taught me a lot of what I know about relationships. “There’s no romance without money,” you once said and having lived long enough to experience a weekend with $2 in the bank, I totally agree. You also once said that Australia is no place to get rich, and having been here over a decade, I must agree with that too. But unlike you, there’s more to me than money, which you would have realised if you had paid any attention to what I had said while we were together.
In hindsight, we never should have dated. You were too old for me, or for a first boyfriend at any rate, and as exciting as Fifty Shades of Grey author E L James makes the experience of dating a rich, worldly, older man out to be, I found it highly depressing: it exposed me to a world of cynical adults, jaded with life, which at 18, I wasn’t ready for.
I was also unprepared for how manically jealous I would feel about you keeping my predecessors photos by your bedside. Until today, I can’t go pass a pair of black handled metal scissors without recalling the day I shredded your precious mementoes, one by one. The perverse part was that I knew even then that I was going to dump you, once I’d worked up the courage to accept what I’d been avoiding: that I didn’t love you.
Throughout our one and a half years, I had not even come close to being vaguely attracted to you. I thought that these things improve with time, but I was wrong. In the years that followed, I came to realise that my frenzied outburst was a direct counterpoint to the unexpressed anger I felt towards myself, at giving myself to you. I’ve since become a lot more self-aware and self-preserving, and in doing so, spared many the angst you have gone through. Now, if someone fails to hold my interest, I simply walk away. I suggest you do the same.