DAY 10: On First Loves and First Kisses

My professor told me that all our first loves are our mothers. We were all born against her naked boobies; it’s the first nude body we see, and it’s the first body we love. As such, we should all just get over saying “Ew…” in response to the Oedipus complex. Because everyone has had it one point or another. That is, according to him.

I’m not saying I agree or disagree, but I can say that I was slightly intrigued. In theory: as we mature, we are forced to come to terms with the fact that our mothers cannot be our lovers (well, they can, but that’s opening another can of worms), and we must find a substitute for our mamas with someone else of the opposite sex. It is infinitely harder for a woman because not only must she substitute the mother figure with another, but she must do so with the body of a man. And a man usually isn’t big enough to fill the void (Get it? Not funny…). Basically my professor was saying that it sucks to be a woman.

And he all said this much more eloquently and convincingly than I did.

---In all seriousness though, I don’t think that I’m supposed to be talking about my mother, but who I personally perceive as my first love. Have I fallen in love? I remember the first date at a restaurant. I was a wreck; those damn butterflies were hurdling to their deaths against the walls of my stomach. It was raining that day, and I felt myself fall. I didn’t fall in love; I fell on my butt. But maybe that’s when it all started. Or maybe it happened a month later or 4 months later or 8 months later. I can’t say I knew exactly when I knew I was in love because it only hit me that it was real when it was already over.

Charlie Brown once said: “Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.”

The same goes for nutella and chocolate.

Regardless, it hurt more than I ever thought it would. The butterflies were dead, and all that was left was the space those wings had once occupied. It was broken, it was unreciprocated, it was over.

I think the problem is remembering first love. I’m over the person, but it’s harder still to get over the memories. The places I see, the things I do—they all remind me of something that was done together. When we fought and when we broke up, all I could remember were the bad things. I cried more than I ever had in my entire life. The sobs came from someplace so deep down inside of me, from a place I didn’t know existed. I didn’t know how to fight it. I was torn between what I wanted and what I knew I had to do. But now, with distance, I think I can look back and feel nostalgic for the good things. I remember ice skating, singing in the car, eating ice cream, laundry days, museum visits, sending emails, late night chatting and phone calls, lying down on the beach, cuddling in bed, shopping, walking on cold nights with warm hands, picking fruits, eating out and eating in, saying and hearing “I love you.” I was just happy to be with him doing the things that made me happy. I’m sorry that it ended the way it did, but I’m now willing to let go. Because as much as I cried out of sadness, he also made me laugh until I cried. I have to accept that while we are still the same people, we won’t be the same people again together. We can’t start over what already happened. To wish I can would probably be foolish and futile.

He once told me, “You don’t realize how good I am.” And the truth was I probably didn’t because, at the time, I felt like he didn’t realize how good I was. There were so many things that we could have done differently, starting with the basic components of any relationship: an appreciation for the other, open communication, listening.

I think that’s what first love is. It’s learning. It’s remembering. We all remember our firsts—first crush, first loves, first kisses.

My first kiss was on a carousel. A boy came up to me, said I was cute, and kissed me on the lips. My first kiss was stolen. It was when I was 3.

But the first kiss I can remember? I thought he was going to kiss me, but he joked and said I had assumed too much. I was ridiculously embarrassed. But then he went ahead and kissed me. I tried to hide (because of my damn pride) the fluttering feelings rising in my chest because it was then that I knew that I was turning vulnerable. It was somewhere I both didn’t want and wanted to be.

Thinking back now, I guess everything tastes bittersweet.

It’s funny, but I feel better. It feels like I’m on a search for self now more than a search for another. I’m not waiting for someone to fill the void anymore. I’m going to fill it myself.

So if you someday come across this a long long time from now (and as small that chance may be), I want to say thank you. Thank you for being my first love. And with this entry, I fold these thoughts until I look at it all not with sadness and regret, but with a sympathy for the girls and boys we once were.