On the starry summer nights of my childhood, I loved running, jumping and catching lightning bugs between my cupped hands—then peeking through the dark hole formed by my thumbs to watch them illumine a bright neon yellow while softy tickling my skin with their itty-bitty feet. In fact, each time I held one, the sensation tingled through my arms and into my heart, activating a reflex to loosen my grip and release the fragile critter back into the night.
My love affair with lightning bugs continued for some time and so I dreamed of ways to actually keep one of these beloved creatures as a pet. Then one day, I asked my mother if I could have one of her empty tomato sauce jars, to which I punctured holes in its golden twist-on lid. Immediately after sunset, I dashed out into the backyard and captured the first specimen in sight, delicately leading him into my jar before sealing it.
I set the jar upon the patio table and watched the bug fly around in it for several minutes, enjoying my private light show I’d so cleverly created. I even named my new pet “Tomato.” Yet it was not long before my mother found me and asked about what I’d just done. From our short discussion, I came to understand that if I loved Tomato, I’d have to set him free, and after mindful consideration, I then did so joyfully.
Now, fast-forward twenty-five years to this moment, as this childhood lesson is rushing back to me in a flash of insight. Only this time, it’s not about my relationship with insects, but rather with human beings—men to be precise. Reflecting on my last three romances, I finally recognize how I unconsciously treated these dear beings just like Tomato by attempting to encase them in my idyllic romantic construct, a glass jar I’d been spinning for so long, I simply could not see it anymore.
Ahh, my first “real adult” relationship: a marriage that could not have started off more “storybook” if Hans Christian Andersen had written it himself. Immediately after my college graduation, a stunning twenty-one-year-old from Switzerland willingly landed in my glass jar, which I sealed with an eloquent marriage ceremony. We lived within my jar comfortably for about one year until expectations built to a crescendo of such intensity that we began escaping through the tiny breathing holes—him to other women, and me to the office, the therapist and the gym in desperate attempts to keep myself attractive to him.
