Ex-Men

The first time I met him, I knew I would love him forever. I had no idea how right that thought would be. I’m talking about my ex, the guy who would eventually be the Man of Honor at my wedding. He’s been my best friend for fourteen years, and I often wonder how we survived those many growing pains suffered after the break-up. I knew people in college who “came out” to their fundamentalist Christian families and received less flack than Aaron (not his real name) and I did for staying together as friends, after the romantic relationship was long over. Even in our circle of people who were made up almost entirely of college-educated, freethinking, wheeling-dealing, young movers and shakers, there was a general sense of discomfort and embarrassment. Are we a generation that’s more ready to embrace the concepts of organ cloning and legalized drugs than a friendship that lasts beyond the romance?

It was a tough two years that he and I spent together as boyfriend and girlfriend. We were each other’s firsts and let’s face it—I was a total basket case. Suffering from major abandonment issues that left me with a serious fear of commitment, I vented every ounce of hurt in his direction. He was no angel either. Insecurities born from my wandering eyes forced him into a position of passive aggression and manipulation. And yet, somehow, he was the only person in the world that I knew would always have my back. He knew the same of me. We went through things together that I’m quite certain I will never have to go through with anyone else. I remember one time, I got the worst flu I’ve ever had in my life. I truly thought I might die. He sat with me, holding the bucket and my head because I was too weak to do either. After pulling me from the bathtub and my own filth, he cleaned up all of my messes and tucked me in to bed—I never once felt ashamed. My husband has never been allowed near the bathroom while I was ill, let alone at a time when I was sick from both ends.