A sense of nostalgia? A sense of what might have been? A sense of missed opportunities? No matter how wonderful and interesting our lives have been, once we get into the later years, there's something beguiling about first loves and class reunions.
David Addison was my most serious boyfriend of the fantasy variety. I had a warm-up flirtation with a few others -- namely Remington Steel, whom my mother loved and who was exceptionally handsome. I liked Alex P. Keaton, in all his sweet contrarian nature.
1965. One of my least evolved relationships was with Saul, my first husband. His dimpled cheeks and large, almost bulging eyes gave him a perky Jiminy Cricket look. His mother claimed his I.Q. was at the genius level. My mother thought he was nice.
I noticed him leaning up against the door jamb as I entered the kitchen. He was tall, wore a white t-shirt and Levis and had his left ear pierced. He told me it was his 29th birthday. After a guessing game of how old I was, I revealed that I was 13.
A long time ago my friend from church decided to set me up with a friend of hers from college and invited me to a small gathering where we would have the opportunity to meet, but I found myself completely bored with the object of the setup and totally smitten with Dana, our hostess.
If I could offer words of advice to my brokenhearted, 16-year-old self, it would be just this: Trust with your whole heart and don't hold yourself back from life even if all hell breaks loose and take the flying leap, come what may.