The Joy of Being an Untethered Woman
On sex, solitude, and female friendship
Nineteen years ago I spent an evening with a person who had been madly in love with me — his words — when I was 23. We’ll call him V. When we met for dinner, it had been seven years since we’d last seen each other, and it felt as though a lifetime had passed. He was newly married. I had recently moved back to New York after several years in New Orleans. When I was in my early twenties, all I had done was push him away, but now I was devastated.
The next day I wrote him a long, sobbing letter telling him that I finally got it, that I finally understood why people got married and risked annoyance by inviting another person into their lives: because they liked each other and it was fun.
Why couldn’t you have waited for me? I wasn’t ready when I was 23!
I was ready when I met my ex-husband at 32. He flirted with me in the hallway of the building where we both worked, we ran into each other at a restaurant, he sent flowers to my table, we had the sexiest date of my life, and he never really left my apartment after that. A year later we were married, and for the most part, we were happy. We never got tired of telling our origin story, laughing and interrupting each other to argue over details.
Just as the courtship had been quick, so was the break. A year after he said he wanted to separate, we were divorced. But we still liked each other, and no one had behaved badly in our 14 years together, so we managed to stay friendly as we separated our money and filed the paperwork.
Not too long ago my ex and I had lunch with my parents when they were in town. Sitting next to him that day, I was surprised that I didn’t feel any pangs. I was grateful to have had 14 years with him, but I wasn’t jealous of his new wife or his new life. There was zero attraction, which seemed bizarre for someone who had been the focus of my love and fantasies for so many years.
I did, however, feel pangs when I had dinner with V — the man who had been in love with me when I was 23 — a few weeks ago. We hadn’t seen each other in 19 years, not since the evening that inspired my sobbing letter.
