The Catch

Once upon a time- after a brief romance abruptly ended- I carried a torch.  I admit it.  The gentleman in question had broken up with me and I pined.  And I languished.  And I re-lived every glorious moment we had spent together.  I had been crazy about him and now, too soon, (for me, at least) it was over.

I remembered every little detail about him.  I had loved his brains and his laugh and his car and his cat and his serious save-the-planet demeanor.  But mostly I loved the way he looked.  His tall, lanky frame, those long, slender fingers, his gorgeous blue-gray eyes.

And, above all else, I loved his hair.

It was a shade we used to call “dishwater blonde,” and it went great with blue eyes and blue jeans.  It was thick and shaggy- a mop top that was lush and luxuriant.

When he ended our love affair, I was sad and nostalgic for years.  And long after I forgot what he sounded like or kissed like, I could remember that great head of hair.

Over the years, I kind of kept unofficial track of him.  It was hit or miss back then- once it involved telephone books at the public library- but I always knew where he was in the world.  Just idle curiosity, I think.  And pretty harmless.

But then the Internet happened and it became a whole lot easier to do a random check on him every now and again.

I had no interest in getting in touch.  After forty-some years, he had become a bittersweet memory; forever young, forever handsome.  I just kept this little secret sorrow to myself, and it made me sigh whenever I heard “our” song on the radio.  It was delightful to revel in such rosy-hued nostalgia.

And then it happened.

One day, I idly googled him and a website for his company popped up.  Before I had a chance to think it through, I clicked, and voilà!  All the employees of the firm had posted pictures of themselves- and their families.

There he was- complete with wife and kid.  The wife was so-so.  The kid looked nice.  And he?  Still tall, still thin, and… balding.

All that gorgeous mop top was now gone.  His receding forehead actually gleamed in the photo’s sunlight.  His sparse locks let his scalp peek through.

One photo op killed what forty years could not.  A bucket of ice water doused my torch faster than you could say “Rogaine.”

Forever.

The Internet is a great tool.  I use it for practically everything.  But when it comes to rosy-hued nostalgia and old beaux, it’s a complete buzz kill.

So here’s some advice.

When tempted to find your long-lost love, just DON’T do it.

And while you’re just not doing it, pray that they’re not looking for you.

(See Fifty Shades of Gray.)