The Ex-Factor

NIKKI

Sometimes, I love my exes. They remember my birthday and send me articles they think I might like. One who lives in a different city is good for drinks and dinner when I'm in his town. All of them to different degrees are also pretty good for an ego boost. I, of course, try to do my part by looking my very best: hair in place, skin as clear as nature will allow, clothes, shoes, and handbags chosen by my scarce but occasionally accessible inner fashion magazine editor. They do their part by proclaiming how good I look and with a well placed (slightly) inappropriate memory whispered between my cheek and my ear. Sometimes, an ex can do a good impersonation of what he is no longer: my man.

I have in the last year or so tapped a power I never knew I had: the ability to be friends with these men. They know things about me others couldn't and, at least at some point, cared about me in a way my girlfriends can't. Over the last few months, I've had an avalanche of exes or those who were almost but not quite. Each I've been genuinely happy to see or talk to, but no matter how good a friend I may think he is "we" will always be different. It's a friendship unlike others one that can veer into nostalgia (he's so funny or so smart) with tinges of bitterness (why does he always bring that up?). No matter the distance from the relationship, I can't imagine not feeling a twinge of jealousy when he talks to another woman and he may always ask if I'm dating anyone.

But, an ex is an ex for a reason. Familiar is nice and easy, but nice and easy doesn't mean right, doesn't mean best. These exes are reminders of my singleness, an aspect of myself that is both frightening and damned liberating. So, I'll take the compliments and the birthday wishes, but then I need to take their hand, give a warm smile, tell them it was nice to see them, and walk. away.