Ah, Memphis

Being in Memphis for business is a somewhat bizarre experience. First of all, I am working for the corporation that indirectly financed almost all of my (excessive) teenage alcohol consumption. Second of all, it seems I can not drive down the streets of East Memphis without remembering events from my childhood. For example, I always glance longingly at that street where my first boyfriend tested his BMW to see if it would really go from 0 to 60 in less than 7 seconds (What an ass).

Last Wednesday evening, my mother and I had dinner at the same restaurant where I had my eighth grade dance "date" (you know, the kind of date where nobody is even close to having a driver's license). That seemed to set the tone for the following 24 hours.

Thursday evening, I was sitting in the airport, minding my own business, absolutely exhausted from a tiring week of client service. I sensed some sort of unnatural presence behind me in the gate area, only to turn around and discover much to my dismay, that two graduates of [Miss X's School], one of whom was my college summer internship boss and the other (the younger sister) of whom had been described by me in the late '80s to be "too blonde," were sitting one row behind me. I slowly turned my eyes away and vowed not to look over my shoulder again, for fear of either being blinded by the light reflected by the bleached blonde hair or, even worse, having to make smalltalk.

I glanced up at the gate to see if the flight delay had at all been reduced, as I was anxious to step out of the past and get back to my real life in New York, when I noticed something strange. A tall blonde man stood at the counter, his posture familiar. After receiving the response to his question, he slowly turned around and started walking towards me when, to my absolute horror, I realized that it was Dave, my boyfriend of 18 years ago (Mr. BMW). Oh my God. Pink Floyd music filled my brain, and I recalled the evening when K., N., and I had burned all of his letters and his ratty old t-shirt in a backyard flower bed burial ceremony.

I did what most women in that situation would do. No, I did not jump up and say hello. I pretended not to have seen him. He pretended not to have seen me. I looked down, and then to the side. He walked back to his seat.

Two and a half hours, one strategic dig into the laptop bag (as he passed me in my first class seat), and one sprint to the baggage claim area later and I was home free. May Dave, his T-shirt, and his letters rest in peace, at least for another 18 years. Let's hope that those were the first and last of the blonde sightings.