It was 1998. It was the year of my first long-distance romance.
I was a wee babe; fresh out of college and in love with a blue-blooded All-American boy whose last name reminded you of the name for a doctor who has decided to focus his entire life shining a flashlight up the very part of your body where the sun don’t.
Our love was rather immature and based on some pretty superficial stuff, including the fact that we both liked to call our beers by their names backwards and we were both soon-to-be-ex-jocks really into college sports, both self-consciously hanging on to the glory days before we finally had to move on to more sophisticated interests. He called me “Sweetness”, which I liked. The sex, from the little of it that I remember, was not spectacular but nice. But fall we did, Johnny Football and I, however prematurely. We had 2 months to do it in, because I was soon leaving for a 6 month work abroad program in London.