Facebook Friend Request Heals Heartache

[EDITOR'S NOTE: Love is in the air these days. Many have offered thoughts about this powerful emotion. This week, several of our readers share their thoughts in a series of guest essays.]

by Lesley Misko

Lounging peacefully on my computer screen, the Facebook friend request looked just like all the others. It appeared in the customary small black type at the usual location on my screen. It precipitated no fireworks, left my computer unmoved, telegraphed no message of shame to my hundreds of Facebook friends. But reading it in disbelief, my face flushes red and hot and my heart seems to make a harsh sound, as the chalky taste of embarrassment fills my mouth once again, along with the agony of rejection. It is not possible; it cannot be.

“Go away and leave me alone,” I whisper inwardly. “You can’t trespass in my life. I buried you in my memories.” But as I read the simple message – “Don’t I know you?” -- the past claws at my consciousness.

I avert my eyes from the print on the screen. Impossible. It cannot be that the first guy who ever kissed me and soon after, broke my heart by rejecting me, is suddenly intruding into my calm and secure existence, an existence that proves by virtue of my 31 year marriage, that I had “gotten over it.” It simply cannot be. But as I silently mouth the words of denial, I smell young man smell, cheap aftershave, and I touch his shoulder in my memory, as I feel my satisfaction with life drain away.

“Six foot-two, eyes of blue,” -- the memorable line from that old song, could easily have described Eugene, the heart throb of my 13-year-old life. But it is not Gene who is now the source of my emotional catapult back to this painful time. Gene had not asked me out on my first ever date, a New Year’s Eve party at his home, for himself.

I had practically died of excitement when that Nordic looking God in his blue and red high school football letter jacket, flagged me down in the dreary lobby of our NYC apartment building and said, “Hey, are you doing anything New Year’s Eve?” It turned out that my joy was misplaced. His buddy, Eddie, he explained, was coming to the party and needed a date. Eddie was Jewish, Gene mentioned, attempting to be casual and leaving the obvious unsaid.

Too dumbfounded, first by my excitement and then by my disappointment, to even think to say, “Uh, sorry, no,” I found myself recruited to be a party date for the evening, and that was how I came to meet Eddie.

A brainiac like Gene, I was to discover Eddie lived in the neighborhood, played the sax, and attended the special magnet high school for smart kids in Manhattan. But if his brains hadn’t won my heart by evening’s end, his charm did. By midnight of December 31, 1963, the tall, curly dark brown haired sax player from the other side of Queens Blvd. had won my heart and that heart throbbed with the excitement you can only feel at the naïve age of 13.

Talking a little, smiling often, and dancing, we ushered out the old year getting to know one another to a backdrop of Jay and the Americans’ Let’s Lock the Door and the other top ten tunes of the day. As I whirled to the music, the black and white checked skirt I had sewn for the occasion, flared out around me and my inherent shyness and first experiment with make-up brought a soft flush to my face, and then, shortly after the dawning of 1964, he walked me to my apartment door three floors below, and we encountered that traditionally awkward moment in any new dating relationship. It was the moment when time hangs in the balance and you nervously wonder and try to prepare for what might come next. Would a casual good-night do it? Would we shake hands? Might we exchange a generic hug? Would we just say, “Had a great time, thanks,” and “See ya around.”

As I considered the possibilities, he gently put his hands on my waist and leaned forward and kissed me, quietly asking if the kiss was “okay.” I think he was asking for permission, but I was focused on the kiss itself. More than okay, it was a soft, sensitive kiss that demanded nothing. Coming from the older man of 15, to this naïve 13-year-old girl, it was tame enough not to intimidate, but all the same, it was a confident kiss, a determined kiss that clearly said, “I like you,” and the kiss electrified me, and I wondered whether he felt the sparks too.

We hopped apart awkwardly and said almost in unison, “Thanks for a good time.” I walked into my apartment in a euphoric haze, and spent the early morning hours pondering the wonder of the whole thing until I drifted off to sleep.

Without warning, my life was inextricably changed. The days took on a new excitement and my emotions rode a rollercoaster from joy to despair, as one day I was certain he would call and the next day I was equally certain he wouldn’t.

As the weeks passed, he did call periodically and asked me out on several movie dates. Each evening was fun, and we grew more comfortable with one another. But then I made a fatal mistake

Since we were both too young to be employed, though I think he had a small parttime job, money was scarce. A thoughtful person, I felt badly that he kept paying for movies. So, the next time he called I said, “Hey, would you like to come over and just watch TV for a while Saturday night?”

Ka -Boom. Crash. 

There was no mistaking the vibes.

I could hear him inhale a mouth full of air and as he released it back out, my happiness shattered. I had trouble focusing on his hurried, mumbled, and awkward declaration: “I’m not looking to get married ya know.” I never heard from him again and spent my time repetitively sobbing through Petula Clarke’s song, Downtown.

I endlessly contemplated what I could have done wrong. I wondered if I was too stupid? Not pretty enough? But as time passed and my pain retreated into my heart, I began to realize it wasn’t any of those things. It was simple: I had violated the rules by taking the lead. I had admitted I liked him and wanted to see him again, and in my attempt to be thoughtful and considerate, I had broken the rules. Guys do the asking; girls wait to be asked.

I never heard from him again. I moved on. But part of that hurt and rejection stayed with me as the decades moved along. And now, suddenly, out of nowhere, here he was again, asking, “Don’t I know you?” And with those simple words, my pain flooded back in.

I considered ignoring him to avoid my stored-up bad feelings, and  just to be snarky. But age is a liberating thing, and the more I thought about it, I was drawn to the opportunity to speak up on behalf of the “younger me’s” pain all those years ago. 

Feeling the red flush of embarrassment and pain in my face, I shrugged, held my breath, took the plunge. I accepted the friend request and wrote, “Uh-huh, yes, you know me. You’re Gene’s friend and you were my first date, my first kiss, and the first guy who dumped me, breaking my heart.”

I figured he would not bother responding, but I was wrong! 

He quickly replied: “I’m really sorry if I hurt you. I was a young and stupid guy. What did I know about anything? I grew up to be better than that. I hope you can accept my apology.”

Wow! I was astonished and best of all, I felt validated! His seemingly sincere words erased those tucked away thoughts of “not smart enough,” “not pretty enough,” “not interesting enough.”

We exchanged a few more messages. I learned that he had gone to law school, became a lawyer, and was now a judge. He had reached out to me because he was attempting to connect with Gene again. I had not seen Gene in decades. 

Eddie and I returned to our normally scheduled lives, but the painful real estate he occupied in my heart felt better. I know it should not have mattered so much. But it did. His apology mended the crack in my self-esteem.It was so freeing to have it drift away.

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