By Jess Lander
Oreo cake batter ice cream: my favorite flavor at my favorite ice cream shop, forever ruined because I introduced it to my ex and it became “our flavor.”
I wanted to continue to love this ingenious creation post-breakup, but all it ever led to was dozens of memories of hot summer days down by the Charles River in Boston, back when the idea of breaking up was inconceivable.
But eventually, Oreo cake batter ice cream went down in flames with a handful of favorite bands, songs, movies, TV shows, restaurants and of course, our relationship.
It was the kind of long-term, meaningful, but also devastating relationship that to this day, hovers around everywhere I look; the kind that turned me on to fro-yo, just because it was the completely opposite and healthy alternative to “our” dessert. I was also least likely to run into him that way.
I assume that most everyone has this kind of ex — no matter how much time has passed, no matter how over it you are or how many lovers have passed through since, something always manages to trigger a memory of what was, but is nevermore.
But if his preference for no toppings dueling with mine for loading on the chocolate fudge, caramel and gummy bears wasn’t enough of a sign, his first set of lies probably should have been. You live and learn, and thanks to him, I now have a long list of signs that set off blazing red alarm bells in my head, and I steer clear of any boy with a tribal tattoo, a pet tarantula or symptoms of being a pathological liar — just like my ex.
The memories hurt. I’ve wished I could erase them, “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”–style, but they’re probably for my own good.
And then there’s the worse kind of ex: the kind that thankfully, you more often than not don’t remember.
The one that was a rebound, a fling or a minor lapse in judgment, tucked away behind your memory until it sort of just fades away with the faces of everyone else you didn’t like too much in college.
After conjuring up these unwanted memories, I can recall that mine A) played Magic the Gathering (at age 20) and B) purposely changed the spelling of his name to a set of letters that were more unusual than actually landing a girlfriend when you’re admittedly playing Magic the Gathering at age 20.
So imagine my revulsion when, as I was on a recent date, something suddenly triggered his memory — complete with shape-shifters, sorcerers and elf warriors alike.
We were at dinner and my date ordered a hamburger. It wasn’t long before I realized that as a result, he had come down with a pretty lethal case of onion breath.
As the night progressed, it bothered me more and more, and when it was time for the goodnight kiss, I could barely stop myself from gagging.
Then it hit me. This wasn’t just any onion breath. This was the same scented onion breath of my misspelled, mistake of a forgotten ex-boyfriend. It all came flooding back. He loved onions, but they took to his breath like I’d never smelled before and despite my refusals to kiss him after the dining hall, he equally refused to stop eating them.
I hated his onion breath more than his stupid, imaginary card game. He’d spoiled four precious months of my college experience; now four years later, here he was, indirectly spoiling my date with someone else.
It definitely didn’t seem fair that my date had to suffer from the actions of an ex, especially one that never really mattered, and especially over something as silly as onions. But I just couldn’t get past the onion breath. Just like I’m not sure I could ever date another guy who sleeps next to a tarantula rather than a teddy bear.
But I guess that’s the point. Maybe each painful scar from every painful relationship serves as a warning sign, protecting us from making the same mistake twice. “Do not enter,” my date’s onion breath seemed to say. “Remember last time?”
