Every time I feel down about the demands of being a parent, and a parent-to-be, I google image an ex boyfriend. This always comforts me, although not because it brings back any nostalgic pleasure, nor because he was ugly. There is no nostalgia, and he wasn’t ugly, in fact I found him quite dashing (even if most of my friends found him strange, weird, “challenging”). The memories his photo brings back is one of icky disgust. The sort of “eugh, I fornicated with that!”, the hope that no one in the world remembers our tryst, and that he, most of all suffers from some sort of early onset dementia where he can’t quite remember my name, and therefore track me down. The thing is, his image shows me what could have been, rather than, thank god, what is, even when the “thank god” bit is the furthest thing from my mind, pre the google image viewing. So thankyou, Mr Icky, for reminding me to stop bloody complaining, for reminding me of what counts, and most of all, for what might have been.
