| “Who was the first person to say that long distance relationships don’t ever work?” I mutter to myself as I hit the last button on the remote and flip from a rerun of Friends to a rerun of How I Met Your Mother, waiting for your call.
I bet during World Wars One and Two they didn’t tell the guys that they should break up with their girls because long distance relationships didn’t work out. Or maybe they did. It seems like you hear all kinds of stories about Dear John letters a lot.
Maybe as the 49ers headed west across the frontier their mothers told them, “break up with this girl you’ve been courtin’, ‘cuz’ this long distance thing never works out. There will be some nice pretty girl out there for you to court.”
Can’t you just imagine the pilgrims leaving Europe for the colonies and that lovelorn teenage in knee britches and a funny hat looking back at the girl waving at him on the dock and his dad patting him on the shoulder and telling him, “Forget about her son. Long distance things never make it.”
Or the fair maiden, watching her knight ride off into the sunset, off on a crusade, while her father calls in the next suitor because “These long distance relationships never survive. What is the difference between one knight and another anyway?"
Or the Legionnaire, headed from Rome to some eastern city where his regiment has been called. Him turning and looking back at the toga clad girl waving at him sadly and his buddy telling him, “You’ll find some pretty eastern slave to fill your time. Long distance relationships never last.”
The lonely cave teenager refusing to go flirt with the girl in the next cave because he’s thinking about the girl who lived there before and his mother grunting at him, “We’ll never survive if you don’t forget about that girl and find a new one. Long distance things never survive.”
Did they sit there waiting for a letter to arrive? To see a piece of paper with that familiar scrawl? A scroll with a recognizable seal? A rock with a picture on it? Something to tell them that the one they loved hadn’t forgotten them, was still thinking of them.
I sigh and then my phone buzzes your ringtone.
“Hi,” I breathe.
“Hi,” you reply. “Thirty-seven more days until I get to see you again.”
I grin. “I know. Seems like forever.”
“You know what they say, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’”
My grin grows wider. I wonder who was the first person to say that.
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