I’ve only been in love three times. Well maybe four. Five if you count Paulina Porizkova, but since the trial I haven’t been allowed to talk about that. Damn restraining orders. Deep down I know she loves me too, but she just doesn’t know it yet. One day Ric will be out of the picture. Oh yes. And I’ll be here...

Insert maniacal laughter here.

Sorry. I digress. Only once was the love ever reciprocal. It was in many ways simultaneously the best and worst relationship I have ever had. The six people who read this blog regularly already know far too many details about this international love affair as perhaps too much of it was frequently and prominently on display.

It was also the only relationship in my life that, perhaps not surprisingly to many people, did not end amicably. I would have preferred to remain friends. I think it’s probably best that way, but in the end she sold our relationship to pay the rent. In retrospect, I’m not sure who got the better deal.

Despite those circumstances, the end of our relationship was made easier by geography. This is the one benefit of dating someone who lives in another country – aside from the exchange rate. I never had to be concerned about running into her at the supermarket or the gym. Never had to be concerned about an uncomfortable or awkward encounter while on a date or in a bar or in a restaurant. You know that’s rarely ever a good thing. Never had to share the friends. Frankly, her treatment of me those last few months ensured that none of my friends wanted anything to do with her again. Surprisingly, they are far more damning in their opinion of her than I am.

I always joked that there ought to be break up rules. Contracts. Like a divorce settlement, only not with property but with social situations. Who gets the house and who gets the car? Who gets the gym on what days and who gets the sushi place on what weekends? She gets Canada and I get the internet.

Or something like that.

Aside from our occasional passing in blogspace at some of my daily digital destinations the odds of us running into each other and aggravating old injuries were remote. Definitely a good thing, too. Lord knows I’m neurotic enough and spend far too much time picking at my emotional and physical scabs already. I certainly don’t need any more motivation.

However, rumor has it. gentle readers. that this is no longer the case. It has been brought to my attention that my favorite Canuck and source of bitter, emotional blog fodder may now be a resident of my own Orange County.

Although I can’t verify this rumor, and despite the fact that she has no financial or occupational means to make this bold a move on her own, it wouldn’t surprise me. She’s been an economic remora for most of her life. I have no doubts about her ability to find another shark. So she may well be here.

Funny thing is, a month or two ago I had a strange premonition. I don’t know where the feeling came from or why, but I spoke to my climbing partner and roommate about it. Just somewhere in the back of my gut I had a feeling she was in California. I jokingly told them that I wouldn’t be surprised if she was moving to OC.

Again, I can’t verify any of this. It’s all based on hearsay, instinct and some strange IP addresses. I wasn't about to call her to find out. But her own online admissions seem to confirm this. Should this be the case, our passing is inevitable. OC is not so big a place – especially along the coast.

Sure enough, today, at the airport, her name was announced over the PA for urgent boarding on a flight – and her name is not so common to go unnoticed. Kinda figures, actually, when you consider how much time I spend in that place. I admit, this could be a coincidence, but again, nothing surprises me anymore.

And no, I didn’t go down to that gate to check.

So if indeed she is here, I wish her no ill will. Despite my recurrent grumblings here, I never have. Admittedly, I’d personally prefer to keep my neighborhood ex-girlfriend free, but last I checked, it was still a free country, my repeated attempts at world domination notwithstanding. A large part of me would very much like to phone her up and bury the hatchet, but frankly I'm still having a hard time getting it dislodged from my back.

I kid, I kid. And again, I digress.

I hope she has, in fact, pulled her life together. I long ago lost faith in her ability to do this, but whatever. There is always hope, or so I’m told. And I hope she has actually found someone who will make her happy. I harbor no ill will to him for sure. Sympathy perhaps, but like I said, whatever. There is hope for them too. Hell, I’ll even wish her happy birthday. And if it was, in fact, my ex at the airport this morning, I even hope she managed to make her flight.

Like I said, there is always hope.

And with that in mind, I hope I don’t run into her again.

At least not for a long, long time.