28 – The Ex Files

You probably know you’re supposed to eat five portions of fruit and vegetables a day. So, to make sure the hubby gets enough fresh variety, he had another date lined up right after the apricot-sausage-cookie tasting—a culinary crime against humanity, if you ask me.

This time it was with Antonia, in Paris. I always root for the mister on his dates, so when he texted me after just 90 minutes saying the match was over, I got seriously worried about his stats.

No overtime? Uh-oh… not a good sign. I sat at home on the couch like a nervous sports commentator: “And here he comes, returning from Paris… no goals, no kisses, no red cards—but at least, no injuries either. What a match day!”

The post-game analysis was inconclusive. He said the chemistry had seemed good, but something had apparently thrown Antonia off. Half an hour later, the photo evidence arrived—and mystery solved.

Turns out, my husband looks exactly like her ex-husband. She even sent a photo of the two of them on vacation—and the resemblance was uncanny. Not only did they look alike; they moved alike. And wore the same jacket. Of course, my husband was wearing that very jacket on their date. No wonder Antonia got confused. To be fair, I was, too—though I couldn’t help being a little amused. One thing’s certain: her type could be trademarked—complete with jacket model, beard shape, and one-size-fits-all dimensions.

If she’s smart, she should skip Tinder altogether and just stand around the men’s section next to that jacket, picking whichever customer she fancies. But Antonia’s case isn’t exactly simple. Apart from her fixation on outerwear monogamy, she knows what kind of man she likes—but what she wants beyond that remains blurry. She wants an open relationship in which she’s the main character, monogamously adored, yet still able to “breathe freedom.” I’ve read rental agreements that were clearer.

Still, she thought my husband was wonderful—not surprising, really; she’d already been married to him once. But she’s… undecided. So we’ll see if it’s an Italian woman who finally ruins the mister’s 100% success rate—though, honestly, he’d rather have nailed her than failed her. Pardon the disrespectful rhyme—it just slipped out.

Speaking of exes, sometimes they reappear sooner than you’d like—even when you’re busy with entirely different things. For example, when you’re sitting at the climbing gym, headphones in, book in hand, completely absorbed—and suddenly, hands you didn’t hear coming slide over your eyes from behind.Even though I’m usually big on safety while climbing, my heart dropped straight to the floor. My fingers instinctively touched the hands blocking my view—and I instantly knew who they belonged to.

Giovanni. Beaming, standing right in front of me. I was… well, ambushed. Overwhelmed.

And yet, ridiculously happy to see him. To see that he was smiling again. He’d borrowed a kid from the neighborhood as an alibi—one who seemed about as eager to climb as I am to embrace monogamy. I just hope there was at least an ice cream bribe involved. Or two.

So, to sum up: A double of an ex, a surprise kid in a climbing gym, and a woman whose relationship logic folds more than an origami manual.Apparently, the emotions of Italian speakers are far more complex than their pasta recipes.

La dolce vita says Buongiorno.