It Happened To Me: I Had A Post-Divorce Rebound With My College Boyfriend

28 years ago, Drew was a virgin until we first had sex. When I found him a few weeks after my (Barbie-movie-inspired) divorce, being with him felt like MY first time.

Hello Week!

Maybe not as major as the news that just came out about Jimmy Kimmel’s show coming back on (which I also want to discuss, having had a long history with Bob Iger and knowing Jimmy peripherally through mutual friends), I have a story for you about something that happened during our inaugural AJPT Book Club party yesterday that even most of you gorgeous people at that partay aren't aware of:

As soon as the guests departed, I checked my email and had received a letter from another “editor” basically trashing everything we're doing here at AJPT. So of course I'm going to do what I always do (such as when I printed verbatim the grammatically challenged letter that Kelly Bensimon sent me at Jane magazine ripping that publication to shreds). I'm going to publish it for you here so that you can see for yourself and weigh in. And of course, take my side – just kidding, you can say whatever you want about the possibly constructive criticism.

So, look forward to seeing that letter here soon (oh, and two prior letters from the same “editor” pitching what I said to Corynne at the time was the worst story idea I had ever received).

In the meantime, here is another piece from the wonderful Amanda Jane who won all of us over when she told us about making the decision to get a divorce during a viewing of the Barbie movie and has kept us up-to-date on many aspects of her continually fascinating life before and after that. I hope you like this follow-up as much as I do.

I'll go copy and paste my lengthy takedown now. I look forward to your thoughts!

And I love you!

Jane

PS Is there is any legal reason I could get into trouble publishing a letter to the editor? If so, and if any lawyers in the group want to stop me before I run it, please let me know here in the comments.

PPS Boy was it fun and worth getting up and at ‘em at 9:30 AM on a Sunday for yesterday’s gathering. If you did come to this AJPT Book Club meeting, I love you with all of my heart even more than I did before. And if you didn't come to this one, people who did can attest to the fact that you're going to want to join next time. We will try to make it at a reasonable hour this time (you’re welcome in advance, Cheryl!). And we'll be posting so we can all determine what that next book will be soon.

PPPS Burying the lede, something extra special is happening this week on AJPT and we have presents for YOU to celebrate it. More on that later in the week. Back to my evil-doings now…

This photo of Drew and me was taken in January of 2024, at a restaurant near our hiking trail. I just now remembered that I threw up that night in the restaurant bathroom for no obvious reason. He does not want me to include his photo… [So I left that unusually rambling pull quote over his face to solve that issue. If you’re interested in our “process”. -Jane]

By Amanda Klarsfeld

When I decided to divorce my husband of twenty years, I had no interest in finding love again. After my difficult marriage, I just wanted to be free. To have only myself to answer to.

But as soon as I left my husband in Florida and moved back to my hometown of New York City, something shifted. I felt a restlessness I hadn’t expected. Was I craving love, sex, or companionship? Before I could evaluate the impulse, I started looking up old flames on Facebook. It began as a curiosity, but I soon found myself making a date with Drew, a college boyfriend.

Wait, was it a date? I wasn’t sure. I knew from his Facebook profile that he was single, and as far as I could see, he had never been married. Why hadn’t he? I was intrigued.

This photo is from 1995. It’s of me and my two Tulane roommates, taken during the stretch of time I was dating Drew. I showed this photo to Drew when we were dating in 2023, and he said, “Wow, at the time, I thought you were a hot, older woman but you really looked like a little girl.” Personally, I am impressed at how I had the confidence to wear my hair down when it looked so messy.

We met on the Lower East Side, near Drew’s office, at an Italian restaurant he’d suggested. Ironically, Drew was originally from Florida. His first trip to New York had been to see me, almost thirty years prior. Now here I was, back in New York, after spending decades in Florida. It was his city now—not mine. It made me feel both proud of him for making a life here and envious, because I wished I had never left.

“I had treated him so badly that when I’d messaged him, he thought I was in a twelve-step program and was contacting him to make amends.”

Drew and I had not had a good breakup. I had taken his virginity, broken his heart, and never spoken to him again. I had forgotten how badly I had hurt him and apologized, sincerely, when he reminded me.

When I’d messaged him, he’d truly thought that I was in a twelve-step program and was contacting him to make amends.

Drew looked young for his 47 years. As I’ve continued to learn through my almost two years of post-divorce dating, never marrying or having kids is better than any anti-aging serum on the market. He had grown quite handsome, with no trace of the acne that had dotted his young skin.

He said I looked exactly the same and I took that as a compliment, considering I’d since married and had a child.

We sat elbow to elbow and ordered drinks and eventually food. We ate from the same plate, and it suddenly felt like this was a date. I started to feel something – a pang of some sort – which took me by surprise.

When he got up to go to the bathroom, I noticed that he had a large bald spot and the reality of just how many years had passed hit me for the first time.

This picture of me alone, at the beach in Chicago, smiling really big for no apparent reason is from that same summer, 1995. (I remember that day and I wasn’t all that happy).

We spent six hours in the restaurant, filling each other in as best we could. At one point a slow cover of “I Will Survive” came on, and we both fell silent and stared at each other. “This is so crazy,” he said.

“It is,” I agreed, even though I’m not sure what either of us meant by it.

Drew was a documentary filmmaker. He’d had some success about ten years prior, but nothing recently, and he was struggling financially. When I insisted on paying the bill, he asked if I was sure. “It’s the least I could do after breaking your heart,” I said.

We said goodbye with an awkward hug in the pouring rain. He called me “Dear” which felt so old-fashioned, but also kind of made sense. The whole night felt like time-traveling.

When I got home, I tried to name what I was feeling. Was I weak in the knees for my college boyfriend? I had felt tingly next to him tonight, excited. Was it just the excitement of being free enough to make a plan with a man, to step outside to smoke a cigarette (something else I hadn’t done since college), to hug in the rain and rush down into the subway like an urban Cinderella? Or was it more than that?

I texted Drew as soon as I got home to tell him what a nice time I’d had. And I had. But was I actually attracted to him? Was I really seeing him now, or just remembering him then? Or, more likely, was I just remembering myself then?

Did I have a crush on him, or on my past? Maybe I was just nostalgic for the person I was back then, the girl who’d had nothing but choices.

Photo of me with two boys, also taken in 1995. This was taken in New Orleans, at the house I rented my sophomore year at Tulane. Neither of these boys are Drew, but this picture was taken around the same time I de-virginized Drew and this was indeed the bed on which “it” happened.

What I did know was that I couldn’t stop thinking about Drew. A few days later, feeling like I had nothing to lose, I texted him. “I know there is probably something wrong with me, but I’m a little obsessed with you.”