[Dumbo is an acronym for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass.]

I think most people would prefer to fall in love only once in their life. It starts with meeting the man/woman of your dreams and ends with spending the rest of your life happily ever after. At least, I suppose that is how it works for some people.

I would argue that it is probably the best way to do it.

When you fall in love, you feel as if that person completes your life, gives it new meaning, makes you feel on top of the world, and you can’t imagine your life, as you know it, continuing on without them. From there, you build a life together; your lives overlap upon the same track until “death do us part.” Your life revolves around common beliefs, life goals, parenting desires, monetary expenditures, etc. Soon enough, your life would not be YOUR life without that person.

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There is plenty of sociological research to show that besides being the lead-in to the romanticized version of the “American Dream”, the path I outlined is the most likely to result in the success of you, your significant other, your children, your extended family, and your friends.

It is not only a romantic version of events, it is reality.

But what if your replace “death” with “You know what, you are great and all, but I think we’re done.” Such a change might signify that love never was the binding measure involved in the relationship. Maybe it was lust, which is a more transient feeling and can last for long periods of time, but is subject to the whims of “you got fat”, “you family pisses me off”, or “damn, is that good-looking girl/guy over there checking me out?”

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I would suggest that in those cases, it was likely lust, not love, that led you to spend so much time with someone, maybe start a family, get a pet, or pool your resources and get a place together.

However, if you replace “death” with “something has changed”, it most likely means that your reciprocal love, the one thing that bound you together, has ended.

“Something” could be anything. Maybe it’s an identifiable entity like, “I decided I don’t want children”. Or a power-hungry grab resulting in, “my job means more to me than you do”. Or the abysmal and wishy-washy, “I love you, but I’m not IN love with you.”

Another replacement for “death” could be the painful recognition that the love you felt, which you could never truly qualify, isn’t there anymore. And when you go searching for it, trying to think back to what it was, identify it, and re-infuse it into your life, you can’t seem to catch it. The spark of lightning that started the whole thing is gone.

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Deep thoughts, I know.

On an afternoon in Dumbo, a cozy neighborhood on one side of the Brooklyn bridge, I fell in love for the third time in my life.

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If you are fortunate/unfortunate enough to fall in love multiple times in your life, you know love when it hits you again. You feel different. Your outlook on life is different. Your willingness to sacrifice is different. You are again able to share the things that you held as your own (your deepest thoughts, dreams, and desires) with this person.

Unlike the first time I fell in love, I didn’t fall in love with AB the first time we met, but she was beyond intriguing to me. I couldn’t quite capture my feelings for her on that day, but I knew she was different from any other woman I had ever met. She was immediately the person I wanted to spend as much time with as possible, a fact that could certainly not be said for every woman I have ever dated.

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In retrospect, it had only held true for the two loves before her.

But that afternoon in Dumbo, between scoops of Peaches and Cream on a calm Sunday, we looked out upon the greatest city in the world, shared our hopes for each other, exchanged longing glances and affectionate kisses, and talked about how we should progress in our relationship.

Almost four years had passed since the most meaningful relationship in my life had ended, but by the end of that afternoon, I was thankful for not throwing myself into any of the other possibilities that had arisen since that time.

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During those four years, I hadn’t lived a celibate life, but I had been careful to not mistake my lust for love. There had been two other women enter my life during that time whom I thought I could love, but neither of those materialized into any sort of relationship. Even so, I was grateful for fate intervening in those instances and allowing me to have that afternoon in Dumbo.

The end to my most meaningful relationship, with the woman I considered to be my wife, and the future mother of my children, was beyond painful. It came during a period of my life already teeming with enough uncertainty that even the best of my coping mechanisms were battered beyond belief when all was said and done. It haunted me for years, even though I was outwardly moving on with my life. She had been the second love of my life.

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My first love defined my ability to love. What I mean by “ability to love” is that I discovered “love” by meeting her. Everything else I had ever experienced with other women was immediately demoted to something less than what I felt for her.

I felt compelled to protect her, to make her feel special, and I wanted to be with her. But I didn’t know it was  “love” when it happened. It appeared so incredibly out-of-the-blue that I couldn’t understand it. Instead, I waded into it cautiously and confusedly, eventually leaving only a longing, sometimes standoff-ish friendship. By the time I realized what I had done and told her how I felt, it was too late. She put up her own defenses, an act of self-preservation, and told me she no longer felt that way about me.

Yet, she became the blue print for all of my future relationships. I knew I wanted to feel such strong emotions for the woman I spent the rest of my life with; this kept me from lying to myself about my feelings for other women I dated. So when three years later I met the second love of my life, I knew exactly who I had standing in front of me.

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That afternoon in Dumbo hadn’t swept across me like the night I met my first love or the afternoon I met my second, but my feelings were unmistakable. I had been waiting for them to return, like a switch begging to be flipped. When she grabbed me by the shirt, stood up on her tippy toes, and pulled me close to her lips, I knew she felt the same way.

But when you are fortunate/unfortunate enough to have fallen in love more than once, you know that it could end. You don’t want it to, but in the back of your mind, in the depths of your sub-conscious, you know that it can.

Perhaps it is this knowing that makes it possible for the love to end in the first place. If it never enters your mind that it could possibly end, then what sense does it make for it to end.

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It’s kind of like having a favorite book, but the author comes out with a revised edition a couple of years later and adds another chapter that changes the entire point of the book; the plot has changed, the characters have a different context, and the ending no longer seems to fit the story. If you don’t bother reading the revised edition, then it is still your favorite book of all-time.

But if you get curious one day and step into a bookstore, pick up that revised edition, with its new glossy cover and updated photo of the author, and start reading the new chapter, by the time you finish, you promise to throw away the copy at home and find a new favorite book.

The end of my relationship with AB didn’t come with a “death do us part”, as both she and I are alive and well. Surprisingly, it came not long after that afternoon in Dumbo. Yet, its length doesn’t dismiss its reality. It simply reminded me of love’s delicacy.

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Thankfully, having been in love before, I know that it can happen again; At the most unlikely of times. Maybe with the most unlikely of people. And perhaps, with the most unlikely of outcomes.