People drop things on the Internet and run all the time. So we have to ask. In this edition, BuzzFeed News sportswriter Lindsey Adler tells us more about what it’s like to really love Kale.
Cool thing about having an ex-boyfriend named after a trendy vegetable is that ordering a salad for dinner often feels like a comical affair
— Lindsey Adler (@Lahlahlindsey) December 12, 2014
Lindsey! So what happened here?
My first love was a man named Kale, and he broke up with me in the middle of the night one August a few years ago. He just kind of looked at me and said, “I can’t do this anymore,” and I reacted poorly. Breakups are painful, followed by periods of uncertainty, denial, and adjustments. Reminders of what was and will never again be should be avoided at all costs, but for me, it wasn’t that simple: The name of the man who broke my dang heart was plastered all over menus and the NYT Style pages. It took me an unreasonable amount of time (two years) to begin eating kale salads, despite all my hippie-ass, pseudo-vegan inclinations. The word still seems foreign when referencing leafy greens, like I’ve taken a relic from a much different time in my life and applied it in a new way. It’s no longer painful, of course, but it makes for a quick, funny story to be told over brunch.
When I met Kale he was the most beautiful, exciting man I’d ever known (and I’m not quite sure that’s changed, actually). He was tall, funny, and loved to skateboard, sail, and ride his bike—then the three hobbies I found most attractive in a man. (Now, I’d probably determine my total trifecta to be love for books, baseball, and expressing strong opinions.) Kale and I began dating just after I’d turned twenty, and our relationship unfolded over the most chaotic year-and-a-half of my life. I was terribly confused about myself, my loved ones, and the world around me at the time, and I had little guidance or direction to help me out. So I leaned on the person who loved me, and built habits for what I now know to be called a codependent relationship.
We didn’t have much in common, but does that ever really matter when you’re young and entranced by the concept of infatuation? I’m careful not to exaggerate the significance of a year-long adolescent relationship, but my head and heart were definitely “in it” in the way that one could only be with the naivety of never having experienced heartbreak. After we broke up, I was a really shitty, annoying person for a disproportionately long time. Like, I had zero self-awareness or ability to hide my heartbreak and sadness. But still, I consider myself lucky that my first heartbreak came from a man who is kind, considerate, and yes, happens to be named for a leafy green.
How often does his name come up in your day-to-day life, and do you automatically think of him every time it happens? Will that ever not be the case, or are you stuck with that association forever?
I mean, it’s said that you never forget your first love, right? I think that sentiment is meant to reference some nostalgic longing or something, but for me, it resonates more when I’m in line for a salad on a Tuesday afternoon. It’s been a few years since we broke up, and it’s not like I’m sobbing while scrolling Seamless or anything. It’s just amusing, really. Also, “yeah, the first person who broke my heart was named Kale” is a pretty good way to spark a conversation at brunch.
Lesson learned (if any)?
Be reckless with your affection, but if you’re a vegetarian, try not to fall in love with someone named after a popular vegetable.
Just one more thing.
Heartbreak gets a worse rap than it deserves. The moments that have felt the worst have ultimately turned out to be the moments for which I am most appreciative. Without tragedy, I would not know the glory of triumph.
When Kale and I broke up, I immediately lost what I had thought was a system of support, but was truly more of a crutch. It felt like it’d happened at the worst possible time. Now, I consider it as having been an opportunity to face my demons with no other choice. What a blessing that was, to confront my crazy early enough in my life to avoid letting it sabotage anything important.
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Photo by Bobbi Flowers
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