Why you should be nice to people you date.

In an effort to find something fun to do Saturday mornings other than watching Teletubbies, we signed up for a Music Together class. The first "semester," our teacher was a nice blonde German lady named Regine. Cami was absolutely entranced by Regine. In fact, he often spent the entire 45 minutes staring at her slack-jawed. (He takes after my husband in that respect.)

This semester, our Music Together teacher is Sean. Cami is a little stunned that Sean is not Regine, but he seems to enjoy class. That is, he giggles and laughs and stares at the pretty girls and bangs on drums. Then he helps put the instruments away, which makes my heart swell with pride.

This is all backstory to what happened this morning.

We arrived during the singing of the first song, So Glad to See You. (We were late because Mommy was super cranky and we had to make an emergency caffeine stop at Peet's.) The first thing I noticed was that some new parents and kids had joined our little group. Then, about halfway through Little Brass Wagon, I realized that one of the new dads looked familiar. Hmmm, I thought. Where do I know this guy from?

Then it hit me: I think he was someone I dated about 7 years ago, post-divorce and pre-Nima. I'd met him on Match.com (there! I said it! I did Internet dating!), and we only went out on about 5 dates, including a misbegotten ski trip. But still, there he was (if it was really him), sitting across from me with a very cute little blonde boy of about 3.

I'm not sure which was more mortifying:

1. The fact that my life has changed to the extent that I'm running into old beaus not at work conferences or restaurants or even at the grocery store, but at an "enrichment activity" designed for the 0-4-year-old set; or
   
2. That I couldn't remember whether this was someone I actually slept with.
   

After class, as The Guy I Might Have Slept With chatted with Teacher Sean, I tried to eavesdrop. If he had a British accent, it was probably him. But the bastard foiled me by speaking too softly. Later, as we all sat in the foyer struggling with kids' shoes and jackets, I came this close to introducing (re-introducing?) myself. But then I lost my nerve.

Probably because seven years ago, I'd dumped him for a guy who then turned out to be bipolar, and probably an alcoholic. I was making choices that were just that good at that point in my life. (In fairness to me, The Guy I Might Have Slept With wasn't acting that interested in me. He'd even told me I could date other people, which I did, just to spite him. But his biggest crime was that he had made me watch Starship Troopers.)

My husband thought it was all very funny. He loves lurid tales about my past.

But here's the scary thing. This isn't the first time this has happened. Last year, Nima and I were touring a potential daycare when a guy walked in to drop off his two kids. After a few seconds, I realized that he was an Irish guy who wined and dined me at Spago, and then stood me up for our third date. After borrowing my copy of Asylum, which he never returned. (My husband calls these little embarrassments with foreigners my "European setbacks.")

That's the thing about the past. It won't come back to haunt you in church. Or on your deathbed. It'll come back to you at a potential daycare. Or in music class, as you're singing Hello, Everybody, So Glad to See You. So behave yourselves.