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In addressing the question of whether we are ever really in love, it is important to differentiate between being in love and loving someone. I have recently come to understand the difference.

I've been in love many times, beginning with my first kiss. I actually saw stars and was dizzy for a moment, then really embarrassed for a while after that. I practically swooned, and I didn't even like the guy.

In the more than 50 years since that first kiss, I've come to understand why I enjoyed it so much (outside of the first serious stirring of my hormones). I had very little power in my own life and attracting the boys or men the other girls and women could not attract was definitely a power game.

With the exception of my beloved grandpa and sister, the best my family could do was what today is called tough love, but it felt like no love at all. They had a rough time trying to mold me to a proper young lady, and I wasted a lot of time trying to get them to validate my existence. It seems that no matter how successful your romantic life appears to be at any moment, the family often remains the most important source of love and approval, something we never stop hoping for.

So through four marriages and a lot more near misses, I searched for love in all the wrong places, always trying to satisfy my family. I was in love every time, but it never lasted. Once the glow wore off, I recognized the relationship for what it was.

There was only one time I can honestly say that I loved someone. I still do, fifty years later. He was gorgeous: tall, dark, and very handsome, with the complexion and hair color of the Spanish part of his heritage dominating his appearance. He was a brilliant young man, but a genuine bad boy, dangerous (in my mother's eyes). And he was the most loving, respectful, tender man I've ever known.

He was constantly in trouble as a teen: this brilliant, troubled kid had been adopted by a family that was no doubt well-meaning and had the best intentions, but was absolutely the wrong family for him. He acted out. His troubles made mine look minor by comparison. I broke up with him because the longer we stayed together, the less likely I was to ever get the love and approval I so desperately wanted from my family.

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It was close to a year ago, after I relocated to Fresno, California where I grew up, that I ran into him quite by accident in a bank, the Golden 1 near Blackstone on Shaw. This branch office has a nightmare parking lot. It's too small by far, traffic is

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