Okay, so here’s a little confession:
I keep a journal where I write incredibly dorky, sometimes humorous, most of the time nerdy, love letters to my future
husband gentleman-caller for life (the word “husband” weirds me out. it’s like “cankles” to me).
Which, in the context of all the other journals I’ve ever filled, should not sound as weird. Whenever I write in my paper journals, I almost always address them to someone, either animate or inanimate. My favorites are the funny ones addressed to my future mother-in-law and children.
Which, I’m now realizing might make me sound much more delusional than ever before, which was the opposite of what I was trying to do…
But without further ado, here is a snippet of one of my letters. I hope to do a series of these, but then again I’m not sure of how much shame I will have left after this one gets published.
dear future gentleman-caller,
when I think of you, i’m filled with images of trendy townhomes in various metropolises. labrador puppies tripping over their paws , affectionately scratching its vintage wooden floors. we will laughingly, and slowly but surely realize we will never get our security deposit back to said townhomes.
and that’s okay. ‘cause we will cause a raucous wherever we go. and we will be used to the fact that no one will ever give us our security deposits back on the various places we will inhabit. and we will be flattered by that fact. we were just too much fun.
we will sing and dance like fred and ginger to the high heavens as we make endearingly-burnt-to-a-crisp pancakes on sundays at 11:37 am. annoying all the neighbors with our games of tag up the stairs, stomping our shoes up and down each flight.
the soggy uneaten pancakes left on the end-tables will bother me at first, but when i realize you allow me to debate about the harry potter books (and win), i will forget that they ever existed. when you get quiet and won’t want to be my arm-candy to parties on fridays with our friends, but will prefer playing black-ops, i won’t get mad; ‘cause i’ll remember that you watched ‘amelie’ with me, and didn’t mind that i mouthed all the words in english and broken french. for two hours straight. and demanded you kissed me on the eye-lids like nico does in that movie. i’ll stay home with you and play black-ops too. because living up to the movie ‘amelie’ is really damn hard.
you’ll go on lots of adventures prior to when you meet me. i’ll try not to get jealous that i didn’t get to go on them, of course. as it means i still have a guaranteed hour of you telling me stories about that time you got mugged by a czech gypsy in a cab in prague . your face lighting up when you get to the punch line of the story, so proud that you could make me laugh as you think it an honor. but i will go on lots of adventures too, so please be patient with the fact that when i start a story about them, i usually never finish it. i just remember eight other stories and start those. bear with me, i’m probably just excited to talk to you. take it as a compliment that i can’t finish my thoughts when i get the chance to tell you a story.
we don’t need to watch ‘the notebook’. in fact, i’d very much prefer we don’t. that movie makes me sleepy. and it makes me angry that it has messed up so many thirteen year old girls in the head about love. let’s watch ‘when harry met sally’, instead okay? please? i’ll make you cookies?
but really, please don’t make me watch ‘the notebook’. that’s just unforgiveable and worse than soggy pancakes left out on the end table.
p.s. make sure you have sweatshirts that you don’t mind never wearing again. as i will be stealing them. sorry, it’s just a girlfriend rite-of-passage, and i’ve been wanting to steal my future gentleman-caller’s sweatshirts for years. i like the really old and faded ones, by the way.
currently listening to ‘airplanes’//local natives