an open letter to my one-day-Sunday-someone

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Don’t underestimate just how far flowers will go.

 

Ask me to dance. On the subway platform, at the bar, in our living room. Not because you can, or I can, but because who cares? Because that’s not the point. Because the last guy didn’t. Because you’d use any excuse to place the palm of your hand on the low of my back.Because we’re a little bit foolish you and I (and thank God for that).

 

Encourage me to write. I like myself better when I’m full of and on words—or in pursuit of them, at least.

 

I’m an introvert. I’ll need the occasional time and space to just be alone. Give me that.

 

Sometimes I eat tortilla chips in the shower. Or under the covers. Or barefoot in the kitchen before I’ve even poured my morning coffee. And I really like my morning coffee.

 

On hard days, when I’m feeling a little blue, I’ll get a latte just for the warmth between my hands. Let me.

 

Don’t ever ask me how a writer makes a living.

 

The sound of someone eating an apple is enough to drive me from the room.

 

Social graces only go so far; a person is nothing without empathy. We will raise children who know the difference.

 

Yeah, I want you to cut a fine silhouette in a tux, but I'm far more excited about the mettle of the man beneath.

 

I have no poker face.

 

Sometimes when I’m nervous I'll get a little quiet, a little unfriendly, a little prickly. It means I like you. I know it doesn't make any sense. To me either! Please forgive me these moments...it’s just that sometimes looking at you is like looking at the sun. Good and overwhelming and a little blinding.

 

I’ve been staring at the computer for an hour now, thinking on what else to write, but my mind keeps coming back to your penny-loafers and your sometimes-side-part and hell if I’m not sunk.

 

 

*ps: Take me to Paris one day, won't you?*

 

photo source. 

(It's been a while since one of these, no?

You can find others here.)

a letter to the man who'll one day make me an honest woman

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i never refill the brita filter.

i put shallots in everything. and call them scallions because i can't remember their name.

i, on occasion, need to be told that i am beautiful. even if i know that you think i am, and you know that i know, tell me anyway. tell me once more than you think necessary or appropriate.

i feel better in flats than heels. and i'm a sucker for fresh flowers--mostly small, unwieldy ones straining skyward.

i've gotten so good at not-crying-on-the-subway that the tears come right out my nose, missing my eyes all-together. this is how i know i've been in new york too long. or just long enough.

i would choose to nap before almost any other afternoon activity.

promise me a lifetime of dinners without iphones or  ipads or whatever-i-thing-they'll-come-out-with-next. and if that means we'll only get ten minutes in, i'll take it. i'll take those ten minutes--those uninterrupted ten minutes. i'll make a life of those ten minute chunks. they'll be better than an interrupted thirty in which attention must be fought for and won.

and when i call you hysterical--when i collapse into you undone by something you think small and ridiculous, just the moment before your-man-driven-impulse-to-fix-everything-kicks-in i'm gonna need three words from you: i hear you. even if you think i'm being silly and foolish and absolutely-off-my-rocker, just give me those three words: i hear you. and then we can work on the fixing it bit.

i have a lot of flaws. some large and some small. some totally fixable--i mean, the brita filter thing? i think i'm just waiting for someone to have to refill it for. so that'll solve itself.

but what i can promise you, from my place of total imperfection, is ten minutes. again and again and again.

 

and again.

 

yours xx

 

 

 

Disclaimer | part four

return of the short hair

pitted olives freak me out. they absolutely, freak. me. out.
i like hitting the pit with my teeth--having to sort of chew around it before spitting it out. open-palm, waiting hand.

i am an excellent finger snapper. get me in the shower grooving to some music that's piping through the apartment and with that little bit of water between my fingers, my snap is a thing to behold.

it is my belief that momofuku milk bar makes the best latte in town. there is no evidence for this, just my own personal-overwhelming-experiential-evidence. (in a word, preference).

i feel more myself with shorter hair. i just do. and i know some will say it makes me less pretty. but i think they're wrong. it just makes me less obviously pretty and frankly, i've never been interested in the obvious. i want to be a slow-burn-sort-of-beautiful. a second-glance-kind-of-pretty. i want the kind of beauty that unravels with time and patience.

i've gotten really good at crying. the kind of big and soft and wet tears that roll out the eye slowly before careening down the cheek. everything makes me cry now. everything. a good book, a good show, a simple kindness--anything small and true. thing is, i do believe myself to be far more rational than i used to be. i even sleep on the side of the bed reserved for rational people (which happened naturally, before i knew it was a thing. an actual thing. look it up).

i believe saturday mornings are for drinking lattes and reading books and falling apart when falling apart is what's called for.

i've only ever had one full beer in my life. it was lambic. framboise. of the raspberry persuasion. it was delicious. i don't like the taste of regular beer, i blame my college experience. i didn't go to a college with fraternities and sororities and house parties with red solo cups. my campus was new york city and i was raised on colorful martinis with colorful liquor and a lot of sugar.

i've never owned a pair of uggs. i take a lot of pride in this. no pants with nonsense words emblazoned across the buttocks. lord help me if i have a daughter who's interested in such things.

i'd much rather read a magazine with smiling women than with thin women. which is not to say that the two are mutually exclusive, but rather that i place more emphasis on the former than the latter and i wish print media would do the same.

i feel sexiest in oversized white oxfords and jeans.

i'm do not believe there is a more perfect food than the croissant.

i don't believe in puffy winter coats. i think if you live in a place where jackets are a staple than they should be warm and absolutely above-board-classy. that being said, i've never lived in chicago, michigan, or any part of canada.

i loathe the sound of chewing gum. i find it an affront to my feminine sensibilities.

i can make an entree out of any meat and cheese plate.
try me.
(though i prefer vinegar hill house and buttermilk channel, so if you accept the challenge, can we go there?).

i think everything is in transition now. which i find utterly terrifying and a little thrilling. but mostly terrifying. but it is movement and chaos and i recognize both as good. big-picture-sort-of-good. but big-picture-sort-of-good isn't always easy, is it?

well... anyway, this was just to say.
so that you know.



love, love,
you-know-who







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You, instead

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This used to be easier, didn't it? I think it used to be easier. I'm pretty sure it was once-upon-a-time a little less hard.

I'm tired. I'm tired in that way that settles around the eyes and reveals just a little too much, a little too soon. Tired in that way that lacks imagination--that can't imagine anything changing, ever.

I've grown into my adult face. At some point between the majority of twenty-six and the last few months I got my adult face. I almost didn't notice, it's a really subtle change. My cheeks are so full (and yes,  I'm sure as I age I'll be ever-more-grateful for just how big they are) but they are ever-so-slightly-less-big, ever-so-slightly-less-full. The outline of my face is a little bit leaner, a little bit harder.

I went out with some girlfriends recently and we had one of those New York nights that's governed by nothing more than the overriding principle of what-the-hell. And so when two Croatian "aesthetic" surgeons (specializing in rhinoplasty) sat down next to us, we let them. And when they toppled a single glass of wine with little left, we allowed them to buy three more. And when they guessed our ages (accurately) I then demanded to know just how it was they knew I was two years older. And the one said, The lines on either side of your mouth are deeper.

He might have used more clinical, professional (accurate) terms, but I knew what he meant.

It became one of the jokes of the weekend--me and my deepening smile lines.

It did used to be easier.

I've run out of things to say. Or maybe just the courage to say them. Yes, maybe that's it. Maybe it's that I've forgotten what it felt like to do this--to write, to imagine, to leap into a future without small and unkind people saying small and unkind things--not the doctor, but the people who come and read these words and think me so terrible because of them.

I know this feeling will pass. And I know I'll get my courage back. And I know I'll figure out how to care a little less about the small cruelties of others. But today I do. And today it's hard.

The thing is, I like my deepening smile lines. I like my older, now adult face. And so maybe it does get harder, and maybe am I little more tired, but maybe those things are just products of reaching in the direction of the life I want.

Of which you are a part.

So forget the small and unkind and cruel naysayers, I'll take you instead.

Yours