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