Dear soulmate (I use that term with caution because I’m jaded…a moderate skeptic),
Don’t take yourself too seriously. I want to grow old with laugh lines…not crows feet. When you start to get kinda fat and old and wrinkly, I won’t mind. So you shouldn’t either. I’ll think you’re lovely forever. If you could return the kindness and not judge too harshly when my boobs aren’t so perky, I’d appreciate it. And feel free to pitch in for a new set. I’m open to potential solutions. And if you could give me realistic compliments from time to time, it’d remind me that I’m perfect…for you, anyway. I’m not a Victoria’s Secret supermodel, so please don’t suggest that I’m more attractive than one. Statements like that significantly decrease your credibility. When I burp, you’ll laugh. When I fart, you’ll laugh and run away to avoid being disgusted. I’ll laugh when you fart, but I probably won’t run away because guys are supposed to be a little smelly sometimes. And on those lazy mornings when I’m super sleepy (because we were up late), get a healthy little spread ready then wake me up with a sweet kiss and a couple of minutes of spooning…without the pelvic thrust if you can hold back. Since I did you so well the night before, I won’t wanna get busy right away. But once the breakfast energizes me, I’ll reciprocate the thoughtful gesture. I can’t wait to travel with you. All over. Some great places, some super shitty places. We won’t know until we get there. And sometimes we’ll treat ourselves to a swanky hotel with all the right decor and a comforter like a cloud. Other times we’ll settle for run down, cheap as shit, potentially unsanitary quarters. But it won’t matter because we’ll laugh and make the best of it. You’ll sometimes have to listen to me bitch. Maybe about my body, maybe about work, maybe about you. And you’ll know when to put your foot down, tell me to shut it, and make me do so with your lips pressed against mine. And if I fight it, you’ll melt me. Cause I can be cold. May take some effort and patience on your part but the bitching will cease. I’ll make impulse purchases sometimes and you’ll say I’m dumb for spending a couple hundred on a golden rhino sculpture, for example. And I’ll know you’re right, but I won’t admit. I’ll love that rhino even more to spite you a little bit. Taking care of you will make me happy. I like to clean and help and encourage. Just don’t forget to say thank you sometimes or I might feel my efforts are in vain. Your eyes are kind and your mind is intriguing. I’ll appreciate the way you challenge me. I’m not a crier, but around you, I won’t feel stupid breaking down if the need arises. I’ll love your imperfections as much as I love the perfect parts of you. Your smile and laugh will make me smile and laugh. Like this disgustingly cute cyclical thing that makes other people want to gag a little bit. When you’re kinda scruffy and dirty, I’ll find it overwhelmingly appealing. I appreciate random acts of kindness more so than holiday celebrations. Flowers are ok, but I know you can do better. And you’ll like helping me put up the Christmas tree. And lights. Lots and lots of lights. And when we’re done, we’ll stand back and squint our eyes so all the lights look like bursts of color. Then we’ll light a fire and get frisky by the Christmas tree. Ho ho hoe. I have a mild case of hypochondria, so every time I think I have cancer, you’ll assure me everything will be fine. Because I probably don’t, but even if I do, you’ll still dig me with a shaved head. You won’t be afraid to tell me when an outfit sucks, or my haircut kinda blows, or my legs need to be shaved. But you’ll be somewhat strategic with your honesty. There won’t be much editing, just some eloquence to your wording. We’ll watch movies in bed. And sometimes we’ll make it through the entire movie without screwing or falling asleep. Rewind and pause will be used regularly. I promise to give you give you lovin until my body simply won’t allow. So maybe when I’m 75. And right around that time, I’ll be ready to go. 75 years is a lot. I don’t want to be around for the deaths of my friends and family…selfishly, I’d rather go first. So we’ll end it “Notebook” style…but without the Alzheimer’s. Just curled up in our bed, watching a movie, we’ll close our eyes and that’ll be it. For me at least. If you wanna stick around, by all means. And whatever happens after that, I will have been tremendously thankful that I had you. For days, months, years…whatever I was able to get.
The Greek believed humans were made from clay. 4 arms, 4 legs, and 2 faces. Zeus was threatened by their power, and split them. The individuals were condemned to a life searching for their other half. I’m not sure if I’m totally on board with that, but it’s a sweet notion. My theory is based on puzzles. Each person is a puzzle piece. Some can be stomped on, and with force alone, they fit. Kinda. Some, there’s no fuckin way. Nothing about the two will ever come together as a match. But then…there are the ones that fit just right. Every puzzle piece has 4 sides (unless it’s a really fucked up puzzle, or you’re a corner piece – in which case you’d only have 2 sides to fill). I believe there are a few people out there that fit you. In a way that can last forever. Finishing a puzzle takes patience and diligence and looking at things from various angles. And I don’t believe people are meant to live in solitude. A puzzle piece is nothing without its other pieces…like a network of a lover, family, and friends it completes the picture that your life is. So this letter may not be to a soul mate really…maybe to my puzzle pieces.