To the Future,

Please don’t disappoint me.

In many ways, my life has been more than adequate. Good school. Great family. Let’s just say… I am the epitome of female white privilege. Am I thankful for that? Sure I am. Not as thankful as I would be if I knew what it was like to live without it, though.

The problem is… I’m bored. I’m living with the knowledge that there’s so much more where that came from. It’s not that I don’t appreciate my existence. It’s that I feel unsatisfied.

I wrote this in my journal tonight:

“I feel connected to something I’ve never actually looked upon. So you search for it. You spend your whole life searching. Perhaps that’s what they call purpose. Or perhaps it’s what we call death.”

And by “death,” I mean this “search” is kind of ironic, isn’t it? We waste our whole life searching for an answer only to finally get it upon death. Maybe there’s an answer in NOT searching—and just living. Life is meant to be lived, right? Do we concern ourselves with questions about our existence? Or do we save that for later, after we’ve taken our last breath? Or maybe even right before?

I want my future to be happy. Satisfactory. I want to experience love. Passion. Adventure. Most importantly, I don’t want to have any regrets. I want to endure pain and grief and grow stronger with each tear that falls down my face—like a rebirth. As it’s said in Romans 6:4:

“We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life.”

Strictly speaking, I’m not really a Christian, but you don’t have to subscribe to an entire movement in order to recognize and appreciate the potential for truth—in order to humble yourself to the universal code behind understanding the relationship between the soul and the human body.

I’m getting carried away. Always at risk for losing my audience. Going off the deep end.

Ah, I got it. Okay, Future; here’s what I want you to do. Listen closely. I want you to surprise me.

Sincerely,

Stephanie

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Dear My Future Husband,

Whoever you are, I love you already. I also hate you. I know there are going to be times where all I want to do is rip your face off and feed it to the cat. Of course, I won’t do that. Any cat we have is going to be a vegetarian. You know that.

You’re going to be my best friend. You’re going to be funny. You’re going to be kind. You’re going to be patient. You’re going to be open-minded and honest. You’re going to be family-oriented.

I know these things because I know myself. I know that I can’t fall in love with someone without these qualities. Deep down, past the thorns of my insidious insecurities, I know my worth. I know what I deserve. And, ultimately, I know what you deserve.

You deserve someone funny, and loving, and kind, and patient, and well-mannered, and fun-loving. Someone who loves to read and play videogames and watch movies and laugh and cry and go a little crazy times. Someone like me. Oh, and humble. Someone extremely humble.

Whether I’ve met you or not, I can’t wait to dedicate myself to you, to buy a home together and have children and grow old. I can’t wait to lay on the living room floor with you as our dozen cats dance across our stomachs and sit on our heads. I can’t wait to drink coffee with you in the morning and then have to remind you that I don’t drink coffee, honey, I drink tea. I can’t wait to tell you I’m pregnant with our first child – hopefully, at that point, we will have planned for it. Thought, whether it’s a complete surprise or not, I can’t wait.

I look forward to snuggling in bed before falling asleep. I look forward to the fights and the makeup sex. I look forward to telling you “I love you” every day before we head off to work. I look forward to coming home to the smell of dinner on the stove, because lord knows, I’m not cooking. Maybe a little. We’ll see. I look forward to bossing you around and you telling me when I’m being a brat, because let’s be honest, I can totally be a brat sometimes. Most of the time. Okay, a lot of the time.

A few things you need to know: I love to be petted, particularly on the head. If I’ve met you, you probably know this already. If not, you better get to know it…and FAST. Because, I can tell you, the minute we turn that movie on in our living room at night, my head is gonna be in your lap so fast you won’t even see it coming. Take that however you want. I also love my family, and it’s important to me that you love them just as much. My dad, he’s a funny guy, so even if you aren’t amused, laugh. My mom is a saint and she’ll hug the shit out of you, so return the favor, okay? Be attentive to them. That’s all I ask.

One last thing: I love making midnight ice cream runs, so it might help to have something on hand to keep you awake, whether it’s Adderall or a slap to the face. Because when I get the craving, there’s no stopping me, my darling.

Well, now that I’ve made myself out to be a real high-maintenance bitch, I’m going to close out my letter with a little sentimentality…

You aren’t perfect, and you know that. But I don’t want perfect. I want all the imperfections, because ultimately, they make you who you are—someone perfect for ME. Me? Shoot, I’m far from perfect, but I so look forward to having my imperfections loved by you.

Whether I’ve met you or not, I can’t wait to dedicate myself to you.

Love,

Stephanie

 

 

Dear the Guy I Can’t Seem To Get Out Of My Head,

I’d really like to be able to forget about you. And ya know, I have come a long way. I don’t think about you as much… but there are times, like now, where my mind wanders to you, to the texts we shared, and the hopes I had of seeing you.

You kind of treated me like shit, ya know. Your behavior resembled that of a complete douche bag, and yet, you aren’t a complete douche bag, so I’m having trouble reconciling the emotions in my head. But when I talk about you to my friends, they’re quick to convince me that you are, in fact, a complete douche bag. I only wish it helped me get over you faster. But for some reason, it’s not.

It doesn’t feel good.

Why the hell can’t I get over you?

I have some theories, one of them being this: Since you live in another state, all I had were your texts and phone calls. While you said some amazing things, I didn’t have the “video” to match the audio, so I used my imagination to fill in the gaps. I pictured us going on dates at the beach, talking in coffee shops, and making out under the covers—and it was PERFECT. You were charming. Your smile beckoned me closer. Your hands were soft. But see, none of that was reality. They were unfounded, scenes made up in my head, of what I considered “perfect.” But had they ever happened? No, and yet, I held them close to my heart, possessively, as if they were a memory, and I still do. I fell in love with you, but only the version of you that I had in my head. Sure, we became close over the phone, but the only foundation we had was an unstable one.

Anyway, I tried to create a healthier foundation for us, but as I’ve said before, you were resistant. Ugh, you had every excuse under the sun, but enough about that…

The truth is… I still haven’t gotten over you, and a part of me hopes I’m not in this boat alone. I hope you still think about me every night before you go to sleep. I hope you think of kissing me and talking about the world with me. I hope you still count the ways in which we seemed compatible. I hope you remember what it felt like to tell me that you loved me… Cause THAT happened…

It’s funny, because as much as I love my mind’s fictional representation of you, a part of me wonders if I’d feel the same way about the “real” you. I used to hope so, but since things have fallen apart, I’m trying to convince myself that the two versions wouldn’t match. Outside of finding you attractive, funny, smart, and family-oriented, I can’t prove that you’re caring, or affectionate, or brave, or gentle, or any of the qualities I once linked with you.

Maybe, in person, you’re really boring, and mean, and uncultured, and impatient. Let’s go with that, because it will make it easier for me to move on.

Oh, and you should know, I have a second date this week! I had written out something really snarky to close this letter, but decided against it. I just really hope this guy puts in the time and effort to sweep me off my feet, because I think I deserve it at this point.

Sincerely,

Stephanie

P.S.

Thanks for the birthday text.

Lesson #15: Jack Dawson IS the King of the World

Turns out, Jack Dawson IS the King of the World. He knows his shit.

kingoftheworld

He knew exactly what he was doing when he took Rose to the front of that boat. He was well aware of the fact that if you stand on the railings and stick your arms straight out to the side, whilst rubbing your tush against Leonardo DiCaprio’s crotch, ANY girl will think they’re flying.

Now, my boyfriend, Tim, is, unfortunately, NOT Leonardo DiCaprio, but I love him anyway. He makes me feel like I’m flying in his own way.

There’s something you should know about me. I LOVE the movie Titanic. I was going to say I’m obsessed with it, but I don’t know if I’d go that far. But I do LOVE it (all caps). So, naturally, when I boarded the Freedom of the Seas last week for a one-week cruise, I planned on duplicating every major scene from the movie. At night, when I went to bed in our small little cabin, I imagined a Model-T car to be sitting idly five decks below, just waiting to get steamy. When I went to dinner, I whispered to Tim that I wanted him to slip me a note that read, Make it count. Meet me at the clock. And then, I wanted to meet him at the clock, where he’d ask me, “So, you want to go to a real party?” And then I wanted the scenery around us to magically morph into a wild, Irish music, below-deck dance party where we’d dance all night and I’d drink beer in one gulp and stand on my tip toes and impress all the foreign men around me who assumed high-class girls can’t drink or stand on the tops of their toes.

Well, that didn’t end up happening. But we DID have access to the front of the boat… where this happened…

For the record, I hate fedoras.
For the record, I hate fedoras.

Some random guy took this shot. I think he may have a career in photography ahead of him. I mean, look at this picture. It’s incredible. Speaking of incredible, this experience, for me, was incredible. Not because I felt, for two seconds, like Hollywood’s power couple. But because I actually felt like I was flying! What did I tell you? Jack Dawson, I repeat, Jack Dawson is the King of the World. He’s done us all well.

I was a little embarrassed at first, being so cliche and all. “They WOULD reenact the famous scene from Titanic. Typical white people.” But surprisingly, we weren’t judged. In fact, the guy who took our picture told us his girlfriend just had him do the same thing. PHEW! I gave her a look that read, Jack Dawson, right? So hott. She returned the sentiment with a cocked eyebrow. Now that I think about it, she might have just been confused. But I digress.

not lame

I think Tim finds my love for Titanic cute, because he doesn’t criticize it too often. Conversely, I think it bothers him how frequently I accidentally call him “Jack” in bed. Well, Tim, it bothers me that you won’t call me “Rose” and paint me like one of your french girls! Take a damn art class, you uncultured sloth.

I’m not obsessed, I promise!

Ok, maybe a little...
Ok, maybe a little… Damn.

Tim, I love you. And you’re an amazing sport. Thank you for putting up with me… I couldn’t ask for a better adventure buddy. {End sap.}

Lesson learned? Jack Dawson IS the King of the World. He deserves some kind of award. 

Ooohh... awkward
Ooohh… awkward