Letter From My Future Husband

Dear Larissa,

Yes, you do find me one day. Don’t worry about whether I’m taller than you or what color my eyes are. You’ll be surprised how little that matters. (But, for the record, no, I am not John Hamm).

I’m here, though, and I’m crazy about you.

I think you are breathtaking. And I tell you that, all the time. I find every inch of you incredibly sexy, and I can’t get enough of touching you, grabbing you, kissing you, holding you, and looking at you.

Our bodies and our hearts have a language of their own. We are madly in love, and we are dedicated to each other fully.

                                                                                                                       

We are honest; there are no lies or secrets. There are no eggshells; there is no caution. You can read me, and I can see you.

I think your cheesy romanticism is so sweet. I always hold your hand, run my fingers through your hair, stand close to you at parties, look at you when we make love, talk to all your friends, and let you have the last bite of everything.

I watch all your plays, films, and gigs. I am your number one fan, and you are my greatest supporter.

It matters to me that your family like me.

I love to hear you talk about feminism. I love to hear you talk.  

I am not perfect. We will fight. I am not here to fulfill or complete you. But I love you, I want you, and I care about you. I am here for you. I see you.

I know you are anxious to know when we are going to meet, or if you already know me. I know you want to know if we have kids and a home and our dream jobs. I can’t tell you that, though, it’s against the rules. But you’ll know when the time is right.

Until then, take good care of yourself and of your beautiful, open heart. Be gentle, be kind, be sweet, and indulge in your willingness to love. Have no regrets, know that every single one of your stories will lead you to me.

I am here, I am crazy about you, and I cannot wait to marry you.

Love,

Me.

Letter to My Tummy

Dear Tummy,

I don't think we've formally met, though I've talked to you a lot over the years. I know I've never been very nice to you. In fact, I don't think I've ever said one nice thing about you or to you. You are that part of me that I am never, ever satisfied with. And, unlike cellulite, which lives in my ass where I can't see it, you are under constant scrutiny. I see you when I shower, I see you when I sit down, I see you when I look in the mirror, I see you in most pictures, and I see you reflected in other people's eyes.

I have often said to you things like, "Please go away," "I hate you," "Ugh," "Just get off me," and, in my worst moments, "Fuck off!"

I am not proud of how I've treated you, Tummy. I've called you flabs, jell-o, dinner baby, watermelon, rolling empire of flesh, and many other mean names. I've looked at you and burst into tears.

I've considered, many many times, cutting you open, sucking out all the fat you store, and stitching you back up again. The ol' nip and tuck. If I weren't afraid it might kill me, I would've done it by now- maybe even more than once.

I've crunched you up at the gym up to 5,000 times in a row, in an attempt to make you go away. I've held my breath for so many years, I half-burst into tears every time I inhale fully now. I've denied you food. I've willed you to give up the food you kept. I've put you behind slimming tights, fastening you away like a prisoner, hoping others wouldn't know you existed.

I did design a hearts meditation for myself a couple of years ago, but you were always the hardest part to get to. I just can't say it with complete conviction: "I love you, Tummy." I want to, but I can't.

That doesn't mean I'm not sorry though. And that doesn't mean I'm giving up on my relationship with you. I want to love you, I want to accept you, I want to stop trying to change you. I know that I need you. I know that my perception of you is often dangerously misconstrued. I know that my desire to change you is based on false images fed to me by bullshit sexist media and that I should know better than to think I'll be happier if I have a flat non-stomach.

I know all of this. But I still haven't figured it out. The best I seem able to do, as of yet, is not think about you at all. I can't force the positive thoughts, but I seem able to not have thoughts, to just not think about my tummy. Forget I even have one. It's how I deal with a lot of things I'm insecure about, actually. Don't think about it, because then it isn't real. I know it's not super healthy, but it's where I'm at for now.

I'm working on it, though.

One day, I will look at you with love. I know it. And it won't be because I've lost the 10 pounds I always think I need to lose, or because I've done 800 sit-ups every day, or because I've just had food poisoning three weeks in a row. It'll be because I can let go of wanting you to be different. I'll see you as perfect, and I'll trust that we are on the same side.

Until that day, Tummy, I hope you'll bear with me. I hope you'll forgive my meanness. I hope you'll stick around. I hope you'll believe in me, and have compassion.

I look forward to better times,

xoxoxo

Me.