On Putting The Lonesome On The Shelf

Dear Boy-I-Have-Yet-To-Meet,

That sounds so formal. There are many different names I could call you, I suppose. My mother and father call you Future-Boy-Who'd-Better-Treat-Me-Right. They have gone over standards many times, and, I'm sorry, but you will be judged all around when meeting them. But, I also promise you that my parents are the greatest people in the world--unless you hurt me.

My close friends call you Boy-I-Seemed-To-Have-Yet-To-Meet. They are believers that the most unexpected person could be my Boy, including, but not limited to, the Boy I hated most during Elementary School, the Boy I barely paid attention to in High School math, and any of my current guy friends. They also point out any of their cousin's friends or try to hook me up with the rejected boys of others, so I don't look into this too deeply. However, they have a point; I could have met you and not even know it.

I secretly call you My Best Friend. Despite this being most likely untrue in many senses, this is what I believe we will be. We will talk, trust each other, and poke fun at each other. We won't necessarily have the same interests, but we will listen and share all the same. The most random things will have to be shared, and we will have the benefits many other Best Friends won't have because we will be together, holding hands, touching breath, and life.

By Celtic Legend, you are my anam cara: home. And I like that.

When I meet you, many different things will be going through my head, most of them questions. One that comes to mind is, "Where the hell have you been?" I ask this because you have missed out on many things in my life that I would have shared with you.

For starters, I went to New Zealand, and I would have enjoyed exploring this new world with you. Not just the nerdy seeing the Lord of the Rings sights, but the land itself, where a plant the size of my fist would grow into the girth of my whole being. I would have shared the handmade hot spring on the beach at midnight with you. We would have looked at the stars after spending a half hour digging in that sand, then make stories for the new constellations we saw in that hemisphere. And you would have laughed until you cried when you heard the story of my experience in a men's bathroom.

You missed out on some pretty awesome times in which you could have been my hero. I've almost been in two accidents (you could have calmed me down), been impaled by poison sumac/ivy on many occasions (anything to make me feel beautiful during those days), been in need of an enveloping hug (or just a snuggle), and could have used some tips in Golden Eye when I was younger (my brother killed me in that game... Seriously, I sucked).

But, mostly, you're missing out on my fantastic, random ideas.

I have this one idea in which we both discreetly take off a week at work, then leave on the next plane to Alaska, only telling people we left by our voice mails--because we won't be answering our phones. Instead, we'll be astonished by how Alaska isn't all the tundra we thought it would be, and would eat salmon while watching the sun never really set. We'd paint the image of us sitting there in our heads, and when we'd come back, we wouldn't divulge in any details.

And if that were too expensive, we'd run away for one night, take a boat out to an island, then drive the boat back because I didn't like the bugs and it was too cold, wrap each other up in blankets, and fall asleep watching our favorite movies in different languages, just to make sure we're getting the full quality out of our DVDs.

My ideas are more of the spontaneous sort. I'll want us to jump in the car and see the World's Largest Ball of Twine some weekend. I'll suddenly get the urge to make guacamole around 11:00pm, and then I've made margaritas with tiny umbrellas to go with it, and then you've found a sombrero, and I'm laughing while you try to explain why you'd win a fight with a cactus. And, while you would be doing something so normal, so simple, so you, I'd come up and kiss you beside the start of your smile.

Since you've yet to meet me, I should give you some pointers. You'll most likely need them while pursuing me.

Firstly, do not claim that The Beatles are underrated. This will take you years to get into my good graces again. Make fun of the fact that I love Ringo best, make fun of the fact that some of their songs remind you of a children's nursery rhyme, and certainly poke fun at the idea of Yoko Ono tearing up the band. But mention one iota of there being no talent? The loving individual that I am will be no more.

Secondly, it doesn't take much to make me laugh. I love to laugh. But to make me laugh with tears running down my face? To make me snort? Watch the episode of The Office "Stress Relief", in which Dwight takes out a hunting knife hidden by his calf and starts to harvest the mannequin for its organs with me. Or, if you want to die afterwards, try tickling me. I probably won't kill you, but I will demand a tickle-free-snuggle afterwards.

Thirdly, I am an advocate for Women's Rights, but nothing turns me on like a gentleman. Opening the door, giving me your jacket when I'm cold, letting me know that I'm a woman whom you adore? I think this dates back to forever ago when I've always been one of the guys; being treated like a lady in the simplest situations has me swooning. It's also common courtesy. And I love me someone who is courteous. And holds my hand.

Fourthly, and most importantly, understand that I love video games, books, and making jewelry. I will sometimes get in a zone that will cause me to A) not listen to a word you're telling me and B) get irritated. Unless it is a dire need, it's best to allow me to finish whatever part I am on than to interrupt. Know that if I seem exasperated by you during these sessions, I am. But I will forgive you in a few moments and be back to normal. It may be fifteen minutes later when I say, "Now, what did you need, love?", but you can have all of my attention once I've taken my metal from the kiln and pounded on it some more.

There is so much more tell you, but I can wait. I'm ticking on almost twenty-five years, after all. But I wanted to write you a letter to let you know I'm thinking of you. Wondering where I'll be in life when I realize I'm incandescently happy with you by my side. Curious about what we hope the universe will bring us, and whether you're thinking of me, too.

Until then,
Miss Mallory