Dear Mr. F,
If morning sickness means that I wake, dismayed and wounded that my dreams are only the sensations of my slumber; if stretch marks are the insignia that my patience is being tested and my character molded; if the water breaking is a symbol of an irrepressible force of unrequited love that will, without notice, burst forth, summoning the new life that we can share together, then yes. I am with child. A child called, “j’adore.”
That’s what the French call it–j’adore–the type of love found in “You’ve Got Mail,” “The Notebook,” and “Wedding Crashers.” It means devotion, (this coming from a people group that invented sadism, so it’s rare).
It’s cute the way you try to make me jealous. Like at the Harvest Party, when you spent the whole night chatting with my girlfriends. Hmmm, I wonder what the topic of conversation was (whatever they told you about me, take with a grain of salt. I’m not the only one who cried during “Ice Age”).
And how you danced with that one girl when I was clearly available. Gosh, you are so obvious. Some other ladies out there may lose their cool, but I know when a guy dances to Billie Jean, he’s really reminding that certain someone (moi) that homegirl (salope) is not his lover.
Let’s face it: fall semester is busy, especially around midterms. But we really should set aside some time for each other. Don’t get me wrong–I so admire how studious you are. When I wave to you in the library, which turns into pst-ing, which turns into mild shouting, those brainy peepers are committed to that textbook. You don’t even look up! In the event I get a visit from the swine fairy, I look forward to your doctoral expertise. Some knights carry a sword, others a stethoscope.
And may I applaud your Facebook discipline. It’s like, every time I try to chat, you log off immediately, off to complete yet another task. Except that one time you called me a creep. Flirt alert! Your words said one thing, but your “jk :)” said another. Kind of the “no-means-yes,” but for guys. I guess he just is that into me.
But someone once told me that people must prioritize what’s important to them. You wouldn’t neglect things you love, like a dog or your gums. With that, I have systematically scheduled you into all my free time:
Breakfast: how do you like your eggs?
Driving to and from school: can you say carpool? We can discuss what we’d like to discuss during lunch.
Chapel: I whole-heartedly agree in the laying of hands and the giving of tongues.
Checking mail after chapel: you can help me with my combo. I can never seem to get my lock to open. Your roommates all seem to call you a “tool,” so I figure you’re handy with gadgets and combos.
Walking me to class: we’d really be official then! (Maybe do a lap around the Cove so word spreads quickly).
Lunch: I know you already devote your lunch times to watching me eat; I see you out of the corner of my eye. But our relationship is past your silly love games. We could schedule some real, quality face-time here. Notice the couples that make out in the Caf get engaged quickly. As I always say, the couple that Caf’s together, lasts forever.
Late afternoon: finish my homework, making sure to erase my “Mr. & Mrs. F” doodles . . . I think it’s making Frank Macchia uncomfortable.
Dinner: Taco Tuesdays and “The Office” reruns. We can compare/contrast our relationship to Jim and Pam’s (I think they might spend too much time together).
And when we’re apart, we can text/Skype/Tweet/blog/pigeon-message about where we’d like to serve overseas, preferably Ethiopia. It’s where Angelina adopted Zahara (arguably the better Jolie-Pitt).
Then we can end each day on the phone, until we slowly drift asleep. No, you hang up!
Rest assured, I am not a girl that needs a mood ring. I know what I want and won’t change my mind. My color will always be blue: if you ask me out I’ll most likely agree. Just know that when you reach out to me, you’ll have to turn around–because I’m already reaching out to you.
Mr. F, jr. has a nice ring to it, you think?