July 4, 2008

My dearest,

You’ve got to look good.

That’s what they tell us anyway. Society. (Useful as it may be to blame them for everything we can muster under the sun, some fine day we’d just have to realize we’re a hundred and one percent responsible for our own little personal disasters and victories. Still, it’s fun to say “I blame society.” No?)

Bigger bosoms. Or smaller ones if you’re too well-endowed. Tiny waistlines, for both the ladies and the gents. No thunder thighs here, please. Tighten that bum till you can bounce a nickel off of it. And maybe a facial or two while you’re at it. Schedule a whole year’s worth. A little nip at the chin there, a little tummy tuck there; let’s rub them crow’s feet away. What other flaws can we hide? There’s so many, we won’t run out in a hurry, why not make a game of this? I’ll tell you yours, if you tell me mine.

Beauty is hard work, don’t let them tell you no different.

Two heads are better than one (they also say), and maybe we have a slim chance of making the cut. Co-operation is the name of the game. We can do this if we work together, my dear. I won’t whine at you when you take half an hour (or more sometimes) to ready your hair in the morning. Before we go out for dinner. Before bed even, if you’re in the mood. You never know who might turn up in your dreams, right?

And you won’t nag me about putting on weight, pound after pound, as the bliss of being in love also incites in me a great hunger; I’m famished for more, more, more. You don’t remind me I’ve not been going into the gym. You won’t tease me about my love handles, not much anyway. These sweet layers of flab around my belly, why them reasons to adore me more, no? You rub them, telling me it might help. My appetite certainly won’t. This sure is one way of handling love.

We can be such beasts, but with these eyes, we see only beauty.

Yours, ever and always.