Last week at the gym I was on the stepper developing my carpal tunnel (I opt to take most of my body weight through my poorly conditioned forearms while convincing myself I’m shredding booty) reading the February 2012 issue of Shape magazine. There was article that discussed the results of an interesting study. Apparently writing a love letter to yourself once a day for a week can have highly positive effects. I say “highly positive effects” because I can’t actually remember the positive outcome they were looking at. It was probably something like (please don’t quote me), “you’ll have really great sex”. Or, “your skin will have the bronzed glow of an Oscar’s statue or a Jennifer Lopez”. Or, “you will have more energy and burn more calories”. Or, “you will meet the man/woman of your dreams”.
[Pick your favorite, and yes, that’s what the outcome was.]
Either way, the “highly positive effects” lasted six months in the study. For only one week of sexy love notes to myself? I gotta get on this.
So here it goes.
Saturday, March 12, 2012
My love for you is so strong that, if I could, I would bring you flowers every day. Even though I know you couldn’t possibly keep them alive and, let’s face it, you couldn’t name three different types of flowers if you tried. But I would still do it because in our culture, dying plants mean “I love you”. And I do. Love you.
Sunday, March 13, 2012
My darling HOAR,
What is that? Is there a dead animal on your shower wall? A toupee? No. That’s the mat of dead hair that falls out of your precious, dried scalp during your vigorous deep conditioning process. But rather than let the nest clog the drain, you stick the matted handfuls to the wall. Brilliant! How thoughtful! Sure, sometimes you forget to wipe it off afterwards. Sometimes it’s still there when company comes over. But if they love you, like I do, they will consider your unique wall art endearing.
P.S. You look great today. Whoever told you Walmart flannel pajamas are less sexy than Victoria’s Secret lingerie was lying.
Monday, March 14, 2012
Hey there, sexy HOAR,
Whatcha wearin’, there? Oh, the cords again? You treasure. Those beige Joe Fresh corduroys you bought while grocery shopping in Thunder Bay five years ago might seem dated to some. But gosh, you manage to wring every ounce of… je-ne-sais-quoi out of everything, don’tcha you little thrift-kitten? Sure they end slightly above the ankle bones but hey! Who doesn’t like capris? And the trendy high-waist and extra large buttock pockets just…give that butt so much space to…exist. Looking at it just…gives me time to think. About life.
You should have bought a pair in every color.
Tuesday, March 15, 2012
You really do go above and beyond in everything you do. And I want you to know how much I appreciate that. Don’t think I didn’t notice you digging through bins of multicolored candy with a scoop to pick out just the green ones for St. Paddy’s day. I saw you break a sweat and I may have even heard a gentle grunt or two as you really got in there. And just for me. I am very lucky. Some might argue you would only put forth such an effort for food but no, they’ve pegged you wrong. I’m not one to name names, but in the wise words of a woman who may or may not have grown me in her uterus, “you’d tear out your arsehole and shit through your ribs” for a great glass of red as well. You work and you suffer for what you want. Admirable.
Wednesday, March 16, 2012
Loving the “born-again” thick hoop you’ve had re-jammed in your nose for only $50 of the grocery money. When paired with your work pants and that adorably fuzzy, low-set bun in your hair, you look nothing like a thirty-year-old having an identity crisis. But, perhaps, your gut instinct is correct and it should be changed to a demure stud as soon as you’ve waited the mandatory six weeks. Only because “understated” is the new “please look at me” in accessorizing. Not that you’re not gorgeous.
Thursday, March 17, 2012
To the HOAR of my life,
I can’t help but notice how strong and unbreakable your nails are lately. Some might compare their thickness to toenails and attribute them to the new brand of birth-control pills you just started (hi, dad!). But I just think they’re the outward projection of your inner strength. And the fact that the white part starts so close to the large cuticles? To me that says “whimsical” and “fun”. You should be waving those babies in the air right now!
Friday, March 18, 2012
I/You/We love wine. Winey wine wine. I love you. You love I. Love love. And wine.
Saturday, March 19, 2012
Has it been a week already? I could have gone on forever. What I love most about you is your bravery. I remember that fateful day seven years ago when you were not totally unlike William Wallace himself…
Of course you hadn’t had a cold sore since you were a child, so how were you to know when you felt that delightful tingle you shouldn’t gnaw at it with the corner of your crooked upper front tooth like it was a scratch-n-win? And when the thing ballooned to the size of a brussel sprout and the allergic reaction caused the left side of your lower lip to swell until it gently caressed your chin, what were you do to but keep on truckin’? And that’s just what you did. Nevermind that you had just won the prestigious Summer Undergraduate Research Award and were doing cancer research in a meticulously sterile lab at the Health Sciences Centre. Nevermind that your brilliant, little Japanese supervisor had the drive of a worker bee, the patience of Christian Bale having his eyeline crossed, and a voice that could pierce the bottom of the great Atlantic. Nevermind that you worked in a lab full of attractive grad students a few years older than you. And nevermind that when you mustered up the gut-wrenching courage to walk into the lab, your supervisor pointed and screamed “Herpes! Get out!”. What’s important is that you survived. After a week of social isolation and self-administered food therapy you walked into that lab with your head held high. That shows great courage. And for that, I love you.
Whew. I’m gettin’ a little misty here. I had no idea how much I loved myself.
[Of course I did.]
Having re-read those letters… I feel like slipping into my sexiest pair of beige corduroys, throwing on the ol’ iPod headphones and taking a stroll in the sunshine. Spring starts tomorrow and I’ve got six beautiful months of great sex/J-Lo sheen/a slimmer waistline/whatever to look forward to. Chee-ya!