A Short Letter to My Someone
Dear My Someone,
I have had a most unsettling revelation tonight, and I’m afraid it is one of the painful kind. For it occurs to me that in spite of centuries of literary admonitions to the contrary— the fairy tales of damsels and princes in the days of yore; the tearfully delightful endings to boy-meets-girl-boy-loses-girl-boy-wins-girl-back movies; shadowy promises from the pages of celebrity and romance magazines; the plethora of smiling, familiar faces frozen in time on my computer screen; and the seemingly endless imaginings of my own juvenile, hopelessly lovestruck mind . . . Miss Right does not exist.
I’m sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings, and up until now I have kept silent, for I was a guest here. But now I must speak. You are but a fantasy, Miss Right. A will o’ the wisp, as they say. A nice idea, a warm and charming concept, but I’m afraid that’s all you are. It’s all you’ll ever be. I know, believe me I understand all too well what it is to be reduced to a social afterthought. To be aware that your very existence is dependent wholly upon your ability to keep your holographic image afloat before eyes not even looking your way. I know, my dear one, I know. It hurts.
But you and I must face the facts as Life presents them. There will never be a Miss Right to sit beside me on a snow-dusted bench in Central Park of a cold winter’s night; no Miss Right to lean in close to me as we try to keep warm at Rockefeller Center, our breath mingling in translucent white clouds, waiting until our turn on the ice comes around; no silly, touristy romantic horse and carriage ride along 5th Avenue. Sorry, my dear, but those childhood dreams must be put back in your toy box where they belong.
There will be no holding the door or the chair for Miss Right. There will be no displays of kindness or empathy or chivalry; there will be no spontaneous notes of love and appreciation, or flowers, or even the warm reassuring embrace of a man who loves you just because you’re you. There will be no honesty, or poetry, or respect— not because you don’t deserve them. Of course you do! That is . . . well . . . if you existed.
And as long as we’re laying our cards on the table— and what other choice do we have? —I must tell you: there is no Mr. Right, either. He, too, does not exist, except in little girl dreams. You see, there is this idea— well, let’s call it what it truly is — a myth —that there is such a thing as a perfectly imperfect man, this Mr. Right. Balderdash! As fanciful as Sir Galahad, I’m afraid. Mr. Right, the man of intelligence, of Life and world experience; the financially responsible man who pays his bills and who puts the word "romantic" into the phrase "hopeless romantic;” a father to two worldly graduate student sons, one of whom also serves in the Army; a traveler, a road tripper; a man who can actually COOK full meals, not just hamburgers and spaghetti; someone who loves theater and dining out, and yes, wants to take those hand-in-hand walks on the beach under a full moon? A man who wants more than anything to show his beloved that she is everything to him, to share all of the happy and sad, the lonely and glad, the secrets and inside jokes; a man who'll take his beloved seriously, share her adventures, and yes, make her laugh at exactly all the wrong times and at all the wrong things? Well, my dear, society owes you an apology. If this legendary Mr. Right did exist, you would have found him by now. Wouldn’t you?
Simple and childish as it may sound, you seek someone who, like you, is happy only when he's with you've dined with kings and spent nights out in the rain, but "Stuff" doesn't impress you. No, you're listening for that one unique heartbeat, the one looking for a rhythm like you. could live in a mansion or a tent with Mr. Right.
But alas. Your faith is rooted in wonder, and you're not easily fooled. You know that in the Real World there is no Mr. or Miss Right.
There is only you and me.
