It’s a mystery how two souls ever find one another and why we must go through heartbreaks and missteps to find The One meant for especially for us and us alone.
The beautiful and incomparable Yuliya of She Suggests is my guest this week with a letter to her younger self about finding her special mate, pickled herring eater that he is.
Dear Head Over Heels,
Love is confusing and I am here to help you navigate those stormy seas. Let’s look back at your love life through the years to help you find The One.
You’re 16 and you’re in love.
You steal breathless kisses behind the soccer field (because behind the football bleachers is a total cliche) You exchange handwritten novel sized letters of devotion. Saying goodnight on the phone proves impossible and you cradle the receiver all night syncing your breathing to his.
You have so much in common. Like your mutual love of jazz, (even though you sort of don’t get it.) Your mutual obsession with poetry (even though you sort of don’t get it.) And your mutual adoration of his brilliant mind (even though you sort of don’t get it.)
He is obviously The One. Don’t let the pesky lyrics of that Bob Dylan song he keeps playing for you tell you otherwise. “It Ain’t Me Babe” is obviously a euphemism for something. Something you sort of don’t get.
You’re 18 and you’re in love.
You are dizzy with desire. And dizzier still from the contraband Naty Ice he supplies you (he taught you that’s the cool way to say Natural Ice Beer) Together you frolic among drunken co-eds in his (community) hot tub.
You have so much in common. Like the fact that you both consider Tapatio a food group and both love football. You can spend an entire weekend just wasting away the hours rooting for your favorite team, the Packards? the 76ers? the Bald Eagles?
He is obviously The One. Don’t let the fact that he takes other girls out on dates tell you otherwise. He told you something about ‘playing the field’ and that’s obviously a sports analogy that you just don’t get.
You’re 20 and you kinda sorta like this guy. But it’s no biggie. It’s super casual.
You fail to swoon at the sight of his Old Navy t-shirts and awkwardly sway with him to the uneven beat of Ukrainian folk rock.
You have so little in common. He eats pickled herring for breakfast and likes European techno music. It takes him exactly four months to make the first move which you would find romantic if this was 1852.
But he actually calls when he says he’ll call. He nurses you back to health from the most wicked and completely unattractive bout of stomach flu. He stands up to your parents when they put you down. You can actually see your unborn children in his eyes (with a little help from Jose, Jose Cuervo).
He is obviously The One. Hang on tight and follow him to the end of the Earth (in your case Reno, NV)!
Regards,
Your older, wiser happily married to a pickled herring eater self
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