Lost Love

I seem to lean on, old familiar ways ... -- #725

Dear Kim,

Hi. How are you? I know its been about 15 years since you’ve seen me, or heard from me, or probably even thought about me, but I wanted to let you know something. I think I’m ready to go out with you now.

To be honest I wasn’t ready for a girl like you back then. I was young and insecure. But over the years I’ve matured and learned some things about myself, things that directly affect our relationship. For one thing, it turns out that I’m attracted to imperfect women. By “imperfect” I guess I mean a little chubby. And slightly crazy. You were awkwardly tall and kinda wide in the hips, which didn’t seem that attractive to my twentysomething self. This was wrong. I guess I thought I could do better, seeing as how I was a starter on the lacrosse team and all. But it turns out that I can’t … at least not anymore anyway. Not that I want to! Crazy women are usually pretty interesting, at least more interesting than women that think they’re sane. And as for looks, I’m not so hung up on those anymore. I was pretty shallow back then, I admit. Now I can live with your big hips. “Whatever” is my attitude! Assuming that our relationship works out -- and why wouldn’t it? -- your bountiful size could only be an asset to me, because I have every intention of living vicariously through the athletic achievements of my children. Thanks to your good birthing hips and broad shoulders, our kids should be tall sturdy animals, hopefully power forwards. You also had a really pretty face, which means that if you ever slimmed down, you’d probably be a knockout. Not that I would even care. I’m probably into you for who you are, baby.

I’ve dated skinny women over the years and it turns out that they mostly suck. They’re obsessed with how much they weigh and what they eat and how often they exercise and blah blah blah. It gets tiring. They also transfer their body phobias onto you, to the point where you can’t enjoy a bag of chips or a glass of beer without subconsciously hating yourself and calculating how many miles you’ll have to jog the next day to work off the calories. Who can live like that? Not me. Do you hear that, Steff? I'm eating carbs again, you fucking bitch. Do you hear that!?

In retrospect, I now admire the fact that you weren’t compulsive about your weight and yet were able to maintain a healthy body. Maybe "healthy" is a stretch. Normal? Average? Low maintenance? At the very least you were able to go out every weekend and enjoy yourself, and you still managed to avoid inflating like a stuffed sausage. I really respect that. Plus you had big breasts. Turns out that I respect that too.

I’m also fine now with the fact that you hooked up with most of my friends. I have to admit that, when I was younger, this really bothered me. But now that we’re both mature adults, who cares. Everyone has a sexual history. Most of your flings with my friends occurred before we got to know each other, and maybe you were telling the truth when you said that you regretted hooking up with them, knowing it would damage any future relationship between us. You faced up to being a slut, and I appreciate the honesty. I realize now that you were just a young woman exploring her sexuality, and that this exploration was actually a good thing because it helped you develop a healthy sexual appetite, free from shame or other self-destructive and repressive behaviors. It also meant that you were pretty horny, which as I get older (and wiser!), I realize is a tremendous asset in a female partner.

And regarding my friends -- sure, it kind of freaked me out that a bunch of my buddies saw you naked, and that if we started dating they would have that to hold over me. But that’s OK too, because I hardly ever talk to those guys anymore. They’re all too fucking busy, or at least that's what they usually say. Most of them got married, some of them have kids. In fact, whenever I do see them -- at least the ones that I still talk to -- they’re always like, “Remember Kim? Man, she was a lot of fun.” They say this a lot, actually, usually after their fourth or fifth vodka tonic. I think I’d be OK with dating a woman that everyone thought was fun. I also can’t believe that their opinion once mattered to me. It doesn’t matter now, Kim. My head is so filled with regrettable fucks that at this point I'm willing to settle on just being able to look at myself in the mirror after sex. You're special enough that I could see myself waking up next to you and not wanting to vomit.

Plus, it turns out that a lot of your sexual escapades were relatively tame by today’s standards. I know you had sex with Todd that one time on one of the dorm couches, but that’s not a problem. Todd was a pretty good looking guy, so I can understand the attraction. I heard that he has a small penis, so I won’t feel the least bit insecure that you might be thinking about him while we’re doing it. I also don’t mind that you let my roommate finger you in the library stairwell. It was just a finger. I’ve fingered lots of people. It’s really not that big of a deal. I’ve done much worse things to women whose name I can hardly remember. Plus you were drunk. If everything I did when I was drunk was held against me, I never would have gotten into law school. These things happen. Let’s move on. Together.

Sure, maybe like a dozen other people that I know can describe what your nipples look like. I’m almost staggered that at one time in my life I actually had a problem with this. You rolled around naked with a lot of dudes -- that’s practically a Disney movie these days. I dated this one girl a few months ago -- well, let’s just say that I never want to eat another zucchini again. Or watch the Green Bay Packers. You were comfortable with your body. I admire this. It means that you’d often be naked if we were together, and I’m a big fan of constant nudity. It’s one of my favorite things, actually. Naked women are fun to look at, and nakedness encourages sex, which is also fun. Back in the day I used to respect women that made me make out with them for like 15 minutes before I even reached under their shirt. I’m not making that up. But now that I’m well into my 30s, I don’t have time to be fumbling with bras. My time is kind of precious, and we both have to get to sleep at some point. You were all business back then. How did I let such a wonderful girl like you get away?

Seriously, Kim, I love you. If that’s what it takes. I probably don’t even care if you got a little fatter.

It’s not like I’m perfect either. Remember that full head of floppy hair I used to have, like Jason Priestly on 90210? Fucking gone. Going, actually, but it’s the same thing. I’m also unemployed. I’m probably going to have to live with my parents next year, at least until I get my bearings. I do have a law degree, but it set me back about $150 grand. You’re not rich, are you? Because I’d love you even harder if you were.

Also, well, I ask this rhetorically: How do you feel about back hair? Rhetorically might not be the right word. It’s hit or miss with most women, rhetorically speaking. I also might have a drinking problem. But only because I’m complicated. Virile, complicated men are sexy, right? That’s what attracted you to me in the first place. Fifteen years ago.

Please, Kim, write back. I miss you. I should never have let you go. Make sure you attach a recent photo.