Like Letters

I have a penchant for writing long-winded letters, fraught with emotion, to guys I find attractive. If you've ever been the receiving party of such a letter, I apologize. (There aren't that many of you, and you're probably not reading this anyway, but just in case. . .) You probably didn't deserve it, and I shouldn't have inflicted it upon you, but I'm certain that I meant every word I wrote at the time that I wrote it. Still, that's no excuse for actually giving it to you. I probably should have kept it to myself.

Then, I had a breakthrough of sorts. I wrote a short note and spent a day agonizing over whether or not to give it to someone. In the end, I didn't, partly because I am a little shy sometimes, partly because my gut told me not to, and partly because I was terrified someone else would find it and read it and hello awkward!

The note didn't say anything incriminating. There was a comment on his looks (sort of) and a compliment on a recent project. It shouldn't have been embarrassing to give him the note or even to say those things to his face . . . if I only thought of him as a friend.

There's the trouble, though.

I like him. I probably shouldn't, but I do. A little, anyway. Enough to make me awkward.

If I didn't, I could tell him the things that I wrote in that note, but since I do, anything I say is going to sound like I'm flirting. Which would be okay, I suppose, if I knew he also liked me. But I don't. And anyway, he shouldn't. We're really all wrong for each other. Probably.

So I'm erring on the side of caution when it comes to "Like Letters" these days.

Probably.

Gracie Dances (and Talks to Strangers in Restaurants)

She was four years old and sitting with her family at a table near mine at the restaurant. Barefoot and dressed in a baby pink leotard and hot pink tutu, she tiptoed near my table and then back to her own. Three or four times, she did this dance, moving closer and closer while her parents called her back, telling her to leave me alone. I asked her if she was a ballerina, and suddenly, Gracie was regaling me with the minuscule details of her colorful life.

For nigh on ten minutes, we chatted. She climbed into the chair opposite me and while I ate my soup, told me about pre-pre-K, homework, dance class, her dislike of the color of her ballet slippers, and her excitement for an upcoming trip to Disney World. When I told her I met Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty and Belle when I was at Disney World but that Ariel was on vacation and so I didn't get to meet her, Gracie giggled and then firmly corrected me: Ariel was just upstairs changing.

Her mother suggested that Gracie color a page from her coloring book for me. On presenting the gift, she explained that she'd left the white parts that way on purpose. I promised to hang it on my refrigerator. She told me I'd have to put a magnet on it first. I assured her I would.

As she and her family prepared to depart for dance class, Gracie invited me to visit her anytime, told me her address (oops!) and asked when I would be there. Her mother smiled indulgently and said of course I was welcome anytime. Gracie told me to leave a note in the mailbox by their driveway to say when I would visit.

Gracie transformed my lonely meal into an exuberant conversation merely by being herself. She shares her smiles and her laughter with strangers at restaurants because why wouldn't we want to laugh with her?

Can this child-like confidence be contagious? Please!

Why I'm Afraid to Let You Read What I'm Writing

Too much of how I feel about myself is all tied up in how you feel about me. Good or bad, important or not, I value your opinion. Even if I don’t know you, I’ll take your response personally. Even if you just evaluate the grammar, I’ll internalize it and somehow manipulate your comments into a personal attack. They’re not meant that way. My brain knows that on the most basic level, but the emotional side of my brain doesn’t believe the rational side of my brain so I will struggle to keep the writing separate from who I am.

Except that, in a way, the writing is who I am. We are one and the same. It’s my thoughts and my opinions and my imagination run amok and my contribution to the world, however insignificant in the long run. It’s what will remain when I’m gone. So if you don’t appreciate it, if you don’t like it, if you don’t respond to it, what was the point of it? Why did I bother? If what I created isn’t worth your notice, does that mean I’m not worth it, either?

Again, I know that’s not true. I know my worth extends far beyond some words on a page. My contribution to the world is so much more than a physical remnant. My most valuable impression will not be measured by its physical presence. It will be the cheer that someone feels when they remember our interaction or the smile that creeps across their face when something reminds them of me.

So I guess what I’m saying is that how you feel about my writing will affect how I feel about myself, but I hope what you remember most about me is not my writing but me. Just me. My smile and my heart and the love and laughter I shared with you. I hope my writing doesn’t get in the way of that, and if all you have of me is my writing, I suppose my writing had better be full of love and laughter.