Dear Tom Selleck . . .
I'm giving you a break today over at The Selleck Stache. You're welcome. You don't get off so easily over here. I'm freaking out, Tom. And I'll tell you why:
Just yesterday, I finished my bridge over the sailor's troubled waters. Just yesterday. I. Let. It. Go. I swear I did. I do not lie. Lying is my biggest pet peeve. A deal breaker in my world.
So I let it go. Let him go. Yesterday.
A friend even asked about him and I told her I had made it over. And I meant it. I did.
And then I cleaned my room last night.
I've lived in my Magic Cottage for just over a year and my room will forever be a 'work in progress'. I think I like it that way. But it was out of control. Has been for quite some time. Like over a year. Every time I start to clean it, I 'hear' . . . clean it and they will come. There. I typed it out loud. Doesn't sound as crazy now. Except that it does sound just as crazy. Because it is! I've only told Beth this. Even she cocked (speaking of - check your balls) her head and laughed.
I just jokingly told her the other night I was going to clean my room so they would come. So it would come. So he would come. So something would come. So far, only I have come. (too much?)
When I finished cleaning my room last night, I just sat there and took it all in. It's not perfect, but I'm happy with it. And then I did the unspeakable. The thing I know better than to do.
Accidentally. I swear. I was only kidding.
I sat there after taking it all in and said (out loud): Ok, send them. Or it. Or him. I'm ready. And then I laughed at the ridiculousness of it all and half expected there to be a booty call text come in as the punchline. So then I decided to beat The Almighty Universe to the punch and said (also out loud because I will never learn): The next boy to text wins. I cleaned it, so now he can come. And then I laughed out loud a little more.
I wish I were kidding about all of this. But sadly, I am not. I'm that girl.
And then I put on my warm pj's straight from the dryer and got a good clean sheet night's sleep in my very clean bedroom.
I awoke early ready to take on the world. Or at least the mound of laundry I created when I cleaned my room. I heard my texter ring from the other room.
It was him. The sailor.
My world stopped.
All I could hear were Ray Charles and Bonnie Raitt belting out 'Do I Ever Cross Your Mind' from my ipod speakers. Nice touch Universe. Not only appropriate, but one of the songs I put on his driving CD years ago and he brought up to me this summer. Which was his way of saying . . .
Never mind. Let's just move on with this story.
I opened my texter (yes, I still carry a flip Blackberry) and it read:
Brilliant. Did it take him 3 fucking days to come up with that? I texted him 'happy birthday' at midnight Wednesday. (I left that part out yesterday, didn't I? That's selective omission, not a lie.) No pomp. No circumstance. Two capitals. No period. And he used my name.
I'm not texting 'you're welcome s' until Tuesday. Late Tuesday. All lower-case. No period. And I'll only use his initial.
Edie B. Kuhl