While packing, I pulled out a stack of papers. Black papers. With ping gel ink writing.
I am giving this stack of untitled papers the following name:
Letters to My Future Husband: An Eleventh Grader's Really Pathetic Life of Longing for a Boyfriend (Right Now).
Yes, I did write letters to my future husband when I was sixteen. And yes, I saved them. And yes, I found them just before the wedding and stuck them in a schoolbook to give to Chris later so we could both have a laugh.
He's already laughing. I'm glad he's amused. (No, really, I am.)
He's already laughing. I'm glad he's amused. (No, really, I am.)
But seriously? Eleventh graders are soooooo ridiculous.
UPDATE:
So we read a few of them together, and I will say this: my inner sixteen-year-old found it extremely satisfying to read those letters with my wonderful, long waited for, real-life husband. Very satisfying indeed. So keep writing your ridiculous letters, eleventh grade girls. It'll be worth it in ten years when you read them while cuddled in bed with the one you've been waiting for.
(Just know that neither of you will take the contents of those letters at all seriously. Because, let's face it: they're pretty ridiculous.)
UPDATE:
So we read a few of them together, and I will say this: my inner sixteen-year-old found it extremely satisfying to read those letters with my wonderful, long waited for, real-life husband. Very satisfying indeed. So keep writing your ridiculous letters, eleventh grade girls. It'll be worth it in ten years when you read them while cuddled in bed with the one you've been waiting for.
(Just know that neither of you will take the contents of those letters at all seriously. Because, let's face it: they're pretty ridiculous.)
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