Dear John

I thought of calling this letter "Why I Am Breaking Up With You," and then thought better of it. After all, I'm not entirely convinced that I want to. There are so many about us that just don't work together. I am a strong proponent of this whole "opposites attract" adage but I think Paula Abdul meant things like he's quiet, she's chatty; he's rugged, she's girly; he's bookish, she's artsy. I don't think it holds for us. None of the things I am about to write to you is reason enough to break up with you, in and of itself, but the series of things that do not mesh is certainly cause for some concern.

I am boho chic, minus the chic. You are what Abercrombie would be if he grew up and got a job.

I like animals. You do not. It wouldn't be such a problem if you didn't mind them, or if you simply didn't care for them but could tolerate them, but no. You don't want pets. Ever.

I am anything but fancy. You like things of a certain... quality. You're more of a hotel kind of guy while I get my kicks out of hostels and guesthouses. It's not that I mind hotels. It's just that sometimes, I wanna be less removed from the rest of the world. 

I am a social butterfly. You have no friends in the city. Except the ones you work with, and they don't really count since you don't hang out with them outside of work. It's awesome that you are willing to hang out with my friends, but I wish you had your own.

I embrace all cultures. You are very vocal in your distaste for the French and the Canadians. What have they ever done to you?

I am liberal. You are conservative. I believe that some people need a little help to get on even footing, whereas you're more every man for himself. Neither of us is politically passionate enough to matter most of the time, but sometimes, it makes me wonder. 

I do not make a six figure salary. You do. In fact, you make three times as much as I do. Is that why you complain 300 times more than I do even though we work the same number of hours? It's true, my job may not be as serious as yours, and mine might even be kind of fun, but did you ever think to offer me a shoulder rub after a long day before asking me to give you one?

I enjoy food. A lot. I can't even begin to understand how it is that you have not, not even once, walked out of a restaurant with me raving about the tastes and textures that have just danced across our tongues. As I chew in near-ecstasy, I see you picking at your food, eating it dutifully but without joy, and all of a sudden, my food doesn't taste as good. It breaks my heart.

I dream of traveling. I dream of sights and sounds and smells you just can't get here. With every paycheck I get, I dedicate a percentage of it to my next unforgettable destination. You don't really want to waste your money on travel. You'd rather spend it on something more tangible. Like another gigantic television.

I don't watch tv. You love it. Ironic, as I'm the one who works in television. I think it's awesome that you know so much about all of the shows and the entertainment business and all, but sometimes it makes me sad that we are on the couch a good 90% of the time we are together, not counting the time that we are sleeping. And even when we're not watching, you're talking about tv, talking about the characters as if they are people you know in real life.

I love music and the arts. You're not really into the arts, and while you like music, you prefer to listen at home. I'm cool with that. I even like your taste in music. But you know I love museums and concerts and the ballet and the opera and live music, and still, we sit at home in front of the tv. Can't we take a couple nights off from your couch, comfortable though it may be? You do have DVR, after all.

I don't expect a whole lot on holidays. My birthday was on a Monday and I was in France on business. I asked you if you had free long distance at work so you could call my hotel. You said no. And that was that. When I got back from France, you told me you hadn't gotten me anything and what did I want. I said, "Nothing," because I'm pretty sure that's the only thing I could have said without sounding like a whiny little brat. You double checked with me, saying, "You're sure you're not gonna be mad at me later and bring it up if I don't?" To which I replied, "Of course not." What? I'm going to demand that you take me out to dinner or do something nice? Or spend a few extra dollars on your phone bill to make an international phone call? I don't need jewelry or flowers or fancy dinners, but a heartfelt card or a trip to a museum might have been nice.

You don't need me. You keep me around as long as it's convenient for you. When you're tired after work, you don't want to see me because you're tired. When I'm tired after work, I want to collapse into your arms and let the worries of the day disappear. If I do come over when you're tired, you prefer that I don't stay the night because I don't help you relax.

I need to be loved. I have been craving it. That's why I got sucked into you so quickly, the very first day that I moved to the city. You drew me in with good food and nights out and telling me I was beautiful. Now it's McDonalds and Survivor and I shouldn't wear those brown lacy panties anymore because I don't look good walking around the house in them.

My heart hurts.