Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #155.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYInugEOGOLspzvKiWDKmaAR5Sg9Jli8nwBQierk563fn70KZF20PaqWh90Gz7nEqGAihn2aJCCm99zpHYZ-lKrV0n2HN9m3R1wUPaloKvMQ10IXdCkis3qYYB4fiulgOpc64mfHt5iJg/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732085986452072418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYInugEOGOLspzvKiWDKmaAR5Sg9Jli8nwBQierk563fn70KZF20PaqWh90Gz7nEqGAihn2aJCCm99zpHYZ-lKrV0n2HN9m3R1wUPaloKvMQ10IXdCkis3qYYB4fiulgOpc64mfHt5iJg/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>I'll be honest, Sweetpea: You would have hated the person I was a few years ago. I was that woman. I chatted on my cell phone as I dashed through the supermarket, rolling my eyes and wondering why the little girl with the pigtails and pink puffy dress couldn't move any faster. I even avoided the under-six set at church. <br /><br />Even <span style="font-style:italic;">I</span> hated me.<br /><br />The plain truth: <span style="font-weight:bold;">I didn't want to have kids</span>. I wanted a high-power career as a New York City magazine editor instead of a high-power position as president of the PTA. I wanted to be roused every Saturday by the morning sun sweeping through the nearby window and the smell of freshly brewed coffee instead of being jolted awake by shrieks from the next room or the smell of a not-so-fresh diaper. That's how I viewed motherhood. Not a very flattering portrait, was it?<br /><br />All the sippy-cup, Dr.-Seuss, bubble-bath fun? Well, I'd just leave that to the Mommy Bunch. I considered myself a Career Woman, and the two shall never meet. <br /><br />It wasn't that I grew up with horrible motherly role models. My childhood was quite the contrary, in fact. My mother threw herself into motherhood raising my younger sister and me. Herself a stay-at-home mom, the three of us spent our days rummaging through large piles of children's book at the library or sitting on the banks of the nearby lagoon feeding the ducks. If anything, you'd think I'd want to be my mom, Part II. But one lap around my bedroom would reveal I'm no where close to filling her large shoes. My bookshelves are lined with writing books, various anthologies and the AP style manual; my mother's shelves were lined with family health books and framed family photos. I keep cold cans of Coke in the fridge; she always had fresh juice boxes on hand, the plastic wrapper already removed from the straw, of course. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRwsLva5B581srgVd05jf8BRBpZsqW7ZSZCaZxNlIGMOJOGiTCQHXDVaGcV8gnODonq4739o_6VQ-jMM4wb_85emLefPk5r7gr-43vy-Zb_9Y0n3e9ZZceoBz-ASXOzjMns71d_aADjrg/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732085984155471538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRwsLva5B581srgVd05jf8BRBpZsqW7ZSZCaZxNlIGMOJOGiTCQHXDVaGcV8gnODonq4739o_6VQ-jMM4wb_85emLefPk5r7gr-43vy-Zb_9Y0n3e9ZZceoBz-ASXOzjMns71d_aADjrg/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>That all changed when I met a set of tiny triplets.<br /><br />After years of trying to conceive, my mother's coworker gave birth to their three bundles of joy. I visited them in the NICU, all curled up under a blanket and the overhead heat lamp. For some reason, I felt an instant connection with each of them. We continued to visit them every few months, first as content eight-month olds, then as clap-happy ten-month olds who could sit up.<br /><br />Then one fall day in October, with orange and yellow leaves swirling in the front yard, my mom and I found ourselves on their doorstep. There was one of the triplets, his face and hands making homemade window clings on the front window. His mother opened the door with one hand as she steadied another one of the triplets on her hip. And the third little boy? He held tightly to her knee and buried his head in her jeans.<br /><br />“Oh, I'm so sorry about the mess,” she chirped as we entered the living room.<br /><br />Picture books dangled from the edge of the coffee table, a toy car had found its way smack dab in front of the fire place and small bags of Halloween treats lay strewn across the brown carpeting. I’ll admit I felt a bit out of place, almost as if I’d stepped into a room I didn’t quite belong in. A private club. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFREKMRqKNioTeJdQNfk-7Yc5yQ_xQa1sDjesoRvlDneRte_IZ3GwHGXcanMk9Avv2_UIvyjP2hd_LcFWF1Hd_roUsgS5n19Tr2UCadtHzmZyqZ1uyzNwhBs82rD-37EMkKqLZdnqVqas/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732085993609144002" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFREKMRqKNioTeJdQNfk-7Yc5yQ_xQa1sDjesoRvlDneRte_IZ3GwHGXcanMk9Avv2_UIvyjP2hd_LcFWF1Hd_roUsgS5n19Tr2UCadtHzmZyqZ1uyzNwhBs82rD-37EMkKqLZdnqVqas/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 322px;" /></a>As I sat down, a bit nervous, the quieter of the three boys came over to the couch and proceeded to offer me his pacifier not once, but twice. I declined, naturally, picked up the picture book that lay next to me, and the two of us sat down for a little reading and relaxing. <br /><br />“What’s that? A yummy pie,” I said as he pointed to a colorful picture.<br /><br />“Oh, that’s a tri-an-gle,” I said, neatly sounding out each syllable of the word.<br /><br />Was I really using what people call <span style="font-style:italic;">baby talk</span>?<br /><br />Over the next two hours, we (<span style="font-style:italic;">yes, me and three 18-month-olds</span>) shared laughs, more books, strawberry Pez dispensed from a Jasmine dispenser (<span style="font-style:italic;">a big hit</span>) and even shook and swiveled our hips to Shakira tunes. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUtLPNHpBHIksO7FG72DhQGJBl_SJTo5IBm6mD7t5JnhWVf2ZtBlN1JDpnhR6CLeaJbNs7x2sRt9XlBZELTzUwkSV46Jc08ZWkoV6EAETTPcrxO92RYPPP5Bw1i3t-kJx3pk8tykB9k3w/s1600/04.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732085980030093586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUtLPNHpBHIksO7FG72DhQGJBl_SJTo5IBm6mD7t5JnhWVf2ZtBlN1JDpnhR6CLeaJbNs7x2sRt9XlBZELTzUwkSV46Jc08ZWkoV6EAETTPcrxO92RYPPP5Bw1i3t-kJx3pk8tykB9k3w/s400/04.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 263px;" /></a>I may have entered that house a cynical independent woman who had resigned herself to a life of spinsterhood, but I left a woman who, for the first time, could actually, perhaps, maybe see herself with a baby in her right arm instead of a cell phone clasped to her ear. Maybe someday, Sweetpea. What do you think? Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />P.S. More on how <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/search/label/Disability">my disability will affect my having children</a> later in the week... :)<br /><br /><em><strong>**Don't forget to enter the <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2012/04/shopbop-100-gift-card-giveaway.html">Shopbop giveaway</a> for your chance to win a $100 shopping spree!**</strong></em><br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://weheartit.com/">We Heart It</a> and <a href="http://iheartbaby.tumblr.com/post/12854163876">i heart baby</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #155.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: I'll be honest, Sweetpea: You would have hated the person I was a few years ago. I was that woman. I chatted on ...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #154.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzMJBBePU55d1SkgfAC-9RF43HI86E-bPJpWRIU6i6-FPsTsPl1kLAgrIQSEcnmXoLr1-sRxASrmdTnGk5hln4bSBkPUGPt8v8VmINzs2v7c7eiXdr-MLphUy7uR9JjZHsv7Ew84IZVAM/s1600/01.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726878364694518194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzMJBBePU55d1SkgfAC-9RF43HI86E-bPJpWRIU6i6-FPsTsPl1kLAgrIQSEcnmXoLr1-sRxASrmdTnGk5hln4bSBkPUGPt8v8VmINzs2v7c7eiXdr-MLphUy7uR9JjZHsv7Ew84IZVAM/s400/01.png" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>I’ve never cared much for phrases like “<span style="font-style:italic;">The past is the past</span>” and "<span style="font-style:italic;">You can never walk the same path twice</span>." But my least favorite, the one that flames the raging fires deep within my soul? <br /><br />“<span style="font-style:italic;">You can never go home again</span>.”<br /><br />I'll be honest with you, Sweetpea: For someone who is a tad bit weary (OK, <span style="font-style:italic;">more</span> than a tad bit...) of change, the idea that home can be such a fleeting notion leaves me, well, a bit unsettled. It's sort of like being lost, I suppose. Home ties us safely together, and without it, we're sort of left to wander the metaphorical streets alone, looking for any sign of our home. Yes, we may leave home -- and say we'll never come back -- but somehow, we always do. Home, like the mafia, just seems to pull us back in. Its pull is stronger than anything in this world. We can't imagine wanting to be anywhere other than the comforts of home.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4jxOTvtDByNcgAXLojOOv2m3-oT88sQ1HAFmF5sIuJb3APcoq_x-WmwA2gV9mOOo0swVzGO5WLOVOigqTFtOtYLMkomGtPR1kIo0q0lCs4L7rHXePJ20Gf5OPWHknm0I-k-MJLkKR-E/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726878362254325778" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4jxOTvtDByNcgAXLojOOv2m3-oT88sQ1HAFmF5sIuJb3APcoq_x-WmwA2gV9mOOo0swVzGO5WLOVOigqTFtOtYLMkomGtPR1kIo0q0lCs4L7rHXePJ20Gf5OPWHknm0I-k-MJLkKR-E/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 270px;" /></a>Every so often, I get to thinking of my childhood home. It was a small apartment, but there was so much life there. So much life that even now, nearly 10 years after we moved away, the memories flood back every single time we drive passed it. Memories of doing my homework at the dining room table. Memories of baking cookies with my mother in the teeny, tiny kitchen. Memories that haven't left me.<br /><br />That's what going home really is, if you ask me, Sweetpea. Which brings me to one of my favorite songs, Sweetpea. I'm sure I'll wax poetic quite a lot about this song once we're married; after all, it's a song by <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2009/10/man-candy-monday_12.html">this guy</a>, full of straight-from-the-heart sentiments...<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Another aeroplane<br />Another sunny place<br />I’m lucky, I know<br />But I wanna go home<br />Mmmm, I’ve got to go home</span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWJoZHrYuEiuJtnHBicUVY4v2pd3yfTkaV_4-Xj1R92B7T4BbTpeK5Dzph_5-1msY82bP33b2Ruc0igacboOkc8EYV2FtCsC_lJliNZNB4fvMTxPizrlefATIpWi7UHUj2StvNc_CEbrY/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726878355480967650" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWJoZHrYuEiuJtnHBicUVY4v2pd3yfTkaV_4-Xj1R92B7T4BbTpeK5Dzph_5-1msY82bP33b2Ruc0igacboOkc8EYV2FtCsC_lJliNZNB4fvMTxPizrlefATIpWi7UHUj2StvNc_CEbrY/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>I like to think that you can go home again -- that there <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> a home waiting for you. At the end of the day, that's all we really want, isn't it? A safe place to land. Because, in the end, when life gets really scary, sticky and just plain screwy, the only place we can think of going is home. And it might not even be 'home' per se; it could be a smile, a mother's loving arms, a good book, a cup of coffee on a cold winter's morning. Not everything is linear, not everything has a beginning, middle and an end. I talked about that <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2012/03/letters-to-my-future-husband-letter-153.html">last week</a>. There are many ways of going home, and I say you CAN go home any time you want to. Don't feel bad about it, either. I don't. Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com/">Le Love</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #154.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: I’ve never cared much for phrases like “ The past is the past ” and " You can never walk the same path twice ....

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #153.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTVbJUYOhWR5J1RyZ3pTDESL0csrfBTwn_uH86XbqqDzc5Fk-fOkLEdKKqzdOm7EqVGJJWPzPG59U_Ej6vLaswmGg1_Z7AAQ6WZ2OOp9tLWp0VQN9WtEDkVnEStnYW3tLNwU6l6-3C_hw/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724981835690195090" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTVbJUYOhWR5J1RyZ3pTDESL0csrfBTwn_uH86XbqqDzc5Fk-fOkLEdKKqzdOm7EqVGJJWPzPG59U_Ej6vLaswmGg1_Z7AAQ6WZ2OOp9tLWp0VQN9WtEDkVnEStnYW3tLNwU6l6-3C_hw/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" /></a>A reader posed a rather interesting question a few weeks ago...<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">How long are you going to write these letters?</span><br /><br />Hmmm, I didn't know exactly how to respond. Maybe that's because, really, I've never given the question much thought. But I suppose it's one to think about. How long will I write to you? Another month? Another 6 months? Another year? Until we meet? Until we get married? I'm not sure. Usually, I cringe at the thought of uncertainty (<span style="font-style:italic;">as you'll learn, Sweetpea</span>), but I'm OK with this unknown, at least for now. I'm not in any big rush to hurry up and finish writing these letters because writing them, actually, is half the fun. When I think back over all the letters (<span style="font-style:italic;">and there have been a lot, Sweetpea</span>), I've honestly learned just as much about myself as I've learned about what I want for us and imagined what our life will be like together. Who says that has to end? Seems to me you can't ever really put a time table on that, can you?<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYo5ZdkTzUtY600QhJoDVur81GImGyA85wvJXq-LYUPZ9QMfTlA9nKm6j5TeQjQfroxj9CKltWxLH63vWKIH5M1qpX__kSLC59mOUREfjgR0sfT5dlAc9qhTrRZIf-QBoQDd0l7tjMOIg/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724981833490257538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYo5ZdkTzUtY600QhJoDVur81GImGyA85wvJXq-LYUPZ9QMfTlA9nKm6j5TeQjQfroxj9CKltWxLH63vWKIH5M1qpX__kSLC59mOUREfjgR0sfT5dlAc9qhTrRZIf-QBoQDd0l7tjMOIg/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 274px;" /></a>Truthfully, maybe these letters don't have a definitive ending. Maybe it''s impossible to draw some neat little line and be able to say, "Yes, the story contained in these letters in complete." Because like these letters, life is never really complete. Our life story, I mean. I know, I know. There <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> a literal ending when we die, of course, but what about the time leading up to that? When can we say, without a doubt that, "Yes, I've made it. This is exactly where I'm supposed to be"?<br /><br />Some say this whole life business is a linear process. I'm not so sure I agree. Because sometimes, we will regress. I know I have. Sometimes, we will jump ahead one step too many and get ahead of ourselves. I know I have. And probably more than once, we'll fight it every step of the way. Sometimes it's the scariest things in life that give us those special moments to reflect upon later in life, when we're old and gray and sitting on our front porch sipping our lemonade and chuckling at the crazy stuff we did as a bumbling youth - like the time I refused to eat lunch in the car in Arkansas on a 95-degree day out of principle. "Keep driving," I told my mother. Needless to say, I was near dehydration by the time we arrived at the hotel three hours later. Another lesson learned, I guess. What? I've never told you that story? Oh, just you wait, Sweetpea.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4IF_nJ3ZCPKkLwa0ewCqnZ2gzV-jBy-kNPuEU00BvuTotw7KSBH3Dg5cWv2VRGlF1eVUvwql2cwNPoT7Oij4HQJuPNpNC52UGcwh2Y4GlQ9YN5gLvXcv0i2OFqL7Jgym1vlQkx1jXe3Q/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724981830153561794" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4IF_nJ3ZCPKkLwa0ewCqnZ2gzV-jBy-kNPuEU00BvuTotw7KSBH3Dg5cWv2VRGlF1eVUvwql2cwNPoT7Oij4HQJuPNpNC52UGcwh2Y4GlQ9YN5gLvXcv0i2OFqL7Jgym1vlQkx1jXe3Q/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>Searching. Exploring. Laughing. Crying. I suppose that's the transformative journey these letters have taken me on. And I don't intend to get off the ride any time soon, Sweetpea. Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com/">Le Love</a>

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #153.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: A reader posed a rather interesting question a few weeks ago... How long are you going to write these letters? Hmmm,...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #152.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNOmW7eOdZyPaThORiEooxYIyAEi_gNXV3XXk4M4Lb6G7MevZDl3BrsWnwku46axxnqOCamkxOqMZ9ACB3LeV8eC46F1s7_Kde9RJ7uZ5JbAXFL7oIG1qC83OsbXc9egcaSlpkFlLQn1E/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717575123857967426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNOmW7eOdZyPaThORiEooxYIyAEi_gNXV3XXk4M4Lb6G7MevZDl3BrsWnwku46axxnqOCamkxOqMZ9ACB3LeV8eC46F1s7_Kde9RJ7uZ5JbAXFL7oIG1qC83OsbXc9egcaSlpkFlLQn1E/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 218px;" /></a>Last week, I had a dream about my father, Sweetpea. It was the first dream I'd had about him in a long time, and it was one of those vivid, feels-like-it's-real-life dreams. We all knew my father was going to die (<span style="font-style:italic;">still by suicide</span>), but there was nothing we could do to stop it. So we all -- family and friends -- were left to say goodbye to him, knowing we were absolutely helpless. Talk about dreams having <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2012/02/question-of-week-question-13.html">deeper meaning</a>, huh?<br /><br />How many years has it been since my father died? The questions sounds strange, I know, but I wonder how long he'll have been gone by the time we meet. Does it seem like a long time to me? Well, this Saturday marks nine year's since his death. <span style="font-style:italic;">Nine years</span>. When he died I was 21. Now I'm 30. When he died, I was a junior in college. Now I'm a newspaper adviser. Heck, when he died, the world had yet to be introduced to Snooki -- or her burgeoning baby bump. Am I still the same person I was back then? How much have I changed, if I've changed at all? <br /><br />Truth be told, I still have flashbacks to that day sometimes. Even now, nearly a decade later, it will all just come over me and overwhelm me like a whooshing waterfall running over me. My mom, not wanting me to see the paramedics take my father out of our house, made sure I stayed in the bedroom. But even now, as weird as it may sound, I'm still sharply and abruptly taken aback by everything now and then. Sometimes, everything that's happened just hits me, and I can't help but think to myself, "<span style="font-style:italic;">How did this ever happen? How did we ever get here?</span>"<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvXGruIyZM-1kpK6ZZ-Q1hVeJoOTRNG01xCAQUVY6r-vH5KnhpLI_BtP_qS5RFXWhjduM0HDvLXEx9O73BQbGDPQjMl0_ttJEc-bvy515YGbzX9N1X6BVtKkMXAsI0oNtZXe_FSUyhI4M/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717575130913063010" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvXGruIyZM-1kpK6ZZ-Q1hVeJoOTRNG01xCAQUVY6r-vH5KnhpLI_BtP_qS5RFXWhjduM0HDvLXEx9O73BQbGDPQjMl0_ttJEc-bvy515YGbzX9N1X6BVtKkMXAsI0oNtZXe_FSUyhI4M/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 366px;" /></a>Because, really, it all just blows my mind. My father will always be 51, but we've all aged. We've lived and aged and had all these experiences, but it's like he'll be frozen in time forever. I can't wrap my head around it<br /><br />And you and him? I wonder about him meeting you and what that would have been like. In case you haven't figured it out yet, Sweetpea, I wore a pretty big Daddy's Girl sash, so watching you two shake hands for the first time would probably have been an equally big deal. And of course, after you left, we probably would have had a long father-daughter talk about you. I can just imagine my father and I talking about you, him giving me all sorts of advice and words of fatherly wisdom about love and marriage -- did I mention my father was never shy about expressing his feelings, Sweetpea?<br /><br />A girl in my office recently got engaged, and she said her fiance went to her father before the proposal to get his blessing. Would you have done that? What would my father have said? I can see you doing something like that, trying to work up the courage to approach my father; maybe you even had a speech prepared. And maybe my dad, in his classic over-protective nature, gave you a speech about the importance of marriage and how you have to treasure and take care of one another. Maybe you even walked away from the conversation a bit scared of him, but deep down, you knew he liked you.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDahHNifU3Yb4yP0vuSfAaPQ-0AcC9OJdh143RYoIJjFlUuKrtkj0Gty_uT8VaBonLOg4mUU_aHiHKRHcOBQqfZFvOVgIhDsAkrssMPbQMhbxLoAZFn7fxNTXoVrWge6lbQ5aT6mii-0/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717575133404525154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDahHNifU3Yb4yP0vuSfAaPQ-0AcC9OJdh143RYoIJjFlUuKrtkj0Gty_uT8VaBonLOg4mUU_aHiHKRHcOBQqfZFvOVgIhDsAkrssMPbQMhbxLoAZFn7fxNTXoVrWge6lbQ5aT6mii-0/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 383px;" /></a>But what I'm really, really realizing this year: He's gone. There's so much I'd want to say to him if I got the chance and yet, I'm not even sure if I'd be able to. I'd want to scream and yell and tell him just how angry I am that he just chose to leave and how we didn't have a chance to say goodbye. But when it's all said and done, I'd probably just jump into his arms and tell him how much I love him. Something tells me my anger wouldn't seem so important in that moment. In that moment, I'd probably just tell him how much I've missed him. Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://weheartit.com/">We Heart It</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #152.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: Last week, I had a dream about my father, Sweetpea. It was the first dream I'd had about him in a long time, and...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #151.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOtkRM-D92rHT6LRJSjcU671Zr9U_w-sCXYkLBdsmKTqwdlsYwQJowrQjAZOWHUTEz7MVhUySFTOkXNXvhIsfi5yODmqXJTjEADV3kUh_FovXs8k0kceCnegrcoXKH3v0kiJKtQA9NrVc/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712420129066403234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOtkRM-D92rHT6LRJSjcU671Zr9U_w-sCXYkLBdsmKTqwdlsYwQJowrQjAZOWHUTEz7MVhUySFTOkXNXvhIsfi5yODmqXJTjEADV3kUh_FovXs8k0kceCnegrcoXKH3v0kiJKtQA9NrVc/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>Isn't it funny how things just click sometimes? It's like someone suddenly turns on the metaphorical light bulb above your head, and everything that was once dark and shrouded in mystery is now bright and clear. Take the first signs of post-traumatic stress disorder I experienced all the way back in 2010. I couldn't put the pieces together then, but looking back now, I can't help but see that time as a precursor to the <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/search/label/Tuesday%20Update">depression</a> that would eventually land me in the hospital by the end of the year. What, Sweetpea? I've never talked much about my PTSD? Well, allow me to explain...<br /><br />It can be something as little as the time I was standing in a hotel parking lot while on vacation one summer, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man walking toward me. He looked exactly like my father. The closer he got, the larger the lump in my throat became. Or, it can be something a little bigger, like the few dozen times I’ve walked past the building on the campus where my father worked and pictured him galloping up the stairs with a huge smile on his face. Or, even the time when I found the blue-knit cap he wore during the course of his chemotherapy and radiation to treat an aggressive form of sinus cancer and up until the day he committed suicide two weeks after finishing treatment. Or, the smell of his clothes and how they’d remind me of his big bear hugs.<br /><br />That’s Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in a nutshell. It’s the body’s way of trying to process the massive stockpile of emotions left in the wake of a traumatic life event. For some, the sound of a car’s squealing tires may make them jump in fright following a car accident. And with the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, more and more soldiers are coming home both physically and emotionally scarred.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4H0M_9BqNbKvne_Lt8QWeuwZDt-ZR5U9fKM9oUKm8BJQ_CR9Lob7tsBJLWUmR4xMk8atNfUT5JK9hziOgsoFq2VtEVEVeeUX0Ku1bjoHImW-ZBXd-dDCIGq6-9faSQMhwuDzcmVo43Os/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712420125864558674" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4H0M_9BqNbKvne_Lt8QWeuwZDt-ZR5U9fKM9oUKm8BJQ_CR9Lob7tsBJLWUmR4xMk8atNfUT5JK9hziOgsoFq2VtEVEVeeUX0Ku1bjoHImW-ZBXd-dDCIGq6-9faSQMhwuDzcmVo43Os/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" /></a>Having been born with a physical disability, I’m used to labels. But PTSD? That was a label that took a little more time to come to terms with. Before my father’s death, I’d always prided myself on being such a strong person. So to wrap my head around the idea that, “Yes, admitting I have PTSD does make me a strong person instead of a weak one” took some time. I’d been in counseling for much of the time since my father’s death. In fact, I returned again after a year off. I told my therapist I thought I needed a “tune-up.” There is nothing wrong with that, I keep telling myself.<br /><br />For me, in addition to the sights and sounds that remind me of my father, I’ve also grappled with spiraling thought patterns. Because of my physical disability and the fact that I was only 21 when my father killed himself, I worry constantly about losing my sister and mother. Being alone is my worst fear, and even though I know it’s irrational, I just keep thinking sometimes about the “what ifs.”<br /><br /><em>What if I lose my mother and sister too? What if I’m all alone?</em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2CulbF8P7rgkheFToa0lR2nYh3btorsUbdW2U4NLg1tHm0w-mwKLxw25R2KU_xPhdMbFGk69VaSGOlu2AHv-oACcQIc43esYntDMGBWbUtrigmfcG-QeANbc4FDfvojjVfcGaICdifM/s1600/04.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712420095795985282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2CulbF8P7rgkheFToa0lR2nYh3btorsUbdW2U4NLg1tHm0w-mwKLxw25R2KU_xPhdMbFGk69VaSGOlu2AHv-oACcQIc43esYntDMGBWbUtrigmfcG-QeANbc4FDfvojjVfcGaICdifM/s400/04.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 399px;" /></a>That’s why I’ve always pictured PTSD as a sort of carousel. I’m sitting on one of those colorful ponies going around and around in circles. You eventually come back to the starting point. You see it, and sometimes, it hits you like a ton of bricks. Other times, you see it and can pass it without even registering it in your mind.<br /><br />It’s those latter times when I start to think I’m “over it,” which is sort of the insidious way PTSD operates. I know I’ll never be “cured,” but sometimes I can go for weeks or even months feeling just fine. And other times, like last year, for instance, every little thing sets me off. I’ll find myself crying over seemingly minor stuff. It’s times like these that remind me that I’m still trying to learn how to integrate my PTSD into my life rather than plan my life around it. It’s a constant struggle, but one I know I need to fight with all my strength. I know my father would want me to.<br /><br />One of the common misconceptions about PTSD is that you can just “snap yourself out of it.” Time has passed, so it’s time you move on too. Maybe I even tried to convince myself that at one time or another. Sometimes my mother, sister and I will drive past our old apartment. It’s the apartment I grew up in — where I recovered after all my surgeries, where my father taught me how to balance an equation in high school algebra. It’s also the place where he killed himself on a March morning in 2003 while I was sleeping in my room.<br /><br />Driving by it now, it’s easy to see that, on the outside, everything has changed. The parking lot is filled with different cars. The building looks like it’s been repainted. Even our windows look different. Life has gone on. As if nothing had ever happened.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVdv1JXPS32RMzt7gM_Z32kFe28VZ2dC13D8vgjvR6DQ46OjMlTksahbRKSuBhsRo8WITACb7WoRCi4ODFmyn5t8F-yW9xQCJUGcR6JR4NA5bFYQEdeATv-c-8HVj-d8NoT3ZfjCm45fk/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712420097091459954" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVdv1JXPS32RMzt7gM_Z32kFe28VZ2dC13D8vgjvR6DQ46OjMlTksahbRKSuBhsRo8WITACb7WoRCi4ODFmyn5t8F-yW9xQCJUGcR6JR4NA5bFYQEdeATv-c-8HVj-d8NoT3ZfjCm45fk/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>But deep down, the memories are still there, memories of everything that happened inside, and that’s what makes the trauma still feel very raw and very real for me. It may be chronologically almost 9 years after my father’s death, but sometimes, especially when I think of that old apartment, it feels more like only a few months. In those moments, when I’m spinning on that carousel, all I can do is keep going. Maybe the next time I come around, I’ll see things from a different perspective.<br /><br />Does that make sense, Sweetpea? I often wonder if I'll be struggling with these issues when we meet, or if I'll be in a different place in my life. I suppose only time will tell. Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://weheartit.com/">We Heart It</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #151.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: Isn't it funny how things just click sometimes? It's like someone suddenly turns on the metaphorical light b...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #150.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVgljf9bJM57p47HW0He2WoolxDnsnKaCEAcrSjsI_eHB673XtyoWLgQiteF2xw3zK3FzyCcI4XcxIC-MkxTi-p_x-6xWzrhLxzRzq27NUueJL1uqHBWHd8MrQo9NJ9uXNAJ-Yoz_JR4o/s1600/aa2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709071734797756018" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVgljf9bJM57p47HW0He2WoolxDnsnKaCEAcrSjsI_eHB673XtyoWLgQiteF2xw3zK3FzyCcI4XcxIC-MkxTi-p_x-6xWzrhLxzRzq27NUueJL1uqHBWHd8MrQo9NJ9uXNAJ-Yoz_JR4o/s400/aa2.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 240px;" /></a>Well, Sweetpea, today marks my 30th Valentine's Day eating from my small box of assorted chocolates as a singleton. It's sort of weird to fathom. As I sat in the waiting room this morning waiting to get my blood drawn (<em>ironic, on Valentine's Day, I know...</em>), I watched as several beautifully decorated bouquets arrived for doctors, nurses and lab technicians. You'd think it would have made my heart ache just a teeny tiny bit.<br /><br />Surprisingly, it didn't. At all. A few years ago, I may have ended up a puddle of tears right there on that linoleum floor, scared that love would never find me, that I'd be left to live the rest of my days as a spunky spinster and waxing poetic about how I was just generally unlovable.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-Z1M52PcgiZmunatAyAWU9Ej63-KM7oMLnM9U1viSb6wZpOMQsMixI9GcIqVBtc1MneW4xK1JVyVDUcjqkJNewhD0snvq0yIY8vq_AABFQBJDiVwMmDNS5F8ZXCoQ2iPMH3kD8qRIr0/s1600/aa.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709071736239116210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-Z1M52PcgiZmunatAyAWU9Ej63-KM7oMLnM9U1viSb6wZpOMQsMixI9GcIqVBtc1MneW4xK1JVyVDUcjqkJNewhD0snvq0yIY8vq_AABFQBJDiVwMmDNS5F8ZXCoQ2iPMH3kD8qRIr0/s400/aa.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 296px;" /></a>But not this year. I've vowed to embrace my singlehood. And you know what, Sweetpea? It all feels very liberating. It makes me want to burst into song a la a Broadway musical. Now, it doesn't mean I'm not looking forward to meeting you, or that I don't need you in my life because I am -- and I do. I suppose it's just that right now, in 2012, I'm realizing that my world isn't going to end if I'm unattached for awhile. I'm probably the one making a big deal of it, not everyone else. Maybe I just need to live and let things fall place naturally. <br /><br />But I do wonder: At what age do you qualify for spinsterhood? I can't help but laugh at the thought of that. After all, if you don't laugh, you cry, right, Sweetpea? Until we meet...<br /><br />P.S. Oh shoot, Crimson and Clover just came on the radio on the way home. Is that a message from you? What? You don't know about my secret wish to have that as our wedding song? Well, more on that later?... :)<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.weheartit.com">We Heart It</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #150.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: Well, Sweetpea, today marks my 30th Valentine's Day eating from my small box of assorted chocolates as a singlet...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #149.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGV1_5a8HXhpPB44G7m8EG-Ifi2URLG-aHq2cGGgC0LRUqsmJTehFjuEJmCUuBDxwyzPcBOspL1v9t8Dm6zEm1shOZDE4BPwYUefRAcZVEihvJLuG5Nzgo6x-4hQqWlw-S3SEJPykbkyI/s1600/aa3.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703438392348599026" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGV1_5a8HXhpPB44G7m8EG-Ifi2URLG-aHq2cGGgC0LRUqsmJTehFjuEJmCUuBDxwyzPcBOspL1v9t8Dm6zEm1shOZDE4BPwYUefRAcZVEihvJLuG5Nzgo6x-4hQqWlw-S3SEJPykbkyI/s400/aa3.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>I was looking at the calendar a few days ago and realized something: It's almost February 2012. I had to just stop for a moment as I felt a little lump form in my throat. I tried to cough, but it wouldn't budge. It intended to stay there until I acknowledged it. So I suppose I had no choice, I thought, as my mind drifted slowly back to almost one year ago -- to a few days before Valentine's Day in 2011.<br /><br />It's the last time I was in the hospital for <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/search/label/Tuesday%20Update">my depression</a>. <br /><br />There. I've said it. I sometimes wonder if I talk about it a lot with you, Sweetpea. Do I? I only say that because from where I am now, everything about that time in my life is still so fresh, so vivid in my mind. It's like that one movie scene (<em>usually the gruesome one...</em>) that you just can't seem to get out of your head no matter how hard you try. And that's not to say it's a bad thing. It's just, well, the way things are at the moment. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibx0EzYBjP8WAfU2MHFWQ5-mvsAGk1g0ThymIdART1-UeGzZYeuOiLRSBtsaafj9NJUtYzhig6GpzsCNGNHh-iaHgOJpHpgIxoaZ95-JOTfauFQJa0aJnuoTPbxOC2k-odm-GD-a0hN34/s1600/aa.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703438397502782946" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibx0EzYBjP8WAfU2MHFWQ5-mvsAGk1g0ThymIdART1-UeGzZYeuOiLRSBtsaafj9NJUtYzhig6GpzsCNGNHh-iaHgOJpHpgIxoaZ95-JOTfauFQJa0aJnuoTPbxOC2k-odm-GD-a0hN34/s400/aa.png" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" /></a>I know it probably sounds crazy, but I can't help but feel as if my struggles with depression define my life more than all my other surgeries combined. Not that it defines every aspect of my life, but I've certainly never marked anniversaries for my surgeries like I'm doing with my depression this year. So that has to mean something, doesn't it, Sweetpea? I've never been so excited and yet so terrified to reach a milestone -- so excited because I can finally look back and see just how far I've come, and terrified because I sometimes feel as though I'm always looking over one shoulder, making sure I don't let the depression somehow creep back into my life. It's all a fine balance sometimes, and I'll be the first to admit that I'm still trying to figure it all out.<br /><br />I often wonder, too, where I'll be a year from now. Well, you already know the answer to that, but I don't, so just humor me here. A lot can happen in just one year, can't it? My entire life could change -- another thing that sounds both exciting and terrifying -- but I do know one thing: I want to still feel the way I feel right now. Because I feel strong. I feel like I've come a long way in the last year. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUvnmMyDNtfPmwOZE5HRMfP3Q-doG9XDPIx0YVb04o3v4_eeAdVklWvhd_crYrcycOgVilAygmj8qzN2m6GFFz5yoGIotqiuaiNy130oakzZs1bWGHLWR7mpVP-bPyUPmm5hko0qY8jc/s1600/aa2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703438392867269554" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUvnmMyDNtfPmwOZE5HRMfP3Q-doG9XDPIx0YVb04o3v4_eeAdVklWvhd_crYrcycOgVilAygmj8qzN2m6GFFz5yoGIotqiuaiNy130oakzZs1bWGHLWR7mpVP-bPyUPmm5hko0qY8jc/s400/aa2.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>I won't pretend I'm all cured. I won't pretend I don't still have some days that are a heck of a lot easier than others. And I won't even pretend that I have all the answers. I don't. But my mom said something very interesting a few days ago. She said that the day I <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2010/08/do-you-sing-in-shower.html">started my classic singing</a> around the house was the day she knew I was getting better. I think she may be on to something, Sweetpea, don't you? Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com/">Le Love</a>

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #149.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: I was looking at the calendar a few days ago and realized something: It's almost February 2012. I had to just st...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #148.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpM0VPePSm-75V2s8Nm8gm_L1-J5ETrsbV6QKEkGXFGpYSVRIgiU9-C4oxgJax-cF7um8hxOCkQS0KhjyK1KE-anPRIyfgjiUJY-SKF3q_LYpv-OvSMDXb0yooubxkczl4rZQgIBEwjU/s1600/01" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699439118056937602" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpM0VPePSm-75V2s8Nm8gm_L1-J5ETrsbV6QKEkGXFGpYSVRIgiU9-C4oxgJax-cF7um8hxOCkQS0KhjyK1KE-anPRIyfgjiUJY-SKF3q_LYpv-OvSMDXb0yooubxkczl4rZQgIBEwjU/s400/01" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 277px;" /></a>Well, leave it to <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2009/11/glee-ful-joy.html">Glee</a> and a little ditty by Rihanna to get me thinking about you on a freezing winter's night in January 2012. What's that, Sweetpea? I've never told you about my love-bordering-on-obsession fondness for the show? I blame it all on the fact that I was in my school's choir in junior high and my freshman year of high school, but that's a topic for another time and another letter.<br /><br />Tonight, though, I can't help but feel like a bit of my life was played out on the small screen. This week's Glee saw two main characters, Will and Emma, getting engaged, but not before facing some real insecurities and serious questions about Emma's illness. There's no sugar coating it; Things won't be easy. Things are going to seem overwhelming sometimes. Things are going to seem hopeless sometimes. I won't lie and say I didn't want to reach through the television and punch Will square in the face when he said, "I know it’s not your fault that you have this disease, but some days it just seems so hopeless. How will you handle spit-up on your special Wednesday sweater?” No one would have faulted Emma from walking away at the prospects of all that. But she didn't. In fact, she did quite the opposite, using words like incomplete person unabashedly. She made no excuses. She made no apologies. She made it clear that she wasn't the least bit sorry for who she was.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXCj4Gb9tRb58ILboeDkNqmtGXjf7beSyFemwUY0s8daumNe5DrqzRfBzMB25zY_e5iT_Mpj06K6OH13bRTGo_f6VUcyWtk5YyEevlyTnwBb_0Lra0cqd86qHeh9LdKKD084YMKG-T2as/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699439117548590402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXCj4Gb9tRb58ILboeDkNqmtGXjf7beSyFemwUY0s8daumNe5DrqzRfBzMB25zY_e5iT_Mpj06K6OH13bRTGo_f6VUcyWtk5YyEevlyTnwBb_0Lra0cqd86qHeh9LdKKD084YMKG-T2as/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 250px;" /></a>It was inspiring, to say the least, Sweetpea. Why? Because <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/07/letters-to-my-future-husband-letter-129.html">last</a> <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/07/letters-to-my-future-husband-letter-130.html">summer</a>, I definitely wouldn't have had the courage to react that way. Maybe I would have just been too scared, afraid that everything would come crumbling down. Not today -- not right now. So, yeah, we could probably think of thousands of reasons why this will never work and why it's a waste of time for us to even try. And maybe we'll even start convincing ourselves that these reasons are actually true. But I have to believe that even in those hopeless of places, you can still find love. Just because the odds are stacked against you doesn't mean you should go down without a fight. Because in the end, love is worth fighting for. Quirks and all.<br /><br />I'll jump of the edge of glory if you'll jump with me, Sweetpea. What do you say? Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Top photo via <a href="http://src.web.buddytv.com/glee.aspx">Buddy TV</a>, bottom photo via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com/2012/01/think-of-you.html">Le Love</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #148.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: Well, leave it to Glee and a little ditty by Rihanna to get me thinking about you on a freezing winter's night ...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #147.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpjI-DRTMVcV5P0Tlxu6lW0mi6TgOIXLZmZF_-ZFfYW-r8i166_LHD7GCzta8OsJqm_OejZxzLJ8d9E0OwsybOfrkt1JNmgurzabr1V5qO-GlirTeCrjuPqHal4dFNJEiFdo6gbYiKzK8/s1600/aa.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696108976430172450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpjI-DRTMVcV5P0Tlxu6lW0mi6TgOIXLZmZF_-ZFfYW-r8i166_LHD7GCzta8OsJqm_OejZxzLJ8d9E0OwsybOfrkt1JNmgurzabr1V5qO-GlirTeCrjuPqHal4dFNJEiFdo6gbYiKzK8/s400/aa.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>I'm sitting here in my psychiatrist's office, and one thought keeps going through my head: "Wow, that smell is so familiar." <br /><br />Don't worry, Sweetpea, nothing is wrong; I'm just here for a check-up. But for some reason, I keep having flashbacks of the PTSD kind as I'm sitting here. That fresh, new-office smell wafting through the place, the smell and sight of a fresh coat of cream-colored paint on the walls, the stacks of files lining the corner wall, the soft hum of music in the background, dim lighting. It all took me back today to the first time I stepped into this office in the spring when I was in the throes of that <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/05/open-letter-to-my-depression.html">evil depression</a>. And honestly, I can't quite figure it out. After all, I've been here since then, and it never bothered me. Well, I'm not saying it actually <em>bothers</em> me today -- maybe that's too strong of a word. I'm <em>noticing</em> it more today. It's making me remember all those emotions I was feeling at the time.<br /><br />And then a few days ago, while out to lunch, I took one look at my mom and said, "Oh wow, hospital smell." She looked at me and knew exactly what I was talking about.<br /><br />It was all too clear: The undeniable power of sense memory. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4IZUGfzPNqUML1rshKrN-ttdF6k0uj1B7PMdEn1RniOKov2zLv-2N6iBFeewJNqhBWkxQm0uZXBFu1IRqUHX9lHYn3eOxRI_za202ebpy-ghbNCSLx33VnOZF7fBXWoYvS7mF6tMRwlg/s1600/aa2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696108973526483794" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4IZUGfzPNqUML1rshKrN-ttdF6k0uj1B7PMdEn1RniOKov2zLv-2N6iBFeewJNqhBWkxQm0uZXBFu1IRqUHX9lHYn3eOxRI_za202ebpy-ghbNCSLx33VnOZF7fBXWoYvS7mF6tMRwlg/s400/aa2.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 278px;" /></a>It seems our senses are always working overtime. Sights. Sounds. They all get stored in our subconscious as little pockets of time, ready to come out later and remind us of the past. And sometimes, like in my case, they reappear at the oddest of times, when we least expect it. Have you ever felt this way, Sweetpea? <br /><br />But maybe it's good to have those types of sense memory wake-up calls every now and then. It helps us hold on just a little bit of the person we were while we look in that metaphorical mirror and see the reflection of the person we are today. And this may sound weird, but it sort of makes me feel as if I can connect with that person I was last year and at least try to reassure her that things are going to be OK. I look forward to making lots of sense memories with you, Sweetpea. Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com/">Le Love</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #147.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: I'm sitting here in my psychiatrist's office, and one thought keeps going through my head: "Wow, that s...

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Dear Future Girlfriend

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-xIms9mpxKkPFCzv01Xuzy6vEzK5BQDIVmNfmEVcgL79iRdyzFUOVnANIziGnH5zsoBnpjR97J-h4-FprQmstqGIZnzZumLRl-AFL1W9CBK2Jo1TdG_CwGYTid3HIw9tiub89scnD_QA/s1600/future.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695805483517800706" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-xIms9mpxKkPFCzv01Xuzy6vEzK5BQDIVmNfmEVcgL79iRdyzFUOVnANIziGnH5zsoBnpjR97J-h4-FprQmstqGIZnzZumLRl-AFL1W9CBK2Jo1TdG_CwGYTid3HIw9tiub89scnD_QA/s400/future.png" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 141px;" /></a>Isn't it funny, friends, how sometimes you somehow become Facebook friends with someone you barely knew in college and now, thanks to the beauty of social networking, you have kept up with what they're doing? I went to college with Nick, and although we barely knew each other, I was beyond happy (<em>inspired!</em>) when he recently launched <a href="http://futuregf.tumblr.com/">Dear Future Girlfriend</a>, an awesome collection of short notes to well, his future girlfriend. It's like my <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/search/label/Letters%20to%20my%20future%20husband">Letters To My Future Husband</a>, only in bite-sized nuggets and directed at the opposite sex. A couple of my favorites so far...<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCYKO0aDhtFJEcYLmd64ZXt5Ci1PvIF2KQN-J819Ff-H3Lv_jiMlvAZJIp7voo1cZXaw4UTu10iXcokCpDOtkKKAK7HzVciAjlWdvUx8agHS5ff1n82MLD3dw_VNIyWnis_-EN3FXQy10/s1600/future.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695806649689529746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCYKO0aDhtFJEcYLmd64ZXt5Ci1PvIF2KQN-J819Ff-H3Lv_jiMlvAZJIp7voo1cZXaw4UTu10iXcokCpDOtkKKAK7HzVciAjlWdvUx8agHS5ff1n82MLD3dw_VNIyWnis_-EN3FXQy10/s400/future.png" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 137px;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOYaN7loOwhH-4TBbosHgFIXk2o6Yb8GzN2EV0v6cdmRrGTTPQ0B8OpGm5-36IsRr4l52Z2M6FdnE_VR5MKW4KyzEaIW8oCMXe83Q08lSjuTwX__UiOC8jfFz5ve2hzY8vd8tuAsPDJno/s1600/future2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695805482384405986" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOYaN7loOwhH-4TBbosHgFIXk2o6Yb8GzN2EV0v6cdmRrGTTPQ0B8OpGm5-36IsRr4l52Z2M6FdnE_VR5MKW4KyzEaIW8oCMXe83Q08lSjuTwX__UiOC8jfFz5ve2hzY8vd8tuAsPDJno/s400/future2.png" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 119px;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBPT47z3PYJG8VhkY1IX6LGakPginTPpnI5wbyqIZmufodKB6ajp8nz1cl31i3cG8D1C-KQF7PGIFNwjOyb4wBqR0SJaTxUt-XLiIKWnClPuTGGcsXeBPPsAj7BYcvGMhyq22hz1PGtk/s1600/future3.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695805479477885122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBPT47z3PYJG8VhkY1IX6LGakPginTPpnI5wbyqIZmufodKB6ajp8nz1cl31i3cG8D1C-KQF7PGIFNwjOyb4wBqR0SJaTxUt-XLiIKWnClPuTGGcsXeBPPsAj7BYcvGMhyq22hz1PGtk/s400/future3.png" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 138px;" /></a>How genius is it? Congrats, Nick! <br /><br />P.S. I'm trying to talk him into a collaboration...any ideas? :)

Dear Future Girlfriend

Isn't it funny, friends, how sometimes you somehow become Facebook friends with someone you barely knew in college and now, thanks to th...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #146.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApEnllz68wmzcTcolvUgxC-teVod_n2f56owwM5TB_TH4tqUpl0Mn8lImJblUYhyphenhyphenoy6D4e4C3GJwyGurjBTAkEGpXTkYD_IMZLHjwlfNeDvyYnkY1os_RNX445YJt1HwH26DGVhgDbfQ/s1600/aa.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693090391494709042" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApEnllz68wmzcTcolvUgxC-teVod_n2f56owwM5TB_TH4tqUpl0Mn8lImJblUYhyphenhyphenoy6D4e4C3GJwyGurjBTAkEGpXTkYD_IMZLHjwlfNeDvyYnkY1os_RNX445YJt1HwH26DGVhgDbfQ/s400/aa.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 250px;" /></a>Well, here we are, Sweetpea...the second day of 2012. I suppose I should say here <em>I</em> am, considering I have zero idea who you are or where you are as I write this. But nonetheless, it is a new year. A time to make a new start. A time to make a change. A time to turn over a new leaf. Have we talked a lot about how we feel about the dawning of a new year? Some people are so nonchalant about it, and I've always wanted to be one of those people. To them, the new year is just another page turned on the calendar. It doesn't mean much, and it's certainly not a time to make resolutions -- the kind of resolutions that come with their own set of specific and precise instructions on how said resolutions will be accomplished over the next 12 months. Instead, they just go about their normal daily routine, sometimes not even pausing to think of all that has happened over the past year. <br /><br />There's something to be said for their strategy. For one, it takes a whole heap of pressure off. I've always tried to avoid that pressure by focusing on the positives that lie ahead instead of constantly looking behind my shoulder into the past. I'm so excited to continue molding future <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/08/man-candy-monday_22.html">Bob Woodward</a> this year -- can you believe <em>none</em> of them have ever seen All The President's Men? That's one of my absolute favorite movies, but more on that later. I'm also looking forward to blogging over the next 12 months. Do you read my blog, Sweetpea? I still sometimes wonder if you read it, and I still can't wrap my head around the idea that you could be reading all about me while I know virtually nothing about you. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1it6zCnm_NwR_zvv4igKK0mqldqsGhFIFV9dLZxByjEQI7b8oYw2QWEjEaozXLhvQilI1gV-GXPK8J7Z6fFesCLd4XlJma-0ZIdfSu1Z2vZlqI7dUVIwEoOjdpxVH7qZks2bWGjysVRI/s1600/aa2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693090391210886338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1it6zCnm_NwR_zvv4igKK0mqldqsGhFIFV9dLZxByjEQI7b8oYw2QWEjEaozXLhvQilI1gV-GXPK8J7Z6fFesCLd4XlJma-0ZIdfSu1Z2vZlqI7dUVIwEoOjdpxVH7qZks2bWGjysVRI/s400/aa2.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" /></a>And who knows...this could be the year we meet. That's even sort of wild for me to think about. I could meet you in the aisle at the grocery store. I could meet you at the bookstore. The fact that there are so many possibilities is sort of what makes it even more exciting, you know? It's almost as if the anticipation of meeting this year would be just as thrilling as if we actually did meet. <br /><br />But new beginnings can be incredibly daunting, can't they? Are you ready for said beginning? Is it even the sort of beginning that you want or need? Can you ever go back if you realize you've made a mistake? And sometimes, once you get that new beginning you always thought you wanted, it doesn't quite measure up to what you thought it would be.<br /><br />I can hear the wind howling outside my windows as I write this. It's the sort of fierce, gusty and cold January wind that whips against your cheeks, leaving little red patches in its wake. And it just occurred to me: Like a glass filled only halfway with water, I suppose there are two ways to look at the wind. On the one hand, you could see the wind as a detrimental foe that's holding you back. Or, you could see it as a wild force that's propelling you ever forward. I'm going to let the wind push me forward this year, Sweetpea, into a year of new adventures. Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com">Le Love</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #146.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: Well, here we are, Sweetpea...the second day of 2012. I suppose I should say here I am, considering I have zero ide...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #145.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK4jg6NclZE-3OwvUMfr2UalUMO2mr-mSs2Yx7lNzkntVT7AeILotwZRT9rqd-RUnU15kTSqkRKMQlNLFBhjUEeleSjLuayNJi8atZgnrWvaZDkkXXSfwiBXv9wbxLCZj8p7aG_FTlRoTs/s1600/aa.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688650798875283426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK4jg6NclZE-3OwvUMfr2UalUMO2mr-mSs2Yx7lNzkntVT7AeILotwZRT9rqd-RUnU15kTSqkRKMQlNLFBhjUEeleSjLuayNJi8atZgnrWvaZDkkXXSfwiBXv9wbxLCZj8p7aG_FTlRoTs/s400/aa.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 290px;" /></a>As the great John Lennon once sang, "So this is Christmas." There's so much power in those four little words, isn't there, Sweetpea? So much promise. Here we are, four days away from Christmas in 2011, and it feels decidedly unlike the Holly Jolly season. No snow. The temps are in the upper '40s. And in fact, the closest thing to any hint of a holiday coming up is the fact that I'm sitting here eating a candy cane as I write this (<em>Warning: I'm a candy cane fiend, so be prepared for me to eat a lot of them...</em>). Sometimes, I'm even such a rebel that I take to stealing them from our Christmas tree. <br /><br />But I digress. Seriously, though, it's major holidays like these that make me think of you and wonder where you are. I wonder if you're spending time with your friends, your family or spending a quiet holiday alone. I suppose I should let you know now that once you and I become a <em>we</em>, our hopes for a quiet holiday alone will forever be dashed. Take last weekend, for example. I celebrated Christmas with my father's family. He has five siblings. I have 10 cousins. And one of my cousins has three children. The grand total for the shindig? Almost 30 people. Let's just say that my house was hopping well into the evening, which, as you'll come to find out, is a rare occurrence for me. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPsO6nqlVF_q5OW08lg4LEfikqXrEN7vN5gIM0WR8PjdyMJeXyuugUfisZ9UJFNq1zzNepqvllLc6g8hTH3Cb7Z96Zm75ZGnvkmdK6EdkY_Y2fvvqVsOZ_0rzy6BlQOeSmlSmqg8E_tzAD/s1600/aa2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688650795744284434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPsO6nqlVF_q5OW08lg4LEfikqXrEN7vN5gIM0WR8PjdyMJeXyuugUfisZ9UJFNq1zzNepqvllLc6g8hTH3Cb7Z96Zm75ZGnvkmdK6EdkY_Y2fvvqVsOZ_0rzy6BlQOeSmlSmqg8E_tzAD/s400/aa2.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" /></a>It's nice to see my family, but it's always been sort of bittersweet since my father died. His siblings remind me so much of him, even down to some of their mannerisms, and this past weekend, it felt like a part of him was with us, celebrating just like we used to. Have I ever told you just how much of a family man my father was? Family meant more to him than anything, and I've been thinking about that a lot this holiday season, Sweetpea. Family. The holidays are all about family, and when part of your family is missing, the wound in your heart stings just a teeny bit more this time of year.<br /><br />Don't get me wrong, Sweetpea. I'm so grateful for my family. They are incredible, and if not for them, I wouldn't be who I am today. It's just that these big events mark more milestones since he's been gone. This will be my ninth Christmas without him, and frankly, that just blows my mind. It seems like it was just yesterday when we'd all sit around the tree at my grandparents' house in Alabama, my father acting as Santa and passing out all the presents. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRIm8yf1wc7bD47iinL3HfCnroKk6TP5asiQPk7UtmvZubT3yCwgGyFMGY3GuBaZbg_LiNvwd-FuPc51tvjHnZaR_Z9P2Pt1l8E2VZA3rIyUJVgbW1IDxxGCQWunTlf-2wL1yL7RSiVlVF/s1600/aa3.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688650796328537970" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRIm8yf1wc7bD47iinL3HfCnroKk6TP5asiQPk7UtmvZubT3yCwgGyFMGY3GuBaZbg_LiNvwd-FuPc51tvjHnZaR_Z9P2Pt1l8E2VZA3rIyUJVgbW1IDxxGCQWunTlf-2wL1yL7RSiVlVF/s400/aa3.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>But those are some good memories, aren't they? Memories that can never be taken away from me. These are the sorts of memories I hope we create with each other. I look forward to those days with you, Sweetpea. Those days of making memories without even realizing it. Those days of looking around the room, at all our family, and realizing that everyone that we love is with us. Those days where everything feels right with the world. <br /><br />So until we meet, that is my wish for you this holiday season, Sweetpea. I hope you're surrounded by everyone you love. I hope your holiday is everything you ever wanted it to be. And who knows. Maybe someday we'll meet under the mistletoe. Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.weheartit.com">We Heart It</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #145.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: As the great John Lennon once sang, "So this is Christmas." There's so much power in those four little...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #144.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihZgSX_PyCQvl01V-mx_1JwXE2Hk_mlq6ShyphenhyphenK-LEDEFuMSej83ChmmFrQkWmexIJoH5WdNWlOrKtE9IS52Mvq7etwP-sU9ehYo8bIU6LFNYb3FZ0J0B5o-7OI1xBpE-KqQBpZWACD4s5eS/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685288571017961794" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihZgSX_PyCQvl01V-mx_1JwXE2Hk_mlq6ShyphenhyphenK-LEDEFuMSej83ChmmFrQkWmexIJoH5WdNWlOrKtE9IS52Mvq7etwP-sU9ehYo8bIU6LFNYb3FZ0J0B5o-7OI1xBpE-KqQBpZWACD4s5eS/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 270px;" /></a>I don't know where people find interesting pieces of advice wherever we are now, but back here in the winter of 2011, you could always count on a little thing called <a href="http://www.twitter.com/melissablake">Twitter</a> to provide you with some food for thought -- albeit sometimes silly food for thought. But I did find a little gem last week that got me thinking...<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">My last relationship was awful. But the IDEA of the relationship was incredible.</span></span><br /><br />In our minds, the idea of a relationship sounds perfect, doesn't it? You meet someone you feel a connection with, and you start romanticizing what could be. The future is whatever you want it to be, you think. It's incredible. It's intoxicating, even. True, it may be a tad bit unrealistic, but there is something to that, though, isn't there, about the idea of a relationship? I don't think anyone goes into a relationship with malicious intent. You go into it with only the best of intentions, don't you? You don't mean any harm to anyone. Why would you go into it with some sort of ulterior motive? You want it to work out. After all, you want to be happy. You want both of you to be happy.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsC2etGuaaK6F6bLlAygqv5LrBPRS3z5wjpj3lW9LDvSTYCAiSbH0exXqotujE7Y1YXxhf1bvWPNmW42LgGg11JGLVvV-JRUbq9u7dvDP-RHqrJ5RzKVhdKhIZGPkTyS2dK_4eGd9ZzGv2/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685288568524870674" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsC2etGuaaK6F6bLlAygqv5LrBPRS3z5wjpj3lW9LDvSTYCAiSbH0exXqotujE7Y1YXxhf1bvWPNmW42LgGg11JGLVvV-JRUbq9u7dvDP-RHqrJ5RzKVhdKhIZGPkTyS2dK_4eGd9ZzGv2/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>I'm sure I've told you how many times I've been guilty of this, Sweetpea. Maybe I was even guilty of it a time or two when we first started dating. Heck, I've even been known to do this whole future-thinking-fantasizing-romanticizing thing with <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/search/label/Crush%20Boy">potential beaus</a>. Just the idea of a romance, just thinking about the other person (<span style="font-style:italic;">whether they even knew I was alive or not...</span>) was enough to get my head racing and my heart pumping. It was all perfect in my head, like some perfectly orchestrated opera where everyone knows their lines and says all the right things at the right time and in exactly the right way. Everything is, well, perfect.<br /><br />It's just in the translation to real life that the lines get blurred. There's some sort of accident somewhere, a break in the wires. So what goes wrong in that journey from the head to real life? That perfect opera? Someone forgot their lines, throwing everyone else off. <br /><br />But maybe these perfect, as-delicate-as-glass, watch-out-for-shattering sorts of relationships simply can't exist outside our heads. So they have to stay there. In our heads. Forever. Because trying to give them life in the real would would only kill them that much sooner.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN4xXvHG6iN4pIsR7lVGEhbTgUK-6xrH6SSH0lJ0sgL6eAwDVFUGJJf-8I8Y2FQFC8Ajkug1pAawUASAD_ZB2jrBafWx6LoepzUA5LTFxGYlq0nWzEKjyqnVSerlM-X5gFvubFO11R09nG/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685288573164717730" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN4xXvHG6iN4pIsR7lVGEhbTgUK-6xrH6SSH0lJ0sgL6eAwDVFUGJJf-8I8Y2FQFC8Ajkug1pAawUASAD_ZB2jrBafWx6LoepzUA5LTFxGYlq0nWzEKjyqnVSerlM-X5gFvubFO11R09nG/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" /></a>I'm guessing I'm going to need someone (<span style="font-style:italic;">hint: you</span>) to keep my head out of the clouds. I'm going to want to believe that what I've dreamed up in my head can happen perfectly in real life. I trust that you'll bring me back down to Earth, no matter how absurd I get. Do we have a deal, Sweetpea? Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />P.S. Don't forget to enter the massive <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/12/kokoon-giveaway.html">KOKOON giveaway</a>! You've got until Friday to enter! :)<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com/">Le Love</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #144.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: I don't know where people find interesting pieces of advice wherever we are now, but back here in the winter of ...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #143.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxorTOoyb1QL7iWWGcBlS5J5dWy5sLOME4R8KgJmKdNYGVmfk_c4KhKyXjrNynEZfKYegi_TYWzVyvvL3h2uA7Zqe-6e2CQhVyydR5GZ-1bPuxRfwxRknOIsg4l63Bx7HiCT4IZht3b4u/s1600/04.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680887244083177282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxorTOoyb1QL7iWWGcBlS5J5dWy5sLOME4R8KgJmKdNYGVmfk_c4KhKyXjrNynEZfKYegi_TYWzVyvvL3h2uA7Zqe-6e2CQhVyydR5GZ-1bPuxRfwxRknOIsg4l63Bx7HiCT4IZht3b4u/s400/04.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 334px;" /></a>Letting go. Letting go. Letting go. It's been something that has been slowly creeping into my head. What started as a teeny tiny thought has grown, well, a bit bigger. And apparently, it wants my attention because it doesn't seem to be going away any time soon. I suppose I should take that as a sign, right? I suppose I should face it, right, Sweetpea? <br /><br />So what is this big, bad monster that has my knees shaking? An anniversary. It was right around this time last year that I and everything in my world was sidelined by <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2010/12/letters-to-my-future-husband-letter-120.html">major</a> <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/search/label/Tuesday%20Update">depression</a>. It's weird, but even now, it feels like it was just yesterday. And as hard as it is to remember virtually anything from this time, I don't think I'll ever be able to forget how it all left me feeling. Fearful. Confused. Overwhelmed. Confused. Anxious. Perplexed. Confused. So many emotions were flying around me (<em>it seemed like every emotion except happiness</em>), emotions that felt so foreign to me like Californians trying to enjoy a frigid winter in Minnesota.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijn_NszprOSn9sBdUaCCuvdgLD7VCjL9_Whhn1M5Posa-l6d2_ZvnZ4y8UCAERRy9R5V0NLV3hG4P7QX0zc1GsV3k1elhp3VdeZXF1HACN3heT1Hstdndra6iGVMCZ-CDdOpmDzI5BHKV/s1600/01.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680887254374021394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijn_NszprOSn9sBdUaCCuvdgLD7VCjL9_Whhn1M5Posa-l6d2_ZvnZ4y8UCAERRy9R5V0NLV3hG4P7QX0zc1GsV3k1elhp3VdeZXF1HACN3heT1Hstdndra6iGVMCZ-CDdOpmDzI5BHKV/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 274px;" /></a>So I worry at night sometimes. I worry I'll go back to that place someday. I worry that the evil depression will slither its way back into my life somehow.<br /><br />The fact is, I'm scared to face it. This whole anniversary thing. I'm honestly scared to look it square in the eyes, face it down and try to convince it that it has no power over me when both of us know very well that it could probably reduce me to a blubbering cream puff if it wanted to. Because in reality, that's exactly what it's trying to do. It's goal is to keep me afraid, to keep me running far, far away. If I don't think about it, maybe the anniversary will just pass and float off into oblivion. But then on quiet night, like last night, for example, when it was so quiet in my house that I could hear the sound of a pin drop, I know deep down that I have to at least acknowledge it in some way. If nothing else than to make some sort of peace with it. Because only then will I be able to move forward, you know, Sweetpea? <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVg2tzbLt5F_M7-gzLsf48wtSxhmbnD0kjSU80Ia8UphLVtSjlh9PRqaFv2VfcFQZtO-JIHqBrRnd23XPUoKYqVsR7uiwobjdi-1hkbPgccf2QdYbc75js2MeURG40GaparnK7KiA9PL1u/s1600/03.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680887249634439698" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVg2tzbLt5F_M7-gzLsf48wtSxhmbnD0kjSU80Ia8UphLVtSjlh9PRqaFv2VfcFQZtO-JIHqBrRnd23XPUoKYqVsR7uiwobjdi-1hkbPgccf2QdYbc75js2MeURG40GaparnK7KiA9PL1u/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>So here I am, Depression (<em>yes, depression with a capital "D"</em>), letting you know that I've gone an entire year without you in my life, and I've realized something pretty amazing: <strong>I don't need you</strong>. Nope. Not one single bit. You've never helped me, you're never going to be able to help me and my life is so much better without you. What do you think, Sweetpea? Do I feel the same about depression wherever we are? Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.pennyweightonline.com/blog/2011/10/26/let-go.html">Pennyweight</a> and <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com">Le Love</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #143.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: Letting go. Letting go. Letting go. It's been something that has been slowly creeping into my head. What started...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #142.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><div align="center"> </div><a href="http://farm7.staticflickr.com/6051/6390253941_d09ea399e6_o.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm7.staticflickr.com/6051/6390253941_d09ea399e6_o.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 562px;" /></a>Love is a funny thing, isn't it? I know, Sweetpea, that's a pretty broad, obvious statement, but sometimes -- like right now -- the obvious statement are sometimes the ones we never see. I've been thinking about that <em>moment</em> lately. Do you know the moment I'm talking about? Oh, I'm sure I've tried to discuss it at one time or another with you. The moment I realized that I was completely, no-going-back, my-heart-is-yours-forever in love with you. The possibilities for that one, single moment are endless, if you ask me. It could end up being the night we stayed up until 3 a.m. talking on the phone until we both couldn't stay awake any longer. It could end up being the time you dressed up as Lloyd Dobbler for Halloween and stood outside my window blasting In Your Eyes from a stereo. It could end up being the time I saw you helping my mom fix some things around the house. Or, it could end up being the time we had that huge, saying-things-we-don't-mean fight and then 30 minutes later realized that our lives were better together than apart.<br /><br />And who's to say each of our <em>moments</em> will be the same, Sweetpea? What's just another movie date to you could be the time I realize how sweet you are when you give me your jacket in the cold theater. Or maybe what's an otherwise boring afternoon of painting our living room, an event that maybe leaves me uttering a few choice words (<em>I'm just warning you here, Sweetpea...</em>), for me turns out to be the day you learn to love my constant singing. Suddenly, those ordinary moments are turning into extraordinary milestones. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmMcbpsSFY38dc4sHWYQVorx45VsZnpRQP-dImNKDIJ4X40ocJVk1e7L7cMsPnLKy8xklbkNp8CYLd5eONHXJApjaHWOwHGwTst7I3XmZoUxetnr1zGXAZ88Ws_n5RH-KLxg2wD6mYiIvu/s1600/03.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678256050013810498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmMcbpsSFY38dc4sHWYQVorx45VsZnpRQP-dImNKDIJ4X40ocJVk1e7L7cMsPnLKy8xklbkNp8CYLd5eONHXJApjaHWOwHGwTst7I3XmZoUxetnr1zGXAZ88Ws_n5RH-KLxg2wD6mYiIvu/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" /></a>But what if there is no <em>moment</em>? I'm so focused on one single, life-changing, earth-shattering event that will be crystal-clear proof of my, well, in-loveness (<em>Is that even a word?</em>) that I might forget one little thing: Maybe love isn't really a <em>moment</em>. Maybe it's thousands of tiny <em>moments</em>.<br /><br />In the end, maybe everything adds up, and only then do you stand back and say, "Oh, wow. So that's what that was." For the first time, you stand back, at just the right distance, and instead of seeing the shapes of each puzzle piece, you see the beauty of the puzzle in its entirety.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Zu9fZlWrYnLlGB0J4JL3Cu1TgyZadk0pMVf88u8yd1gnAA510esvTPTlkwlMaMbpIFwQTF712RfNbiv42q_DKvpm2Jf8P31ULJUb3Ps8N6COvyRxsegwSzXw39t0Kxzr_BY1easeTzWM/s1600/02.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678256046970489746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Zu9fZlWrYnLlGB0J4JL3Cu1TgyZadk0pMVf88u8yd1gnAA510esvTPTlkwlMaMbpIFwQTF712RfNbiv42q_DKvpm2Jf8P31ULJUb3Ps8N6COvyRxsegwSzXw39t0Kxzr_BY1easeTzWM/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 263px;" /></a>And maybe, just maybe, love isn't something you can see when you're actually going through it. Does that make sense, Sweetpea? Love isn't something you plan. You can't make an appointment with it and mark it on your calendar like you do your upcoming date with the dentist. I have a feeling lots of those little moments are going to sneak up on us, Sweetpea. Aren't you excited. I just know it's all going to be an amazing adventure. Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.weheartit.com">We Heart It</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #142.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: Love is a funny thing, isn't it? I know, Sweetpea, that's a pretty broad, obvious statement, but sometimes ...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #141.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIpPhBhZUQfbLm1aXaupD6HQNP85T2AUIQcIxjFn-6JNfSy-ylr3LFFaSoVvap1OYz9AHnRTFGydPU8pQV-ieuayAmdnMb6aiOzzGo4ZzqkRJG9IDlwtJ97kUyjYdvVZ9cQWrXdCqMqLxL/s1600/aa"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673002808892657746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIpPhBhZUQfbLm1aXaupD6HQNP85T2AUIQcIxjFn-6JNfSy-ylr3LFFaSoVvap1OYz9AHnRTFGydPU8pQV-ieuayAmdnMb6aiOzzGo4ZzqkRJG9IDlwtJ97kUyjYdvVZ9cQWrXdCqMqLxL/s400/aa" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 270px;" /></a>I was reading over some of my past blog comments last night (<em>you wouldn't believe some of the dozies I've received</em>) when one of them caught my eye...<br /><br /><em>Have you ever considered that it might be you that has to make the first move? You seem to hold out hoping that a guy will get over his insecurities and talk to you, but you don't address getting over your own shyness and making the first move on a guy.</em><br /><br />Humpf. Interesting question. I just sort of sat there for a moment. Who knows - maybe I even had a deer-the-headlights look on my face. You probably know I'm usually the type to jump to answer questions, but with this one, I just sat and contemplated for a few minutes. The question almost became a sort of riddle. And then it all became as clear as day: I always assumed you'd be the one making the first move. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzN3pl5IkSLr-DDGnXpFZBcEiGxmfhfc0oHJbwj7NZv1AhRQeLPrAKZguMgSLJyp5QJB0-DQv_UVf7P_9Miz5p8AlIDISk0JxgyR7UuEGVfwAEVHuKo8BtxblU3LOq9So_2LOlM0GQJ4mM/s1600/aa2"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673002804201855538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzN3pl5IkSLr-DDGnXpFZBcEiGxmfhfc0oHJbwj7NZv1AhRQeLPrAKZguMgSLJyp5QJB0-DQv_UVf7P_9Miz5p8AlIDISk0JxgyR7UuEGVfwAEVHuKo8BtxblU3LOq9So_2LOlM0GQJ4mM/s400/aa2" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 373px;" /></a>I imagined you saying something along the lines of "So, would you like to go out sometime?" Maybe we've known each other for awhile, or maybe we just met at work or through friends. At first I might not pick up on the subtext behind your pretext. I do apologize in advance if it should happen to go right over my head. It's not my intention. I promise. It's just that I might not have had much past experience on which to draw from. So you may have to answer the question again if you should find a look of bewildered puzzlement on my face. I will catch on eventually. <br /><br />Now, lest you think I don't have a feminist bone in my body, Sweetpea, it's not that I don't think women should be the ones doing the asking. In fact, I've always been just a wee bit jealous of those girls. You know the type, Sweetpea. Those girls who can oh-so-casually walk up to a guy, look him straight in the eye, and ask him out. Right there. On the spot. With no cue cards. They can make it look so natural, as if it's the sort of thing they'd been doing their whole lives. They had perfected it<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFQRWgvmZkdVjwbNieu5Zw-rIu45kE0Hr_07CYYwIaKtpixUA7c-3AXqx9kGWYZxn7x8N37oeb63jwAbxr6GBSNwigFoiFeMoQ5HXsnIfAcezTZ9sLv9W_sB3yeZit-G3-X6JQtAvu2Nk/s1600/aa3.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673002799456168914" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFQRWgvmZkdVjwbNieu5Zw-rIu45kE0Hr_07CYYwIaKtpixUA7c-3AXqx9kGWYZxn7x8N37oeb63jwAbxr6GBSNwigFoiFeMoQ5HXsnIfAcezTZ9sLv9W_sB3yeZit-G3-X6JQtAvu2Nk/s400/aa3.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>Ay, but maybe there's the problem. Science. There I go. Again. I'm probably making things harder than they need to be, trying to mold something to fit some sort of arbitrary scientific equation when there really isn't one. Do these things just naturally happen, Sweetpea? Are they supposed to? How do you make it look natural? And even more than that, how do you <em>not</em> put pressure on the other person? They say practice makes perfect, so maybe I should start randomly asking people out...I'm kidding. <br /><br />What would happen if I ask you out, Sweetpea? Would you say yes? Well, I mean, of course you'll say yes, but did I have to ask more than once? Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://leloveimage.blogspot.com/">Le Love</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #141.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: I was reading over some of my past blog comments last night ( you wouldn't believe some of the dozies I've r...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #140.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0F8POHRoboaVbCEnqQ14hNSH702JyJeKYgLkOK4O2hOp-qzlQdQD_ktkBMfvgC_AiitUQZ4DLVV3SbRCOeyBlieWWihoq8AXmy8JvHRiOanO5bARPTqHydFZHR5HF-GdNbf-IKjXz4ZB/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670423993118410098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0F8POHRoboaVbCEnqQ14hNSH702JyJeKYgLkOK4O2hOp-qzlQdQD_ktkBMfvgC_AiitUQZ4DLVV3SbRCOeyBlieWWihoq8AXmy8JvHRiOanO5bARPTqHydFZHR5HF-GdNbf-IKjXz4ZB/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>Yikes! I can't help but think I might, quite possibly have jinxed something here. Not even one week after I posted about my <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/10/letters-to-my-future-husband-letter-139.html">connection</a> to Kim Kardashian's wedding, news breaks that she's filed for divorce after just 72 days of marriage. Now, Sweetpea, I know the Kardashian family tends to be a hot-button issue for America: People either love them or hate them. But no matter where your feelings lie, you can't help but feel sorry for someone when a marriage ends. (<span style="font-style:italic;">well, that is if no cheating was involved...</span>)<br /><br />All your dreams, all your hopes for a future - a future that included another person - is dashed in about the same amount of time it takes to say the phrase "I do." <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqf4AAHucWUycGLoHDUUdknJwO__s_mRYIYkaitOc6vL9N9awtMryCOZO0wAYJr0mLMr2PzkC5X35PoQmgtHDT_GYiY-SQOgrOMxtP2Iky7qVOGh6i4X4hxwpDTGCbWbC6BucJRhMd20GL/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670423989635393554" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqf4AAHucWUycGLoHDUUdknJwO__s_mRYIYkaitOc6vL9N9awtMryCOZO0wAYJr0mLMr2PzkC5X35PoQmgtHDT_GYiY-SQOgrOMxtP2Iky7qVOGh6i4X4hxwpDTGCbWbC6BucJRhMd20GL/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>I honestly feel sorry for Kim. Because, as I said before, Sweetpea, I can see a lot of myself in her. We're both romantics who wear our hearts openly on our sleeves. We hold tight to that notion of forever with every fiber of our being, refusing to settle for anything less. We believe in love, even when it appears to lie to us, offer us false and empty promises and just doesn't live up to that happily-ever-after ending. At the end of the day, we still hold onto hope for that love we've always been looking for.<br /><br />Knowing me, Sweetpea, you can bet I won't let Kim's divorce go by without taking a lesson or two with me. Translation: Questions. Questions about us. Questions about our relationship. Questions about what we want for our future, both as people and as a couple. That's why I've come up with 3 key questions that I want us to answer honestly and truthfully ask before we take those big, adult steps down the aisle. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What is our relationship based on? </span><br />This is probably something we discussed early in our relationship, but if we're not in this relationship for the right reasons, I can guarantee that we're not going to last. On the top of my list? Love and trust should be a priority. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Can we imagine our lives together 50 years from now? And not get nauseous?</span> <br />If you don't want to be with me forever, I assume you cut the chord before things got too deep. Or maybe I did. My grandparents had more than 30 years of retirement together, and I want ours to be filled with happiness. We may be reduced to eating prunes and our only excitement is an episode of Jeopardy, but that doesn't mean it can't be romantic. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Do we share some of the same hobbies?</span><br />I'm all for <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/10/love-lounge-whats-your-attraction.html">opposites attract</a>, but we need to have some things in common. It's incredibly sexy when you can relate to another person. The same thing applies to what we want out of life. If we're not on the same page about career goals, family ideals, etc., we're going to have some trouble. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigokvsipctLjnRp4wxGGTp5BZ4JcN1tyYkrlxCngoWbY-tF_1rdPjxbiM_AwCtu97p_Xu18Ea5g5eQ0q1cy9kdGALDBSDoWAXd0tmmjNVag4Kx1HynFt_gCJTkvf4NP61NfW-0K-YUul-s/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670423986739036162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigokvsipctLjnRp4wxGGTp5BZ4JcN1tyYkrlxCngoWbY-tF_1rdPjxbiM_AwCtu97p_Xu18Ea5g5eQ0q1cy9kdGALDBSDoWAXd0tmmjNVag4Kx1HynFt_gCJTkvf4NP61NfW-0K-YUul-s/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>Sometimes I wonder what it will be like to actually sit next to each other, look at each other, and answer these questions. I'll probably stutter because I'm so nervous, and you'll probably make me blush with your intense gaze. Or maybe I'll catch you off guard with my answers...I guess I should just warn you now, then: My answers are going to blow your mind. You'd better get ready, Sweetpea.<br /><br />I also love what my parents did before they got married: They met with the minister from my mother's church a few times. This is a pretty genius idea if you ask me, Sweetpea -- a sort of pre-marriage marriage counseling, if you will. What do you think of that? I can imagine us sitting in some calm setting talking open and honestly about our feelings. If you think about it, it could be romantic. Or maybe that's just me. Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photo via <a href="http://leloveimage.blogspot.com/">Le Love</a>

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #140.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: Yikes! I can't help but think I might, quite possibly have jinxed something here. Not even one week after I post...

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