Last week I ran into a friend, who began telling me the details of her now-completed nasty divorce. She shared some of the more dastardly things he pulled. None of which I remember.
Because I got completely side-tracked by the fact that he did many of these dastardly deeds through…LETTERS!
Yes, he wrote silly demands and perverted requests to her IN LETTERS.
Seriously, letters. And she’s been saving them in case she needs them in the future.
Jim has never, ever, in nearly 14 years of being together, written me a letter. I don’t even think he knows my address. Cards are signed simply, “Love, Jim” and are sometimes embellished with a smiley face.
I’m not sure I want him to write me letters. Do I want a written list of the things I need to be improving? I prefer the running tally being made silently in his head, thank you! I don’t want concrete evidence of my shortcomings.
I know that letter-writing is a dying art. In fact, the letters I actually do receive each year are usually attached to Christmas cards. Although my brother Tommy is an excellent letter-writer and I loved receiving them. Most of my written communications are limited to emails and texts.
I’d rather talk to Jim than have him write me a letter. I hope there’s nothing we have to say that is so horrible it needs to be written and left silently behind.
Kelly and I were talking last week about women who have boxes of love letters from old beaus. I have none. Zip. Zilch. I guess I’ve never been the type of woman who inspires men to pick up pen and paper and wax eloquently on my many admired qualities. Maybe there are no admired qualities!
Still, I like where Jim and I are communication-wise. We’re somewhere between “tell me everything” and “un-huh.” If it’s important, it’s said.
Most importantly, we say “I love you” a lot. As a family, it’s one of the things we all do well.