Hey there old friend,
We’ve been through a lot together, you and I. Pretty much everything, really.
I haven’t always loved you well, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not exercising enough or eating well, for not always getting enough sleep and for sometimes resenting you.
You have always gotten me where I need to go. You have legs that run and eyes that see and ears that hear. You heal yourself when I expose you to germs (sorry about that, too) and you grow when I feed you (even though sometimes I don’t want you to) and you’re really something of a miracle.
I take for granted so often how many intricate details are working together in you to make me who I am. When I think about you, I tend to be thinking about whether you’re fat or skinny, hairy or smooth, and zitty or clear. And let’s be honest, I’m usual on the critical side of all three of those.
So I thought I’d write you a letter today to tell you all the things I love about you, with no qualifications about hairiness or zittyness or fat. Only love.
I love your long legs that let me run and dance and bend down low to talk to my students. I love how they look and feel in jeans and a sweater.
I love your little round butt, and I’m a little embarrassed to admit that but it’s true. I love it.
I love the freckle on the inside of your left wrist that is how I used to know which side was my left and still keeps me oriented on the off chance I get really confused.
I love your tiny ears that I can’t help but tuck my hair behind. It’s amazing that such tiny little organs can work so intricately and well, and I love it.
I love your crooked little pinkies that children love to laugh at. I love your crooked little nose too, but I’m sorry about the incident that made it crooked (I’ve been trying to be more careful).
I love your fast-moving brain and its ever-expanding knowledge base. I love that I was made with a brain that loves to learn and that is in part thanks to you.
Speaking of organs, I love that all of yours work so well. I know some people have serious health issues and I have done nothing to deserve such a healthy and functional body as you.
I love that your eyes crinkle up when you laugh until you can’t see.
I love that your voice can be high or low and tell stories with voices that make children laugh or gasp or ask to hear it again and again.
Looking at you now, I don’t know what I have to complain about. I’m so sorry I ever do. Thanks for walking me through 25 great years. I’ll try to take care of you better for 25 more.
This post is part of my 31 days of Love Letters series. Click here to see the rest of the posts in the series.