Dear Torsten, volume 2

Dear Torsten,

Exactly two years and one day ago, we went on our first date. The day was rainy, gray, and cool, and I wore a denim skirt and a striped sweater. You wore jeans and a patterned button-down shirt that I have since convinced you to retire, since it violates not just my sense of fashion but also my ability to see without my eyes burning. Luckily, the date was great anyway.


During the first year that we were together, several people who knew my family told me that you reminded them of my dad. It used to drive me crazy. Not that I don't love my dad, but I don't think anyone likes the implication that they're marrying my father. And plus, I knew that you weren't just like my dad, even if they didn't. But in this past year, I don't think one person has made that comparison. Perhaps they've gotten to know you better and seen the myriad ways that you aren't like him, or like anyone else. I tend to be cynical, and I believe that there are so many people in the world that nobody is actually unique, but you are my exception: there is nobody else in the world like you.


In the past year, I have been to Germany with you twice to visit your parents, and I learned so much about you in the process. I saw where you came from and met the people who influenced your childhood. I watched you in your former home and I understood why you loved it, and also why you chose to leave. I went with you to the North Sea in November, and even though I thought the cold might kill me, I understood why you love it so much. At least, once we were back in our cozy hotel room (with the German tradition of two twin beds attached to one headboard... perfect for that romantic getaway we'd been envisioning) listening to the wind howl safely outside the window, as opposed to right through my skin into my internal organs: THEN I understood why you love it so much. I would love to go back there with you in the summer. I love that we have our whole lives of summers to go to the North Sea, or anywhere else we choose, together.


When I first lost a significant amount of weight and shrunk out of all of my clothes, I was really reluctant to buy more. I didn't think they would fit for long and the cost of all those new clothes, especially the work wardrobe, was not appetizing. I walked around wearing skirts that hung off me like sacks until you talked some sense into me and forced me to spend a few hundred dollars on some desperately-needed, proper-fitting clothing. And not only that, but you, you who are allergic to shopping, you walked around the Herald Square Macy's with me for well over an hour, offering opinions and suggestions and carrying everything I was going to try on. And you pushed me to hand over our credit card when I nearly fell at the last hurdle. You didn't even flinch when you saw the final total. Although I certainly did enough flinching for both of us.


When we first moved in together, I wasn't much of a cuddler. You won me over slowly, but I still always needed my own, untouched space when it came time to actually go to sleep. But recently, according to you, I've fallen asleep in your arms multiple times. I would suspect you of exaggerating about that, except that I've actually woken up in your arms a couple of times, so I know it's true. I never would have thought that somebody could change me so fundamentally. And I'm sorry that I make your arm hurt when I fall asleep lying on it--and that you refuse to move your arm away because you're too afraid that I'll never fall asleep while cuddling again. Here's a bit of advice: By now, I'm pretty sure it will happen again. It's really OK to move your arm before it feels like it's actually going to fall off.


Twenty-four days from now, I will put on a big (off-)white dress and vow to spend my life loving you. I'm excited to do that. But in reality, we don't need those public promises to make it happen. No matter what, whether or not you wanted me to, whether or not I swore it in front of our loved ones, I would spend my life loving you. There's just no other option.

Love,
Jess