Tag Archives: letters

A Letter to the One “Real” Bra That I Wear

Hello Bosom Buddy,

We’ve been together more than a decade, which is technically a longer and more intimate relationship than I’ve had with anyone who isn’t related to me and I thank you for your support. I’m writing you this letter today because although it’s a little embarrassing, you deserve my honesty.

I have been faking it.

The fact of the matter is, I really don’t need you that much. Now before you go getting all weepy, let me clarify that I’m keeping you around—you’re pretty much all that I have—but the last few years of our relationship have really been based more out of social convention than physical necessity.

It wasn’t like this in the beginning.

You were one of many with a very important job to do. I had more meat on my frame and an actual need for your support—physical and not just moral. The fact that you were from Victoria’s Secret, dark, mysterious and didn’t contain underwire was a winning combination.

I kept you in the rotation among a few others who, sadly, have not lasted nearly as long. Multiple washings wore out their lace, their straps, their comfort, and yet you stuck around like a champ.

We’ve had a lot of good times and some questionable moments — let’s not talk about that night in college when we woke up hung-over in a frat house and I frantically searched for you before eventually finding you stuck in a fan. If only you could have held my hair back instead of my boobs as I hovered over the toilet and swore off ever drinking again.

There’s a seasonal nature to our relationship and you accept that when it’s cold, I can defer to my preferred sports bra under the layers of clothes that I wear. But when the weather starts to heat up and your straps might just show, I don’t revert to the drawer full of lace, silk and padded cotton that pretty much now goes untouched.

No, I go to you.

Much like my yoga pants, I’m sure you had higher goals and expected to feel more fulfilled—both emotionally and physically—and I share in your disappointment. After all, Victoria’s Secret promoted you as helping to turn me into a “bombshell,” but I think both of us know that the only way that will happen is if your cups are packed with explosives.

Yet you try, and for that my bosom buddy, I give you an “A” for effort. Or more accurately, a 34 A. Ha!

At any rate, while I might not need you around, I’ll happily keep you around as long as you hold up your end of the deal—and the two little bumps on my chest.



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Handwritten Hugs

As a society, we are inundated with e-options for everything from communication, dating and shopping to flight check-ins, video conferencing and banking. We blog, we Skype (well, I don’t), we forward and delete.

And while some of these options have made life infinitely easier, it’s hard to ignore the fact that something personal seems to have been lost along the way in cyberspace. Where I feel it the most is with correspondence, be it a handwritten thank you, an event invitation or a simple birthday card sent every year.

Maybe it’s because growing up, one of the things I looked forward to most was a card that my grandpa sent me once a week—via snail mail. We were super close and although they spent winters in Florida, when back in Michigan the cards still came.

They were nothing elaborate; they didn’t play music or feature textured, sparkly material or poetic prose. (In fact, most were bought in a box of bulk from the flea market and I received the same card about twice a month.) But what they did have was my grandpa’s handwritten note, scrawled out every week above his shaky signature until well into his 80s.

The message got shorter and harder to read, but really got straight to the point—“Love you, Papa”—and each envelope was sealed with an (extremely random) sticker.

Even in my manic cleaning sprees and compulsion to minimalize, I kept every single one of them.

He died almost eight years ago, so he never really knew me when I was “sick.” Now understand that this man loved his food. We used to joke that we could put his shirt in the fridge and he could eat it for lunch (not the neatest eater, mind you), and I wouldn’t expect him to understand. But I know that today he would be worried—sick with worry—and that kind of makes me sad, even ashamed.

I know my family worries now, but I think they’ve come to accept “this” as me the same way I’ve come to accept that my mom smokes, that my grandma will always refer to African Americans as “the blacks” and that my family basically regards meat, potatoes and dessert as the three basic food groups.

I’ve come to accept that I can’t change others and I can’t change for others—I can only take these steps myself, for myself.  As Mahatma Gandhi said, “You must be the change you wish to see in the world.”

Pretty smart dude.

I got off on a bit of a rant, so back to the cards and whatnot.  I’m both addicted to and tired of technology. I don’t want to “Tweet,” I don’t want to get my magazines in digital versions and I don’t want to have to have an iPhone to communicate with everyone in the freaking world. Even my job is changing, and I don’t like it.

I don’t need an app for that, thank you—I am blissfully unaware for now.

Anyway, my grandpa obviously didn’t have e-mail—hell, he called them “flax machines”—but if he had, I’m sure I wouldn’t still have those messages today. I wouldn’t have the envelopes with stickers or the shaky signature. Even today, getting a handwritten note or invitation seems so much more personal to me, so much more…human.


However, there are obviously things that I love about technology, and one of them is that I can just insert this link and tell you that I whipped up a double batch of my little hug treats.

treats2 This time, we’re going with an Easter theme. While I used Hugs, I’ll add that you can switch it up for all kinds of deliciousness—I’ve done Rolos and pecans for a turtle variety, different flavored Kisses, etc.—and all were huge hits.

bags I plan on including a handwritten note on each treat bag and leaving them on the desks of my coworkers tomorrow.  They can’t be deleted, they can’t be ignored and they may just serve as a delicious little reminder that emoticons are not human—Hugs are.

(Probably not, as they’ll most likely just eat them and get chocolate on their iPhones, later Tweeting about how they got chocolate on their iPhones, but whatever.)

Do you still send the occasional handwritten card or note, or have you become completely reliant on the availability of technology for communication?


Best thing you ate this weekend?