The Things I Meant to Say
After trying to post on J’s blog for half an hour, I have come to the conclusion that it is still holding a grudge. J may have forgiven my clumsiness with words, but I think her blog forbade me from the comments section. So I am writing this as a send out to J and all those that were able to post to her most recent entry – the lucky bastards.
I lay beside her in bed and watch as my words of sympathy and love cut her deeper. Her nose gets red, her eyes water, and she slowly turns her eyes away and ducks her head into her pillow. This isn’t the happy cry – those are, well, happy. As her chest heaves and muffled whimpers of sadness escape her pillow, I watch helplessly as my gentle words turn to poison. Racing back through my sentences, I trace the problem. I realize it all sounded wrong. I meant it completely differently, but it’s already too late. I sounded condescending – like she is pretty enough. Like I love her, I just don’t love her appearance.
I probably apologized a hundred dozen times for the way my words came out. But I know that somewhere they still cut J pretty deeply. The wrong words were already spoken. I flubbed it. So given the chance and the 20/20 hindsight, I know now how to express what I was feeling before.
What I was trying to convey is J is very pretty. No, not pretty -- gorgeous. No, friggin' hot is better. J has always been very easy on the eyes. She is by far the most attractive woman I have seen. Period. I don't care if she loses pounds or not. She is gorgeous to me now -- and I'm always going to be attracted to her.
When I said she was gorgeous to me now – that’s what I meant. She doesn’t have to diet to be gorgeous. She is pretty without any changes. If dieting makes her more comfortable with her appearance, I’ll support her. But I’ll like her present appearance – to me, she is the ultimate hotty.
In fact, I’ve been checking her out since the eighth grade. I remember when she was a cool high school sophomore playing the cymbals in her marching uniform. Yeah, just imagine those perfect FF’s filling out a uniform coat and “dicky.” No, not that one, well…okay, yeah, that one too. Even as a dorky eighth grader I was glad I had a snare drum strapped to my front. Even if it couldn’t hide how bad I played, it at least hid my pants.
Know that I will always love you buddy – and you will have to deal with me checking you out forever. Even when we are old and wrinkly I'll still be chasing after you trying to get you closer.
I lay beside her in bed and watch as my words of sympathy and love cut her deeper. Her nose gets red, her eyes water, and she slowly turns her eyes away and ducks her head into her pillow. This isn’t the happy cry – those are, well, happy. As her chest heaves and muffled whimpers of sadness escape her pillow, I watch helplessly as my gentle words turn to poison. Racing back through my sentences, I trace the problem. I realize it all sounded wrong. I meant it completely differently, but it’s already too late. I sounded condescending – like she is pretty enough. Like I love her, I just don’t love her appearance.
I probably apologized a hundred dozen times for the way my words came out. But I know that somewhere they still cut J pretty deeply. The wrong words were already spoken. I flubbed it. So given the chance and the 20/20 hindsight, I know now how to express what I was feeling before.
What I was trying to convey is J is very pretty. No, not pretty -- gorgeous. No, friggin' hot is better. J has always been very easy on the eyes. She is by far the most attractive woman I have seen. Period. I don't care if she loses pounds or not. She is gorgeous to me now -- and I'm always going to be attracted to her.
When I said she was gorgeous to me now – that’s what I meant. She doesn’t have to diet to be gorgeous. She is pretty without any changes. If dieting makes her more comfortable with her appearance, I’ll support her. But I’ll like her present appearance – to me, she is the ultimate hotty.
In fact, I’ve been checking her out since the eighth grade. I remember when she was a cool high school sophomore playing the cymbals in her marching uniform. Yeah, just imagine those perfect FF’s filling out a uniform coat and “dicky.” No, not that one, well…okay, yeah, that one too. Even as a dorky eighth grader I was glad I had a snare drum strapped to my front. Even if it couldn’t hide how bad I played, it at least hid my pants.
Know that I will always love you buddy – and you will have to deal with me checking you out forever. Even when we are old and wrinkly I'll still be chasing after you trying to get you closer.
Comments
In future, repeat after me: "I'm sorry that makes you [sad/mad/frustrated/upset/etc.]"
See, you DIRECTLY RESPOND without adding. Improvisation will kill you every time.
The good news is that as you get older and spend more time together, she'll eventually get to the point where when you say something stupid like that she'll respond with "You're such a retard" instead of getting upset.
And she'll be right.