Dear Yankee Juliet

Dear Yankee Juliet,

You’re a modern day Juliet, right? Then, I’m sure you’ll get me. 

I actually suspect you might be the only human on the face of the earth that will ever get me at this point. I’m not even sure if you’re even human, though. I mean, are you? Do you really exist? Or are you just a product of my fertile delusional imagination? 

You know, Jules – I can call you Jules, right? Is that ok? I’m pretty sure it’s ok. I bet you even ride a motorcycle and drive off to the sunset like a chimp on wheels – the thing is: I look around me and realize that I should be this kind of flawless person, partner, perfect human, you know, like the ones we see in social media. The best version of myself, as the voice in my head loves to say. Every. Single. Day. It’s painful. It’s frightening. It’s excruciating! Is everybody trying to live inside a cover of a magazine these days? Or of an Academy award event? 

Because me- me I gotta tell you- I’m a total waste basket. No no no no no. I’m beyond a total wate basket case.

Are people actually that perfect? Do they really live such perfect lives? Do they have such perfect relationships? Don’t these people have flaws, problems? Cellulite? Wrinkles? Somebody stealing their chips when they need them the most?

I mean, seriously! Don’t they have bits of their kids’ Nutella sandwiches hanging out of their t-shirts? Aren’t their living rooms floors covered by this super cool trend, you know, this tiny lego pieces feet stabbing trend? Dog hair? Chocolate rocket motors leftovers? Don’t their scarfs get stuck in the driver’s door when they are getting inside of the car, nearly causing death by asphyxiation? Are their marriages really that perfect? All the time? Because life and – you know - stuff - can be challenging. And these people on social media look like walking magazine covers. Is that even possible? 

Because, Jules, me, I’m just a normal, regular, average, extra chaotic person. Ok, I admit it, a little crazy. But no crazier than the crazy person next door.  

I mean, is their house always tidy? Because mine isn’t. 

If I may say so myself, I have a partner. I do live with someone. But we’re not actually married. I never wanted to get married. I grew up – to the shock and disappointment of those around me – saying that I would never get married. I never wanted to get married. There. I said it again! Not that I have anything against the marriage institution. Au contraire. Nor do I have commitment issues. It was just not my thing. I always wanted to have kids, though. A boy with curly hair. Ever since I was – I don’t know, let’s see maybe, huumm twelve - I wanted to have a boy. I even had dreams about the boy I was going to have. I never really liked pink until recently, which might come as a shock to you too. I was always a tomboy, climbing trees, riding karts, riding my bike alone. 

My partner abominates social media. Lucky him! Every time I sneak a photo of him on social media is behind his back. Because if I ask for his permission, I know he will say no. And at this point in my life, I’m only opened to yesses. 

We never signed any papers except for our lease contract. We only share a house, two crazy dogs and a son. The son with fabulous curly hair I used to dream of.

Wait up! You do know social media, right? Of course you do. You’re a modern day Juliet. I bet you even have an Instagram account. And that you spend your day choosing filters and writing lovely comments with cool hashtags. If I ever find your account, I will for sure follow it and tell my friends to tell their friends to follow you. How does that sound? 

This marriage thing is starting to get to me. In super awkward crazy ways. Although I don’t think I’m the marrying kind, as the more time passes the more I even question myself if I’m cut out for any kind of relationship except for motherhood and friendhood. There was a tiny fraction of time that I thought I was. I mean, I was the one who proposed to my partner. For us to live together, that is. But you know what? As times tracks I think I’m more of a lone wolf than of a flamingo pack.  I’ve always been like that, really. Sometimes I even think I’m a guy inside. 

I truly believe not only do I drive people crazy, but I actually frighten them. Sometimes I even frighten myself! I keep on living in this perpetual cycling duality. It must have been all the Kierkegaards and Nietzsches and Platos I read in high school. Or the Thomas Mores and the Milan Kunderas I read in college. Or your namesake Shakespearean play.  

They must have got me there somewhere along the line. I don’t know. Can this be a middle life crises I’m walking through here? Because I’ve recently realized how much I DO want a yellow vintage SUV and a yellow classic Harley Davidson with sidecar. And I’m in my forties. 

But how do I know? 

It’s just that uninterrupted dichotomy, you know? Have you ever felt that? Or is it just me? 

But this is not only it. This is not even the beginning of it! 

And that’s when things start to get complicated. 

People expect –you know-stuff from me. Stuff. From ME! Those three words don’t even make sense in my head! Much less in a sentence! And it sounds even weirder when I say it out loud: P-e-o-p-l-e-e-x-p-e-c-t-S-t-u-f-f -f-r-o-m m-e. It’s like those Instagram hashtags. #peopleexpectstufffrom me. “Hey people, hashtag #peopleexpectstufffromme if you think I’m a douchebag.”

How can people expect stuff from ME? I’m a professional disappointer! I’m seriously considering starting my own new charity Disapointmenters Anonymous. Do you think there might be some more disappointers anonymous out there in the world? Or is it just me? Oh boy! I’m telling you I disappoint everybody around me! I disappoint my son, my partner. Just today. I disappointed three different people. I disappointed the coffee shop manager when I only bought one bag of bread instead of the two I usually get. I disappointed my son’s teacher because I decided to pick him up earlier. I keep disappointing my readers, because I can’t fulfill my deadlines. I just don’t disappoint my literary agent and my book publisher because I still don’t have one. I can’t imagine what that will be like! And I could go on and on and on. But you’re Juliet. I’m sure you’re busy with some more interesting letters. I even disappoint myself. For example, just recently I deleted all my D.M. messages on Instagram. I mean who does that? And there were really, really, really important messages there. And I have no way of knowing if they reached their destination. I’m so glad I didn’t DM you with this letter or I’d have no way of knowing if you had gotten it. 

I’m continuously thorn between the what’s meant to be will find its way and the go out and get it. You know the feeling?

I don’t even meet my own expectations. It’s unbelievable! 

Am I losing my mind? Should I consider turning myself in a mental institution? Am I a misfit? Or I just don’t correspond to what society expects from me? Am I a coward? A weirdo? A creep? Or am I just human? At this point I just don’t know. 

Anyways, the thing is I can’t be this perfect human. I feel this social pressure to please everyone around me but the only thing that I – I repeat I - want to do is go somewhere where nobody knows me and start over. 

Is there something wrong with me? Or do you think that there still hope for me?

I know you usually deal with matters of the heart and that this letter might seem a little crazy, but you’re my only hope. 

Looking forward to hearing from you. 

Preferably before the aliens come and announce they’re here to take over the world.  

With all my hope on your clever response,

Love,

Disappointing Anonymous 

P.S.: Do you take P.S.’s in your letters? I hope you do. Just one final thought (you didn't think you could get rid of me that easily now did you?) I’m aware that all change brings caos and discomfort. 

But can’t you just buy a new mattress and carry on with your life?