Sunday, July 7, 2013

To My Future Mrs. Mosby


Dear ______________________ ,  

I don't know why late night runs often stir up some of the most thought-provoking blogs possible. Maybe it's the grandeur of God's desert creation surrounding me, or the rhythmic pounding of my legs triggering some sort of soul-shaking thoughts. Or maybe I'm just in a trance caused by my severe dehydration. Go ahead and thank St. George for having 98-degree weather at one in the morning for that last one.

If you really want to have a dramatic effect for this letter, and I’m talking about something that will surely put a tear in your eye, go to Soundcloud and download the piano solo, “You’re All Alone” by John Swihart, and play at a medium volume throughout the duration of this letter. It's from season 8 of “How I Met Your Mother” and I think it fits the background perfectly.  Besides, I had it on repeat as I wrote this letter. 

I'm bored. I'm bored with the social life my culture is shoving down my throat every Sunday morning. I'm bored with being set up with 19-year old girls who are still stuck on their exes, and blab on for hours like a mindless daytime talk show host. I'm bored with sitting in a room full of single folks my age who are stocked with trepidation and think downloading a spin the bottle app is the best way to get action from a member of the opposite sex.

Dating isn't the same as it once used to be. And I'm sure you already know this by now. There was a time when a successful date between two people would be a homemade meal and an engaging conversation into the late hours of the night about what they were both passionate about.  Now it’s just a quick text message exchange between two blockheads and an uninterrupted screening of “The Avengers”.  Times change.  People turn lethargic.  And the old days of formal courtship have been lost.  These are the times where we let fools look like fools.   

I’m sure you’ve dated quite the number of projects over the years.  The gymrat meatheads, the Halo-obsessed Red Bull-aholics, the 29-year old hippie who hasn’t been employed since the Bush Administration but can play a mean version of “Banana Pancakes” on his guitar.   Maybe even the guy you’re currently with fits this stereotype.  I will say I do envy the man for having the chance to be with you right now.  But I’m banking that his tucked in pink collared shirt and obsession with “Duck Dynasty” will soon fade in your eyes. 

Guys these days aren’t the same. Guys are weak. They are inconsistent.  They think of themselves before they think of you.  They don’t have the confidence in their own persona to tell a woman she looks beautiful, or to have a serious conversation about the meaning of life with someone. They are shallow lugnuts that can’t fend for themselves, nor respect who women are.  The days of being a true Gentleman are lost.  And I’m sorry for that.

The sad part is that I used to be one of those guys.  Not anymore, mind you.  But for a long, long time in my life, I played that role like a champ. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that I am perfect by any means. I have flaws.  Plenty of them. I curse every now and then, mostly during Ohio State games.  I’ll judge a person’s behavior too soon when I really don’t know about the circumstances that led them to having such annoying people skills.  I’ll lie just to embellish a great story to a crowd, when in the long run that tall tale doesn’t really matter at all.  But I want you to know that I’m working on my faults.  I'm trying to be better.  Better for you. 

You see, there are people in my life who I envy.  Who I want to somewhat mimic.  I see how they are as a pair and it makes me a bit jealous.  The relationship they have as a married couple is something I want to have with you.  People like C.J. and Robin, Brett and Meisha, Bryce and Sara, Derek and Kendra, you know, those front porch people.  I admire them.  I am envious of them.  And I want to have what they have with you.   

Anyway, I don’t know if letters like these are some type of coping mechanism for me being single in the culture I live in, or some semi-romantic way to tell you to not give up just yet.  All I know is that I'm going to keep looking. If it’s in the next five minutes, in the next year, or when the two of us are both shriveled up and wrinkly, I still can't wait to meet you. And I’m going to try and be a better person every single day of my life.

For you.   

L-word,

Brock

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