Readers: This post is not for you. Sorry.
It’s meant for my future husband, the comedian Louis C.K. I know this whole marriage thing is probably shocking to a lot of you. Honestly, it’s shocking to me, too. But I have received a Decree from the Universe that Louis C.K. and I are supposed to get married. What am I supposed to do? I feel like that little Indian girl in Eat, Pray, Love whose family arranged a marriage for her … it feels like there’s no way out of this. The best I can hope for is to get to know this guy a little bit and hope he won’t rape me on our honeymoon. In fact, maybe we’ll grow to like each other so much that he won’t have to.
(Disclaimer: Louis C.K. has publicly stated that he is NOT a rapist. I believe him.)
Dear Louis C.K.,
Can I call you Louie, like everyone does on your show? Cool. Once we’re married I’m sure I’ll have all kinds of other nicknames for you. Certainly one of them will involve the word “pumpkin” because, obviously, pumpkin is the most fucking adorable word in the English language. And yes, your hair color fits right in with this plan as well. I’m thinking “Pumpkinbuns” for starters.
But listen. There’s plenty of time to iron all that out later.
I’ve been thinking about this whole marriage thing a lot. I have to admit that I’m pretty scared about it. Sure, the Universe has thrown us an unmistakable sign that we are each other’s destinies. But the thing is, I already have one failed marriage under my belt. So do you. It’s really important that we do it right this time.
Considering that we haven’t met in person yet and that you don’t know I exist, I think it should be easy enough to keep from rushing into anything. I can sense that if you were actually reading this, you’d be nodding your head slowly and thoughtfully, indicating your agreement. So thank you for that.
Unfortunately, you’re at a disadvantage in getting to know me, your future bride and bearer of your children. I’m not famous like you are, so you can’t just Google me — and we all know that Googling someone is an excellent way to get to know them.
That’s why I’ve decided to give you some one-stop shopping. I’ll compile everything you need to know about me right here on the old bloggity: past relationships, sex, divorce, all the things that make me tick … That way you can discover those tiny little details that will make you love me in the beginning — and that later will make you want to kill me in my sleep.
I’ll probably post a new letter to you every two weeks on a Friday or Saturday. Or maybe sometimes on a Sunday if it’s a busy weekend. Clearly, I’m one of those creative types who can’t be held to stringent deadlines. I’m sure you, as my cosmically appointed soulmate, understand this. And I have to say, I think it’s pretty goddamn adorable that you’re already accepting me for me, even before you know who I am.
Because here’s the thing, Louie: Dating in your 40s is like shopping at the scratch and dent appliance store. You’re not gonna find something new and perfect. The best you can hope for is something where the dings only show from certain angles. I’m willing to show you my damage with the expectation that you’ll still want me anyway.
So let’s do this thing. Let’s make it fucking happen so we can live in eternal goddamn rapture together or some shit.
By the way, a few of my friends have offered to throw the wedding for us. I declined, as neither of us is a first-timer at this thang. I was thinking maybe a Justice of the Peace and then having some pizzas sent over to the corner suite at the Best Western. That work for you?
Rock on, future husband guy. Marital bliss, here we come.
Want to watch me make an ass out of myself as I write to Louis C.K.? Sign up for email updates on the right or follow me on Twitter @singlemommaTSJ.
Read the next Letter to Louie here.
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