Ask me the one thing I am most passionate about and I'll give you five, ten, maybe even two hundred different answers, depending on my mood. See, I was never a die-hard fan of anything in particular. I mean, I have likes and likes-a-lot, but normally I just go with the flow. Hardly the "Hey, have you heard about the new..." type.
Of everything I love-love, however, I make an almost conscious effort of omniscience; which is why it pains me so much not to have found out about this sooner. I am distraught, apologetic even, for not picking up last month's sold out issue of Esquire magazine. Guess who was featured?
NO LESS THAN THE HEMPTRESS HERSELF.
THE STUNNING MARY-LOUISE PARKER.
She's gorgeous.
And her note to all men:
To you, whom it may concern:Manly creature, who smells good even when I don't, you wake up too slowly, with fuzzy, vertical hair and a slightly lost look on your face as though you are seven or seventy-five; you can fix my front door, my sink, and open most jars; you, who lose a cuff link and have to settle for a safety pin, you have promised to slay the unfortunate interlopers and dragons with your Phillips-head or Montblanc; to you, because you will notice a woman with a healthy chunk of years or pounds on her and let out a wolf whistle under your breath and mean it; because you think either rug will be fine, really it will; you seem to walk down the street a little taller than me, a little more aware but with a purpose still; to you who codifies, conjugates, slams a puck, baits a hook, builds a decent cabinet or the perfect sandwich; you who gives a twenty to the kids selling Hershey's bars and waits at baggage claim for three hours in your flannel shirt; you, sir, you take my order, my pulse, my bullshit; you who soaps me in the shower, soaks with me in the tub; to you, boy grown-up, the gentleman, soldier, professor, or caveman, the fancy man with initials on your towels and salt on your chocolates, to you and to that guy at the concession stand; thank you for the tour of the vineyard, the fire station, the sound booth, thank you for the kaleidoscope, the Horsehead Nebula, the painting, the truth; to you who carries me across the parking lot, up the stairs, to the ER, to rollaway or rice mat; to you who shows up every so often only to confuse and torment, and you who stays in orbit, always, to my left and steady, you stood up for me, I won't forget that; to you, the one who can't figure it out and never will, and you who lost the remote, the dog, or your way altogether; to you, wizard, you sang in my ear and brought me back from the dead, you tell me things, make me shiver; to the ones who destroyed me, even if for a minute, and to the ones who grew me, consumed me, gave me my heart back times ten; to most everything that deserves to call itself a man: How do I love thee, with your skill to light fires that keep me warm, light me up.
The girl can write.
I love her more now.
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