Kathryn Lane: Dear John

Dear "John,"

I have wanted to write this letter for a long time now. There has been much build up of words I could have said, should have said, so this is my letter to you..all of you.
It began great. We met, we started casually hanging out, you treated me nicely. You pursued me, I hesitantly went along, then I began to like you. You cooked me dinners, had movie nights with me, cuddled with me when I needed it, you were nice to Wrigley. We began dating. As my wall slowly crumbled, so did the depth of our relationship. You finally caught me, got your ego filled, and soon got disinterested. I began doing things for you, cleaning up after you, cooking you dinners, and catering to your needs as well as putting mine on the back burner. Before I knew it- I was walking around like a stay at home mom taking care of my child-like man who had no appreciation for me. I sat you down a couple of times, talked with you about my concerns, you said you didn't want to lose me and that you would change. Things did change, for a short period of time. You were nice, sent me sweet texts, checked up on me, and respected me. Unfortunately, being that the past is the best indication of the future, we ended up with our relationship taking a back seat and my feelings began to fade. Whether it was you or me, we ended things. Hurt and upset, my little heart broke from disappointment of another failed relationship. It slowly healed as did my ego. You randomly texted me to see if I was there, but I wasn't. There were times and still are times when I run into you, and I can tell in your eyes that part of you hurts, but you aren't man enough to really do anything about it.
John, all of you had one thing in common, you weren't ready to settle down, and unfortunately for you, I was just not ready to settle.

Dear John,

We met through mutual friends, you courted me, respected me as well as my boundaries. You asked me out on dates, I hesitantly accepted, you made me laugh. You asked how I was doing, listened to me, you were consistent. You worked hard and were incredibly driven, but would never choose your ego or power over me. You respected my opinion and thought I was brilliant and hilariously witty, yet loved that we could sit next to each other in silence. You enjoyed staying in from time to time because of me. You loved meeting all of my friends, my wonderful family, and were congenial enough to hold your own conversation. You kept an eye on me when we were out at night, yet trusted me enough to let me go on my own. You had a strong faith, a deep rooted one that made your spirit joyful, humble, and honest. You were not judgmental, you accepted pretty much everyone and had a love for people. You were nice. You loved Wrigley, almost as much as you loved me. Eventually we fell in love. You talked about the future with me occasionally, were okay with making plans, going on vacations, and always had an appreciation for me and our relationship. You made me feel special without even trying to. You are the reason I finally settled down, because I was no longer settling, I was completely content.

There's a big difference writing a, "dear john" letter to a man (or in this case, past men) who put minimal effort into you and your relationship compared to writing one to someone that you can be proud of, someone that you can look up to, someone who is consistent. The distinction in these letters is that one is messy and complicated, and the other is simple and steady, just like relationships we experience. I have dated a handful of guys, it has taken time, heartache, and independence to figure out what I need, want, and deserve.
At the end of the day-it is up to us to figure out who our ideal John is, what our non-negotiables are, and ultimately what makes us happy. Deciding who to be with for the rest of your life should be one thing we are allowed to be selfish at. There have been great men I have been with, and there have been some not so great ones, but I good have a feeling none will compare to the one that I actually settle down for.