Dear Unrequited (Nearly-Recycled) The New Yorker:
Can we talk? Let me rephrase that: Because we both know you can — and you do — talk. A lot. Incessantly. And yes, I’ll concede, quite impressively.
You talk elegant, Oxford English Dictionary infinity circles around everyone. (Don’t deny it. Please. We’ll be here all day.)
It is that very verbosity, in fact, that leads me to this difficult decision. Yes, beloved New Yorker, it is time for us to separate. Consider this your dear John letter (though Dear Johannes might seem a less plebeian salutation for someone so sophisticated and worldly-wise).
We had some good times, didn’t we? Long, highbrow cloud conversations (I’m talking epic long, babe — 10,000+ words!) Flirtatious wordplay. Savoring Tables for Two reviews of cucumber carpaccio mixed with caramelized pumpkin seeds and basil, Iskender kebabs over a smoky eggplant purée, pâte à choux. Yum!
Humor, depth, substance, style — we had it all, didn’t we?
But all good things must come to an end. And before you sic your fact-checking gorillas on me, allow me to provide a preemptive provenance citation: The above-mentioned expression is attributed to Geoffrey Chaucer, in Troilus and Criseyde.
Didn’t see that coming, did you? I’m full of surprises, sweet cheeks, including this one.
We’ve run our course. It is time to bid adieu to our intellectual union. You might, and probably will, liken it to a change of season — Central Park trees changing color, the skyline softening amid winter clouds, the early morning hush that falls over Manhattan when the parties have ended.
Me? I’ll go with the old reliable: Yellow cab honk, cloud of black exhaust, and a Bronx-style ‘get outta my way!’
We’re just different that way.
And don’t get all paranoid, precious one. There’s no one else. You haven’t been cuckolded by Town and Country. There are no new subscriptions sliding into my DMs. This is all about me making good choices for myself.
Because I’ve held on long enough. Too long, Deidre and Suli tell me, with increasing frequency and frustration. And no, don’t even go there: Just because they prefer margaritas to martinis doesn’t make them ‘vapid, vacuous philistines with a predilection for Bravo TV, TJ Maxx, and men who wear Crocs and cargo shorts to brunch.’
Did I quote you correctly, Mr. Polysyllabic Swellhead?
Sorry for the slip. My yoga instructor cautioned me to stay calm, centered, and aware of my root chakra. So ohm and onward.
It has just become a bit much, New Yorker. The constant peacock fanning of your linguistical feathers. Your thesaural torrent when a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would suffice. Your unwillingness to just ‘Netflix and chill.’
You come too fast, too soon, and you never wait for me to catch up. Once a week, like clockwork, you wheedle your way into my exhausted mailbox and then lounge around on every Ikea surface guilting me with your insatiable need for attention. You are the definition of high maintenance, shaming me with a backlog of quirky covers, clever fiction, sardonic reviews, and interminable essays.
It wasn’t always this way. The early days — and nights — were good, when we would cuddle in bed, you in your top hat, monocle, and sock garters — me in naughty nothing. We’d get cozy beneath the sheets, enjoy some sexy repartee, gnaw on our №2’s over the crossword, and indulge in dopamine-inducing cerebral calisthenics.
But your brainy relentlessness has given me the proverbial headache. It is time to recycle the memories. My therapist tells me I have far too many issues, thanks to you.
So, to the bin you go.
I will miss you and your winking reveal of bright lights and big city life. Reviews of plays I’ll never see, velvet-roped clubs I’ll never pass muster for, short (ha!) stories, and avant-garde poetry. I’ll miss your saucy cartoons, and your advertisements for fountain pens, cocktail shakers, and timeshares upstate.
Perhaps that’s where you’ll rest, dear New Yorker: In an Adirondack wood, where you can unwind from the metropolitan pace, therapeutically decompose, become one with a white cedar.
All while I pine for what might have been — over margs, double-cheese queso and Real Housewives with the girls.
