I write letters that I never send. To say the things I could have said and didn’t. And to remind myself of the rawness of human emotion when it’s unfiltered and without risk. Some are true, and some are merely exercises under the influence of a momentary muse.

My dearest Bradley,

Watching week 2 of the NFL sparked a conversation with one of my friends about the experiences you would like to have that you never will. My three are:

1. I wish I could know what it felt like to be a true athlete, where every muscle is in perfect form and does what I want it to do on command.
2. I would like to know what it feels like to be 6’3″, 250 lbs, and really strong. Just to have that much strength in your body must be incredible.
3. I wish I could know how it feels to have sex like a man – to be physically inside someone instead of having someone inside you.

Interesting that 2 out of my 3 curiosities more or less require that you be a man to have the experience.

Walking back from the pub, I came across a couple dancing in the streets of Paris. Such a cliche, but the kind that warms your heart nonetheless. Can you imagine what it would be like to go through life not being able to connect with people? Not having that closeness with someone? Not having people you can laugh with, even when it’s really not that funny? I can’t fathom what that kind of loneliness would feel like.

One of my girlfriends here is 5’10” or 5’11”, and she was lamenting the lack of tall men in France. So she says, “I will have to kick your ass if you show up one day with some 6’2″ guy. Can’t you just be satisfied with one of the many 5’8″ men around town?” At that point I had to tell her N. was 6’2″ and that I have never dated someone shorter than 5’11”. The look on her face was priceless, and the next thing we know, we’re laughing so hard we’re having to prop each other up to keep from falling down. I’m not quite sure what was so funny about the situation, but we were amused anyway. It was great.

I hope that you are doing well and that this week is good to you.

Yours,

the coxswain