I think I'm sick

Unfortunately, I've always suspected. After all, if I am, it's mental, in which case, I'm pretty sure almost anyone who knows me would have thought it was pretty much a given.
The saddest part is that I only just realized it. In the last hour, I mean. But I've had the warning signs right there in front of my face for many months. Literally in front of my face. On the computer screen. Now, in my defense, the symptoms were dormant for all the time I didn't have a computer at home. But now that I've re-connected, and now that I've seen the signs, I don't know if I'll be able to deny the truth any longer.
Here's the situation: a little over a year ago, I "discovered" MySpace for the first time, and created a profile about my wife and me (http://www.myspace.com/trishandjay). I thought how fun it would be to connect/reconnect with new friends, old friends, all that silliness, y'know? I had seen the profiles with dozens and hundreds of friends, thousands and tens of thousands of profile views. My first foray into the waters was promising: I had a couple of initial hits and got a nice note from another member who had liked what I'd posted in a comedy forum. Our profile sat dormant for a while until we got wired here at home. Then I started looking around more, doing more searches for old classmates, even making friends with a co-worker.
Now, I know we don't spend enough time online, specifically not enough time on MySpace to really have the kind of network others have, but it was only after looking around a little today that I realized that, for some reason, I was thinking that I was cooler than I was in high school! I went to a small school. Small enough that, for those people, I will never outlive that reputation. And even though my wife went to a much larger school, and had a more realistic outlook on who she wants to be connected with now, she just isn't into the internet thing enough to have spent more than a little time looking around. And I've got no problems with who I am, and where I fit into the world now. I know that who people thought I was in high school is not true, nor is it who I am now. Pretty healthy, I'd say.
Here's where the sickness comes in: even though I now know not to expect anything unrealistic, I can't stop checking the profile!
Like I said, I think I'm sick. And even though I am posting personal revelations, and self-diagnosing my own psychoses, this is not a blog!

An Open Letter to My Wife

***WARNING*** Extreme Cheeze Content ***WARNING***

Readers of weak or sensitive constitutions, consider yourselves duly warned.

And despite the public publishing of highly personal feelings, this is not a blog.

Dear Baby-doll,
I want to tell you all the things I forget to say that you deserve to hear every day. I love you. Yeah, I know we say it at the end of nearly every phone call (all 500 calls per month), almost every time one of us leaves the house somewhere without the other for longer than a trip to the dumpster, garage, or mailbox, and any time we’re lucky enough to go to bed at the same time. But I don’t take you by the hand, look you in the eye and really say it. I love you. I had a frightening number of über-cheezy song references popping into my head that I will spare both of us from enduring. We’re connected enough that I’m sure you could guess many of them. But that just brings around another of the qualities about you, us, our relationship that I love that I want to say in this letter: our near-psychic connection. And, of course, this reminds me of the phrase “get out of my head”. I love our secret language, and inside jokes. While you may try to pass the psychic mind-meld off on me, I give you all the credit for this one. I’m going to start calling this language and such “Trishish” in your honor. I don’t care if we still haven’t gotten around to listening to the Gaelic language CDs. I love that we still want to learn an actual language that no one we know can speak so that we can really mess with their heads, and openly vent about them and slag them off behind their backs, right in front of their faces. I attribute this to our amazing chemistry. Remember that our chemistry was strong enough, just over the phone, that we were drawn to each other from over 1,000 miles away. After we got to meet in person for the first time, do you remember the ache we felt forever after that each time one of us had to return the other to their lonely home? I’m afraid to admit that there are times I forget. But all I have to do is think about it, and the emotions come back easily. I love that these memories are also part of a love story that no one else can tell. How many people can say they were proposed to three different times by the same person, with three different rings, and accepted all three of them, but only the last one counted? I love that everywhere we go we have wacky misadventures that would send most couples these days straight to a divorce attorney. And I love that we share the same views and morals on, I think, every subject that has come up. And, as that brings to mind, I love that we’ve discussed just about every possible subject out there. I love that we can so easily entertain ourselves just on normal, everyday trips to Vons, Albertsons, or Target. I love your passion. I love your fierce loyalty, tenacity, and stubbornness. I love your refusal to accept anything but my best from me. I love your co-dependence on me, chocolate, beer, and Coco Bunny, in that order. J I love that you’re a coffee snob and caffeine fiend, but, despite all the coffee you drink (and as strong as you like it) still can’t have coffee any later than Noon or 1 o’clock or it will keep you up at bedtime. I also love that you’re a beer snob. I think these both come about to the fact that you have high standards. I love that and respect you for it. Along with your high standards and stubbornness, you demonstrate an inner strength that is hard to deny. I love that, as well. I know that this will be out of sequence, and it’s somewhat repetitive, but I love our stories, like “Packy the Pack Mule Goes to San Francisco” and “Mission: Nearly-Impossible-but-We-Pulled-It-Off-without-a-Hitch-Somehow: ‘Bunny Rescue’”. I love that we have matching clothes/outfits (or coordinating, at the very least). I love our little rituals and secret guilty pleasures. I love that we can talk about anything. And I love that we’re best friends.
Along with all these things that I love, I want to take this chance to confess a couple things. As a supplemental to the original warning, I will advise that this section is primarily what I was warning about. This is where most of my cheeze will be doled out: First, I am biased. I know I try to deny it when you call me on it, but I admit it: I’m biased. I am unabashedly, shamelessly biased towards you. But in my mind, that’s as it should be. Every woman should know what it feels like to have a man so crazy for her. I will do anything for you. I am also not ashamed of the fact that I don’t recognize any flaws you point out. I refuse to even acknowledge them, unless I can turn them into a positive. It doesn’t mean I’m not honest. I don’t lie to you. But it’s not dishonest to put things in a positive light. I’m like a cross between one of those really hyper-happy, yipping lapdogs, an annoyingly perky cheerleader, and a ruthless spin-doctor. It’s my job, and I take it very seriously! Second, I love you. I know I started out with that, but it seemed a fairly significant point, so I figured it was OK to repeat it, and most appropriate to end this letter with it. This is where so many of those cheesy love song references have been threatening to come out. Say all you want, but it’s true. I love you. I am passionately, supremely in love with you, head-over-heels, ass-over-teakettle in love with you. Truly, simply, plainly: I love you.

Forever Yours,

Infinity plus one,

Your Confidante,

Your Cheerleader,

Your Lover,

Your Friend,

Your Husband