An Open Letter to God: Sometimes, You’re Really There For Me

Dear God,

There have been a lot of moments in my twenty-eight years in which I have not, at all, not one little bit, believed that you are looking out for me.

Such moments include:

–Speeding Tickets

–Reggie Miller, Game One, Eastern Conference Semifinals, 1995, Knicks vs. Pacers, last 14 seconds (I was in the last row of MSG, God. I was twelve. I cried.)

–My Perpetually Disappearing Pretty Pink Shirt (Since roughly 2004, this item, a favorite, has been lost, then, found, lost, then found, only to disappear again. Seriously, what is your beef?)

–One Week After My Fireman Boyfriend Dumps me, There Breaks Out, Right in His District, the Largest Wildfire in the State’s History (Tragic on account of many outcomes, including this one: my otherwise aloof yoga instructors are now compelled to direct me, daily, to “send love to those fighting the fire up there.” Just as I am attempting to stop doing exactly that. Geez.)

But then, on occasion, there have been those moments in which I have had cause to believe that, yes, you absolutely, positively, most certainly must have my back.

Such as:

–Frederico, Puerto Rican Surfer I met at Marx Cafe, Washington DC, circa 2006

–Sparkling Water, Ice Cold, From the Bottle, Maybe With Some Lemon

–The Dark Crunchy Stuff that Separates the Vanilla and Chocolate Layers of a Carvel Ice Cream Cake

–Lemon Curd

–The Extremely Hot Asian Man in My Bikram Yoga Class

In such moments, God, (particularly this last one, of which I am currently, obviously, most interested), I can really only imagine that you are sitting up there, in some sort of majestic, shimmering, air-conditioned lair, stroking your jawline in a non-evil fashion, and thinking to yourself: “Now let me see. What thing, what exact, precise thing, does Elizabeth need right now?”

And then, I imagine, you conjure exactly that thing–in this case, an obscenely attractive male with the potential capacity to both repair my Volkswagon and boost my fractured ego–and with a simple plop/poofing gesture of your right hand, depositing said person/thing behind me in my 9:00 am yoga class. And then, the following day, the 6:00 class. And the following, at 4:00.

“You don’t even need to move a muscle,” I imagine you thinking. (Well, except those required for Spine Twist, Standing Bow, Triangle Pose, Separate Leg Stretch, etc. You don’t need to move a muscle except those.) “Just leave it to me.”

And, as I’ve recently written on this very blog, I aim to please: politesse is my M.O.. And so I don’t ask questions. I merely accept what you have put before me, with gratitude:

I smile politely when he offers a damp handshake during a break from class, and assures me the exchange is “not at all awkward.” I am cool and nonchalant pocket the business card he offers in the parking lot, and  dutifully accept when he offers me a ride home.

And I go to sleep smiling.

Because in these moments, I trust that–in spite of those occasions on which you have allowed me to misplace precious items of clothing, get pulled over for speeding twenty-one miles over the limit, and have my heart painfully broken–I believe that you actually, truly, want to provide me with what I need. Sometimes.

And for that, I wanted to say thanks. And of course, go Knicks.

Sincerely,

Elizabeth