Love Story

Dear President Obama,

I don’t know if you know this, but back in November you won the election, and we were VERY EXCITED ABOUT IT.

It was a romantic-comedy fairy tale if there ever was one, complete with meeting cute and a montage of us frollicking in the park while Sara Bariellies played in the background and a happily, happily, happily ever after.   You stood outside our window with a boom box.  You made us want to be a better man. We flew across the country to meet you at the top of the Empire State Building on Valentine’s Day. Nora Ephron couldn’t have written it better.

Six months later, we’re hitting a little bit of a rough patch. We still love each other, obvs–how could we not? But now instead of us running along the river and canoodling at Starbucks, the montage is of you eating dinner alone, us staying at the office until all hours, one side of the bed unslept in. Probably the song is by Iron and Wine or some other sad sack band.

 Maybe we grind our teeth at night and it keeps you awake.  Maybe we hate your friends. Maybe sometimes you try and try and try to explain to us very patiently about universal health care and WE WILL NOT LISTEN BECAUSE WE ARE NITWITS. We argue, and we shout, and we get backed into corners and lose our patience and have to go outside in the backyard and smoke a cigarette because are fighting so loudly the neighbors are starting to peek over the fence. Our sassy girlfriend wants us to kick you to the curb. Your buddies think we’re more trouble than we’re worth.

It’s okay. 

The honeymoon is over, that’s all. Now comes the real relationship. The part where we talk and compromise and try to make it work because we kind of dig each other, because we think it means something, because we’re better together than we’ve been apart. 

Don’t give up on us, okay? We won’t give up on you. 

Also, we’d really like it if we could be played by Sandra Bullock.