A Valentine's Letter from Chandler to Genevieve



You have to know how much I love you.

It had to be obvious after you making me sit through Hamilton, a three-hour show that had nothing to do with cars or sex and do not even try to say that I was crying during that really depressing part where the kid died. It was the woman next to me. Her perfume made my eyes water—I’ve told you this a million times.

And if that wasn’t enough proof, I got a dog for you. Wait, correction—I got the worst dog for you. A Yorkie, Genny. A yipping, overly cute, hyper Yorkie. Harlow is the biggest pain in my ass next to Hudson. Between walking her and her messes and I can’t even count how many pairs of my shoes she’s chewed up…I’m telling you baby, this is a real test of my emotions. When I agreed to a dog, I was thinking we’d get a lab. Or a golden retriever. Or that Lassie dog, whatever breed she was. She came when her owner called her. Harlow won’t come unless I give her a reason. Which, now that I think about it, is a lot like you. The difference is I like giving you a reason to come. ;)  

Here’s the thing. I’ll sit through a sexless show and I’ll clean up poop from the floor because I love you that much and that’s how I think this love thing works. But there’s more than that. I actually like those things because I love you. I like going to musicals, and I like being seen with a preppy dog wearing a dumb sweater when it’s too cold, and I like eating brunch at fancy restaurants on Sundays, and I even like that stupid modern art piece you chose for the living room. (Seriously—is it supposed to look like a vagina?) I like those things because they make me a better me. You make me a better me. You’re the only person who’s made me want to be a better me. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

Spoiler: It’s love. Trust me.