Love Letters from Heather

Dear Lyndsay,

I have never met anyone with a sense of direction like you. And thank goodness for that. I didn’t think it was humanly possible to get lost as often as you have!

I will never forget you following me out of Karen’s, me telling you to just follow me in your car to the highway. First stop: I turned right, you left! Later on, I found you a marathon bumper sticker: 26.2 (I got lost).

We met at run club. You were always warmly dressed, woolly hats covering long, curly hair and comfy scarfs keeping your neck toasty. You struck me as the cool kid in the group. And young you were, but only in terms of years. You are the same age as my son, but you are wiser than I am in many ways.

I want to start this letter by apologizing for not being there leading up to your wedding. I was selfish and self-absorbed with things within my own family. I regret how I handled things, not stepping up like I should have.

Although I met you through running, it is through swimming that I think of you most fondly.

I didn’t really know how to swim, and you sought to teach me how. After a few trips to the pool, you managed to get me to float and move in a forward motion! One particular trip to the rec centre stands out in my memory, exemplifying both the scope of your humour and the depth of your friendship.

Unfortunately, you and I combined have the organizational skills of a six-month-old. I identify your car not by the licence plate but by looking in the back seat. If it looks like the residence of three families, complete with four kids and a dog, I know I have the right vehicle. Even the most populous back alleys of Mumbai can’t rival the interior of your car—a scene straight out of Slumdog Millionaire. I remember looking into your car once to see one high-heeled shoe, countless paper coffee cups, a half-eaten bagel, a macramé project, and possibly a dead body (I can’t be sure).

I still smile, recalling our texts that day.

You: How are you feeling about swimming? Still able to? I have to find my stuff.

Me: I have to find my stuff, too.

No shocker here. It is only the morning of the planned event and neither of us has bothered to locate any of our swimming gear.

You: Okay. Great.

Me: I have found everything except swimsuit and lock.

Which was only half true. I had found two locks, both locked permanently to my swim bag because I can’t remember either of the combinations.

You: Okay . . . I need to find my goggles and lock.

(two minutes later)

Me: Found suit.

You: Found lock. Just need goggles. I’m very excited. I have to spend some time primping first.

Me: I found two pairs of goggles now.

(two-minute pause)

You: I think we should swim more regularly to keep up on grooming habits and gentle reminders of what it feels like to squeeze yourself into a sausage casing.

I am laughing pretty hard right now, but you hadn’t delivered your punchline yet.

You: My suit is so tight it’s correcting my posture . . .

On the way to the pool, I went to the dollar store to find a replacement lock. Knowing this predicament occurred every time I stop swimming for over a week, I picked up one, no two—what the heck—four locks. They were only three dollars each. I guess the word “dollar” in dollar store is metaphorical.

I got home and put on my suit, but it seemed to have altered. It had been a little while; what could possibly have changed? It appeared that the elastic in the bit that is supposed to snuggly cover my bottom had given up, completely losing its will to live. There was a full inch of slack between the material and my backside, causing the suit to naturally ride up in a sort of permanent wedge-y position. It was incredibly uncomfortable and awkward for me, but not nearly as awkward as it would be for anyone who had to witness the sight.

Upon arrival at the pool, you and I chatted about the beautiful day. You mentioned, “It is so nice out. We could have swum in the lake.

“Yeah, that way we wouldn’t have to ingest all that toxic chlorine. We could drink the oil from the boats and the refuse from the city’s water treatment plant instead,” I replied.

“Yeah, except here we are in a controlled environment so that when we start to drown, we are more likely to be rescued.”

“True dat.” And into the pool we went.

Slow and steady—emphasis on slow (after all, it is called front crawl)—we traversed the pool, back and forth like pensioners walking laps around the perimeter of our long-term care facility in our zoom-a-frames.

I loved the breaks we took at the end of each lap, discussing the intricacies of life and family. We have shared some pretty amazing discussions.

You are an incredible human—beyond just being one of the funniest I know. You are a good mom, wife, friend, sister, daughter, fill in the blank.

I am especially fond of you when you rage, whatever the reason. Makes me happy that you aren’t a complete superhuman, and I feel a strong affinity for you in those moments.

You are terrible at backing up by using only your mirrors, your car looks like a garbage can on wheels, and you always dress too warm for a run. But I love you! Although those things endear me to you, they aren’t you. When you strip it all away, despite anything you deem as imperfections, I simply see you as love and light.

If I have a tiny piece of advice for you, it would be this: Remember when your car was hit when you were on your way to the hospital for something else and that man from another car held your hand? Remember how you really appreciated that comfort in that moment? I bet that person was just as happy to be there for you. Being able to comfort you might have been the highlight of their day. In my personal experience, accepting help is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. Lyndsay—just choose to do it anyway.

Happy Valentine’s Day,

Heather

PS. I am really grateful that I can miraculously fit into your dresses, and really enjoyed your Marie Kondo phase. I scored some really great clothes. Thank you!

~

To read more Love letters from Heather, click here.