Form Letter for Fixing Emergency Relationship Problems

I dress nostalgic when writing apologies

Husbands require cheetah-like reflexes to mend relationship problems. Since we’re all married to basically the same woman (in terms of needs and desires), I’m providing this handy dandy form letter that you can adapt with a few minor adjustments – it’s perfect for repairing almost any relationship emergency. One word of caution, though: remember to plug in your own personal information, because if you forget, you’ll be sorry. In addition, if you as an individual are already a sorry excuse for a husband, then customizing the form letter won’t help. You’re better off saving some time by photocopying the form letter, without making any modifications, initializing the bottom and slipping it under the door of what used to be your bedroom.


March 26, 1985 (the date I first met you, making all other days and years meaningless)

Dear Precious:

Yesterday when the sun went down, so did my heart.

I try so hard to be a model husband, yet sometimes my eagerness trips me and sends me sprawling to the slippery floor waxed with mediocrity.  Only you can pick me back up, dust off my humility and mend my torn righteousness (if your wife doesn’t sew, try the phrase “and knit my unraveled rectitude”).

I deeply apologize for referring to your casserole as “chunky hazardous waste.”  While an accurate description, I should be more sensitive and caring, even when you convert perfectly edible ingredients into life-threatening venom.

Most husbands would not apologize for involuntarily spewing vomit all over the dining room curtains, but I’m bigger (in more ways than one) than most guys and am willing to seek forgiveness for behaviors that are actually quite normal.

In addition, I regret ordering Chinese takeout right after making my insensitive remarks and then devouring the Moo Goo Guy Pan right in front of our guests.

If I knew how to cook, I’d bake you a great big gingerbread cookie shaped like a heart, only broken down the middle, decorated with red frosting oozing from the cookie’s ventricles, now clotted since the frosting has dried.

Please accept the dozen roses that are resting on your bedroom pillow, along with the gift card taped to the stems for your three-year gift subscription to Sports Illustrated magazine, minus the annual swimsuit edition, which I will destroy when it arrives, since it’s nothing more than soft porn, which is wrong.       

In closing, I again deeply apologize for misunderstanding you.  I’m just a big knucklehead who gets all knotted up inside when I’m near you.  And if you accept this heartfelt act of contrition, then I’m hoping we can have sex as soon as possible.

Sincerely,

Your Humble Servant, Marvin (if you’re not “Marvin,” insert actual name)

P.S. If you weren’t offended by my request for sex in the closing paragraph, is now a good time?


(next post: "Blue Collar Ballet" and How to Survive Cultural Events, Including Advice from Abe)