Dear Jane,

I’ve been thinking of you daily. The stage of life you find yourself in is a comfortable, theoretically ambitious one. Do I dare say, lazy? You compare yourself to others, and do much mental work by measuring your meager accomplishments against their monumental ones. Unfortunately, though you know I love you, dear Jane, it is your fault. And your responsibility. I doubt I imagined the angst in your last letter to me. I could practically smell it off the ink! Your ambition can no longer be an idea, take it from me. I’ve lived it, and have been exactly where you are. 

It’s time to move Jane. 

Forget what you know where you are now. Those you love will, in some ways, be more lovable in your memory, in bleary recreations of expression, color, and gesture, much like I remember you now: with fondness. In memory the daily bore begins to melt away, and you are left with a simpler, contextual view of your loved ones. It’s a general appreciation darling. From afar. You can move. And you should! 

This is how you will meet your husband, dear Jane. This is where a new life begins. My husband was enthralled with my flame when we met, and is now eternally devoted to extinguishing it. This is how we dance. Sometimes I dodge, other times it’s him. A controlled blaze is a good way to inhabit the forest. You only know rivers of burning oil thus far, every man in sight is scorched before you can inhabit them! 

Now I just have to tell you about the newest procedure I have undergone in my eternal pursuit of aesthetic perfection, which only gets harder as you age! Lord, my hands are starting to show signs. Anyways, my husband kindly narrowed my waist with his new patented and revolutionary rob restructuring surgery, which involves inverting and shaving the bottom 3 ribs. I write you now from my recovery bed, thrilled to be patient zero once again. I’ll let you know how recovery goes. As of right now I cannot for the life of me take a good breath! 

Write to me soon, dear Jane. 

With absolute love, 

Your Aunt Eve