Dear Anita,

Do you believe in soulmates?

I never have.

Maybe it’s my distaste for the idea of perfection in general. What does it mean to be a perfect person? Does perfection leave room for mistakes? How can one be human and deified at the same time?

Perhaps it’s more my discomfort with the idea of constancy. I don’t believe in the static self. I’m not the same person today that I was 10 years ago. I can’t imagine the woman I will become as I creep towards 40. Can your “soulmate” at 20 really be the “soulmate” for the person you become at 50? Surely it’s too much pressure to expect your partner to rock through the ebbs and flows of life at the same rate as you.

And yet, Anita! And yet…

My husband and I have been together 12 years. I love him as much today as I did at 18. Same quantity, different quality. Broader somehow, like ocean depths. More constant. Patient.

I missed Christmas this year thanks to my cold. I missed the holiday parties. I was especially upset about not making my husband’s company’s annual shindig. Everything I had been looking forward to for weeks! The red and white and green macaroons. Hot chocolate spiced with peppermint. Friendly company. Photo opportunities. Gifts!

I watched my husband leave, off to the festivities I so desperately wanted to attend, while I sat on the couch shivering and sniffling, fighting tears that would only cause excess pain to my swollen sinuses.

I expected to feel sad. I knew I would feel alone. Bitter even.

What I didn’t expect was confusion. Confusion when, 15 minutes later, I heard the familiar sound of my husbands car whirring back down the hill towards home. Concern upon hearing his heavy footsteps running back up the stairs to our front door. Elation (elation!) when he opened the door holding a bright pink box.

As any American can tell you, while cardboard boxes signal pizza and white boxes indicate Chinese takeout, pink boxes (pink boxes!) only hold donuts.

In this case, a perfectly pink box holding six perfectly sweet, perfectly fried, perfectly fatty hunks of dough.

Bliss in a box!

And, as sad as a statement as this may be to my character, it made everything better. The cold, the fatigue, the FOMO. Washed away by a sugar-dusted twist and a swig of chamomile citrus tea.

So maybe I am not the perfect wife, my husband is not the perfect partner, and we do not have the perfect marriage. Soulmates we may not be…

But goddamn if it doesn’t feel pretty fuckin’ close!