terribly late for the Samalsons. Do tie your tie.
He wanted honesty.
I am thirty-six years old, she wrote.
Well, almost honesty.
She crossed out the words. This man deserved complete honesty. She tore up the fifth letter, picked up the pen, and in a neat, precise hand—except for the t’ s, which were crossed with somewhat animalistic ferocity—she began writing her letter again:
Dear Sir:
I am thirty-seven years old.
I start my letter with this fact because I do not wish to waste your time. Your appeal seemed, to me, an honest one—and so I am being completely honest in return. I am thirty-seven. This is the fact of the matter. If you are now tearing up this letter and throwing it into the waste basket, so be it.
You asked for an understanding woman. I ask for an understanding man. It is not easy to write this letter. I can imagine how difficult it was for you to place your ad, andI can understand what led you to do so. I can only ask for the same understanding on your part.
I felt almost as if I were applying for a position somewhere. I don’t want to feel that way, but I can see no other way of letting you know what I am like and I wish (if you decide to answer my letter) that you will follow the same pattern. I am going to tell you what I am, and who I am.
Physically, I am five-feet-four inches tall. I am one hundred and ten pounds without dieting. I mention that because I’m not one of these women who have to watch everything they eat. I always stay slim. I’ve been the same weight, give or take a few pounds, for the longest time. I can still wear skirts I bought when I was twenty-one.
My hair is brown, and my eyes are brown. I wear glasses. I had to start wearing them when I was twelve because I ruined my eyes reading so much. I don’t read very much anymore. I’ve become disillusioned with fiction, and the non-fiction is either inspirational stuff or stuff about mountain climbing, and I neither want to be inspired nor do I desire to climb Everest. I thought for a while that foreign novels might offer me something American novels didn’t—but everyone is selling the same thing these days, and the product usually suffers in translation. Perhaps you’ve run across some reading which I haven’t discovered yet, and which could offer me the deep pleasure I got from books when I was a little girl. If so, I’d appreciate knowing about it.
I dress quietly. The brightest dress I own is a yellow taffeta, and I haven’t worn that for ages. I usually prefer suits. I work in an office, you see, and it’s a somewhat staid place. I have a lot of clothes, incidentally, which I’ve accumulated over the years. I wouldn’t call myself exactly penniless, either.I’m a secretary, and I’ve been earning close to ninety dollars a week for a long time. Twenty of that I send to my parents, but the remaining seventy or so is more than enough to keep me going. This may sound ridiculously businesslike, but I do have almost five thousand dollars in the bank, and I’d honestly like to know what your financial setup is, too.
My tastes are simple. I like good music. I don’t mean Rock and Roll. I’ve sort of outgrown the candy stick and dungaree set. I like Brahms and I like Wagner-Wagner especially. There is something wild in his music, and I find it exciting. I like pop music on the sentimental side. I don’t mean the current hit parade rages. I mean old standards done up in albums. Stuff like Smoke Gets In Your Eyes and Stardust and This Love Of Mine, you get the idea. I think my favorite record album is Sinatra’s In The Wee Small Hours. I’ve always liked him, and whatever his trouble with Ava Gardner, it’s none of my business. I listen to records a lot. Living alone can be too quiet. I play my albums at night, and they help to pass the time.
I generally sew while I’m listening. I’m a good seamstress and I’ve made many of my own clothes. I hate darning socks. I feel I should tell you that right now. I
He wanted honesty.
I am thirty-six years old, she wrote.
Well, almost honesty.
She crossed out the words. This man deserved complete honesty. She tore up the fifth letter, picked up the pen, and in a neat, precise hand—except for the t’ s, which were crossed with somewhat animalistic ferocity—she began writing her letter again:
Dear Sir:
I am thirty-seven years old.
I start my letter with this fact because I do not wish to waste your time. Your appeal seemed, to me, an honest one—and so I am being completely honest in return. I am thirty-seven. This is the fact of the matter. If you are now tearing up this letter and throwing it into the waste basket, so be it.
You asked for an understanding woman. I ask for an understanding man. It is not easy to write this letter. I can imagine how difficult it was for you to place your ad, andI can understand what led you to do so. I can only ask for the same understanding on your part.
I felt almost as if I were applying for a position somewhere. I don’t want to feel that way, but I can see no other way of letting you know what I am like and I wish (if you decide to answer my letter) that you will follow the same pattern. I am going to tell you what I am, and who I am.
Physically, I am five-feet-four inches tall. I am one hundred and ten pounds without dieting. I mention that because I’m not one of these women who have to watch everything they eat. I always stay slim. I’ve been the same weight, give or take a few pounds, for the longest time. I can still wear skirts I bought when I was twenty-one.
My hair is brown, and my eyes are brown. I wear glasses. I had to start wearing them when I was twelve because I ruined my eyes reading so much. I don’t read very much anymore. I’ve become disillusioned with fiction, and the non-fiction is either inspirational stuff or stuff about mountain climbing, and I neither want to be inspired nor do I desire to climb Everest. I thought for a while that foreign novels might offer me something American novels didn’t—but everyone is selling the same thing these days, and the product usually suffers in translation. Perhaps you’ve run across some reading which I haven’t discovered yet, and which could offer me the deep pleasure I got from books when I was a little girl. If so, I’d appreciate knowing about it.
I dress quietly. The brightest dress I own is a yellow taffeta, and I haven’t worn that for ages. I usually prefer suits. I work in an office, you see, and it’s a somewhat staid place. I have a lot of clothes, incidentally, which I’ve accumulated over the years. I wouldn’t call myself exactly penniless, either.I’m a secretary, and I’ve been earning close to ninety dollars a week for a long time. Twenty of that I send to my parents, but the remaining seventy or so is more than enough to keep me going. This may sound ridiculously businesslike, but I do have almost five thousand dollars in the bank, and I’d honestly like to know what your financial setup is, too.
My tastes are simple. I like good music. I don’t mean Rock and Roll. I’ve sort of outgrown the candy stick and dungaree set. I like Brahms and I like Wagner-Wagner especially. There is something wild in his music, and I find it exciting. I like pop music on the sentimental side. I don’t mean the current hit parade rages. I mean old standards done up in albums. Stuff like Smoke Gets In Your Eyes and Stardust and This Love Of Mine, you get the idea. I think my favorite record album is Sinatra’s In The Wee Small Hours. I’ve always liked him, and whatever his trouble with Ava Gardner, it’s none of my business. I listen to records a lot. Living alone can be too quiet. I play my albums at night, and they help to pass the time.
I generally sew while I’m listening. I’m a good seamstress and I’ve made many of my own clothes. I hate darning socks. I feel I should tell you that right now. I
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