Open Letters to People or Entities Who Are Unlikely to Respond
Send your nonfictional open letters to firstname.lastname@example.org.
An Open Letter to Anthropologie.
Your little catalogue comes careening into our home every three weeks and suddenly I am dissatisfied with my life. Happiness flies out the window (sans Persian Velvet Curtains). You make me angry with my loving, live-in boyfriend, unhappy with our adorable dogs, and dissatisfied with our sprawling, albeit ramshackle, flat. I refuse to answer my phone. (How could I possibly without a $1,298 Intelligentsia Desk to rest it on?)
You thought you were so clever when you one-upped our spiffy, yet haphazard flea market furnishings with your imported Long Forgotten Coat Rack, comprised of grove root, and your Madeline Chair finished with a perfect weathered patina. You considered yourself cooler-than-thou when you took on a minimalist European flair by introducing the Ditte Sofa in ochre linen. “Finishing the crossword never felt so elegant,” you said! Because of you, I can’t even start a Word Jumble on our once beloved, now just plain natty sectional. You twisted the knife into our unstylish backdoor with your Medici Doorknob “warmed with an aristocratic Mediterranean pattern.” Damn you and your Peacock Toile Switchplates!
But forget our surroundings—it’s true, without the Lady & Her Dog Loveseat in mist twill, the fox terriers have been relegated to a sad little polyester-covered pup bed to rest their, what I bet you would deem, “unstylish furry legs.” What pains me, Anthropologie, is that without your Two-Timing Sweater (a cardigan and a pullover! Yes, that’s right!) I will not be able to “have my cake and eat it, too.” Knowing I can’t afford your Into-the-Woods-Dress and thus will never be able to stand like your model does at the foot of a glacier, bare armed yet warm, is more than I can live with. It pains me to accept that I could scale mountains in four-inch platform heels if only I had the Lunar Puzzle Mary Janes! I struggle knowing that without your Can-Can Pencil Skirt, complete with “choreographed flounce,” life will just never have that je ne sais quos.
So after months of longing and lamenting, I took action. I knew I shouldn’t have done it, but I made a pilgrimage. I braved the train, the crowds, the drizzly weather. I entered your doors and I stood directly in front of your Cooled Lava Dress (Oh, how very cool it was). I visited your Bay-of-Smoke Jacket. (You knew I always wanted to go to the Bay of Smoke!). Standing on your faux-sanded wooden farmhouse floors, amongst your clusters of light bulbs turned avant-garde chandeliers, I realized I’ve done it all wrong—the liberal arts degree, the MFA, the low-paying publishing jobs, the erratic freelancing and adjunct teaching. If only I could go back. Go back and study Anthropologie (quirky spelling and all!). If only I had known that true happiness comes wrapped in a $118 Frefaxi Cowlneck in the color porcelain. That bliss was founded on boots with “rough-and tumble” cognac leather stacked heels. That with a Hillside Vista Skirt, “layers of earth and sky” would be mimicked on my own person.
If only I had known, Anthropologie. If only I had known.
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