Dear C,

Apologies for the prolonged hiatus in our correspondence.  For the last couple of months, I have been stricken by a mysterious form of abdominal pain which simply refuses to lend itself to any form of diagnosis, apart from malingering. Naturally, I relished the opportunity to down tools and abandon all pretense of leading a productive and fulfilling existence, and have spent the intervening weeks engaged in much soul-searching – OK, web-browsing – from a prostrate position in bed. As a result, I now know more about gallbladders, gout and other terminally unsexy topics of conversation than any nubile young graduate fresh out of med school, and have developed a more than a little unnatural pleasure in being poked and prodded down there by the above-mentioned – all the while claiming to the oldballandchain that I am in far too much pain to contemplate any actual sex, you understand. Oh, and the new bed linens, towels and matching drapes I have ordered from Overstock.com look fabulous, too.

Do be aware that in the event of my demise, dear C, I am entrusting you with the sacred duty of ensuring I am buried in a coffin the width of an iPod Nano. Wouldn’t want my recent weight-loss to go unnoticed at the funeral after-all. Hair extensions may also be in order, as in my weakened state, I made the mistake of allowing my hairstylist to try something new and ’spunky’, which turns out to be shorthand for German soccer player with rat tails. Please God, don’t let me die with this haircut!

As for your good self, don’t think I have been unaware of the flurry of activity taking place Chez C recently. What with the armies of plumbers, landscape architects and interior decorators I watch repeatedly entering and exiting your premises from behind my new curtains these days, I can tell that hubby has either prevailed over the mighty corporations of the Midwest in his latest class action claim, or that you have finally got tired of waiting, and decided to take matters (and workmen) into your own hands.

Either way, I hope to live long enough to see you at least one more time before you, hubby and the entire C. brood decide you’ve finally outgrown the petty bourgeois environs of the Village, and up sticks for that mansion in Potomac.

Yours faithfully, in sickness and in wealth,

P.

P,

You’ve been ill?  I’d just begun to reflect upon what comment I’d made in the last couple of months that had finally forced you to end our relationship–the final nail in my own proverbial "always fatter than yours" coffin.  Am a bit relieved to know it’s only your own physical pain that’s kept you from me and mine. 

Can’t say your precious goddaughter hasn’t noticed your absence as she’s been forced to learn how sheers and drapes work together instead of learning her abc’s with you.  Who knows, it may serve her better in the long run as she’ll be a real contender on the inevitable toddler interior design reality show.

Anyhoo, I’d love to prattle on about your possible diagnosis but have two workmen breathing down my neck as I write this.  If only hubby were this persistent, he might find my attention less likely to wander.

Faithfully, again,

C.