Can I call you Jason? I think, considering our complicated and enduring past, I can. I could also call you one of the many nicknames I’ve given you over the past. J-babe. Jace. Seegs. Marshmallow (Yeah, I snagged that one from HIMYM, but I didn’t think you’d mind.) You can choose, but in the meantime, I’m good with Jason. I’m writing this to thank you. To thank you for acting as a (handsome) beacon of hope and humor for the past 17 years for me, and for women and men all over the place. The women and men who can recognize the beauty of the Ian Somerhalders, the Brad Pitts, the Ryan Goslings and the Channing Tatums, and find themselves aching for more. You are so much more than a pretty face (though your face is quite lovely).
For those of us who yearned for more air-headed stoners in pop culture, or those of us who mourned the lack of male full-frontal nudity, you were there. For us Amazon women who couldn’t help but notice the fact that Jonathan Taylor Thomas, Tom Cruise, Seth Green, and Scott Caan are all shorter than 5’8″, you stand proudly at 6’4″, a gangly bean pole of arms and legs, just begging to be climbed. (That’s what you do with bean poles, right? I don’t know, I’m not an expert. But that’s definitely what I’d like to do with you.)
I remember when I first saw you. Our eyes connected (well, my eyes connected to the pixels of your eyes) during the cult classic, Can’t Hardly Wait (one of the greatest examples of campy teen party flicks) and, as you described Preston, I knew you had a way with words. It’s only upon reviewing the clip as a grown woman that I noticed the way you worked that watermelon. My goodness, the things you were doing with your hands and mouth….
It wasn’t until my 8th grade English class that my heart really started to flutter. See, my teacher, whose name is escaping me, liked to show episodes of the all-too-short-lived Freaks and Geeks when he didn’t wanna teach. Or like, we finished tests early. I don’t know, like I said, I don’t really remember much of that time. But I do remember you, Jason.
You were the star of that show, Nick Andopolis. And the star of my 8th-grade fantasies. I’ve re-watched the entire series so much, I feel like I could disco dance with you with my eyes closed. I’d happily listen to you bang the drums, certain that they couldn’t overpower the drumming of my heart. I know you used to play basketball, so did I! But that’s not where our similarities stop.
First of all, the easy one. Your middle name is Jordan. It’s like your parents were ASKING you to meet me. (Yes, I recognized that your mother’s maiden name was Jordan. Don’t hit me on semantics here, a woman in love isn’t always the most logical human.) You grew up Jewish, thanks to your daddy. I LOVE Bar Mitzvahs (and Bat Mitzvahs, I’m an equal opportunity Jewish Party hound). We’ve both struggled with our weight over the years, a challenge for any particularly tall individual. I feel your pain, man. But we both got through it, hard work and determination and all.
You’re hilarious. We all know it. And, real talk, I think you’d find me pretty funny too. I’m not certain of this, but I feel confident. We’re both very tall, and I’d look great on your arm (or you on mine, rah rah gender equality and all.)
Your joy in The Muppets was palpable, and I wanted to climb through the screen and kiss your face. This makes me think that, if you can interact so well with puppets, you’d make a great father. Which is good because, as the eldest of 5 kids, I’m looking for baby daddy material. Also, you do well with nudity.
I know you said you did it for the laughs, but it takes a big man (#notaeuphemism) to embrace “dudity” in an industry where the nude female body is glorified and the nude male body generally receives shudders. Well, can I just tell you that in college, going streaking might as well have been an extracurricular activity for me. We could traipse around the world, flashing our goodies at onlookers and bringing smiles to the faces of all (for any reason they choose to smile).
Most of all, though, you’re patient. And I wanna thank you for that. Because, that one time that I
hunted stalked found you walking around on Bourbon Street, my heart jumped out of my throat. You were alone, enjoying your night. And, chances are, with my wild excitement and rapture (and kind of loud tendencies), I maybe ruined it by drawing attention to your existence. Within minutes, drunken sorority girls were begging you to sing them a Dracula song and bros were high fiving you as they nabbed some selfies.
Your patience allowed me to get maybe the coolest picture I’ve ever had of me in my entire life.
Admittedly, at the time, I was in NOLA with my former partner. So I didn’t throw myself at you in the manner which I may have under other circumstances. But it’s obvious here we’d make a cute couple. (I promise, I don’t always wear beads.)
I heard about your semi-recent breakup with Michelle Williams. I am sorry to hear about that, I know y’all had something good going for you. But I wanted to let you know that if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, a lady to grab a beer with, or a plus one for any event where leaning over for photo-ops sounds miserable, I’m your gal.
If I never see you again, know that our brief encounter was more than enough to fuel countless daydreams the world over. And if I do…. well, I’m just saying, I may not practice the same self-control I once did.