My Swedish Passion, Finally Requited

It began as a teenager; a long-distance crush. You were all the rage when you arrived in Woodbridge at Potomac Mills a few short years after I’d moved away to Florida. Had to see for myself what the fuss was all about when I came to visit during college, and you blew me away. Your shape. Your size. Your color. You were a cheap date, but you weren’t easy. You kept your distance, played it coy. You promised you’d come closer, if I’d only have patience. I heaved a heavy teenage sigh of longing and left you behind. But I kept my eye on you.

Ok, you’re right. It was more than a crush. If this confessional love letter is to be absolutely honest, then yes. I stalked you. I looked for glimpses of you on MTV. I followed you to Seattle as an adult when I might have realized my temptation to pack you in my suitcase and bring you home with me. You’re such a tease. Your practical side dueled with the costly price I’d have to pay for relocation. I returned to Seattle over and over again, telling myself it wasn’t *just* to see you.

You taught me in Chicago that size. does. matter. You were so tall. So wide. But my passion was still unrequited. You were still too expensive to bring back with me. You whispered that anticipation was key in any successful relationship. How many years would I have to hold myself back? My wants? My needs?

I got serious. I got my passport. I haunted you in other countries, but you’d only give me trinkets to smuggle home. The frustration was palpable. I was overcome with emotion to visit your homeland, Sverige, last year. I waved a fond “hej” as I passed you on the highway, but I couldn’t bear to visit you where you where born, where you grew up, and where you’re celebrated without equal. I denied myself seeing you, and it just about killed me.

But you didn’t lie, my sweet, Swedish lingonberry. Your sultry promises whispered in my teenage ears came true last summer. You came to ME! Not believing you to be real, this time I kept MY distance. I’m sorry for all the phone hang-ups, and the late night hits to your web site. I knew that I would be only the latest in your long string of local admirers, so I bided my time. It felt like a dream to revel in your company, to spend endless hours with you that late summer day. So surreal. I couldn’t believe you were true. I couldn’t let myself go. I stole away from you, empty handed and undone. You said you understood, that after all these years, I had to be absolutely sure that I was ready to take our relationship to the next level.

Fall. The Holidays. Winter. Just thinking of you warmed me up inside. I needed a chaperone to see you again – I couldn’t trust myself not to fall at your feet. First introductions, quiet introspection, and we left. I was jealous to realize you’d managed to work your magic and seduce my chaperone, too. They embraced you as amorously as I had all these years, jubilantly awaiting their return visit to get fully into bed and bedroom with you.

Gauntlet accepted! I could not let you have another lover without first having me. Tho’ last week was Fat Tuesday and the beginning of traditional denial cycles, this weekend found me replete. Satiated. Found. For I went the distance. I met you, pace for pace. I lavished money on you. I brought you home. You’re staged in my office, but you’ll find yourself ensconced in my bedroom this weekend. I’ll have you to myself, every day, available to the touch. You’ll contain me. You are mine. Hear me roar.

Tack, my Swedish passion, for waiting for me. Tack.