Dear Barry Bonds,
Thank you. No really, thank you. In fact, come here, you big hunk of love, and let me give you a hug. Now that you've hit the home run that broke Hank Aaron's record---and you did it in San Francisco, god bless you, sir!---I can finally have my boyfriend back.
Our life for the last few weeks, you see, had been all about you: when you might hit that winning home run, and whether or not Sean would be there to see you do it. As such, the man bought tickets to pretty much every game you played in San Francisco over the latter half of July and the first half of August. At first, he invited his friends to accompany him to these games, and even his long-suffering girlfriend, who he figured was (ahem) game for a game or two. But we haven't lived here particularly long, Barry Bonds, and we don't know that many people. So Sean soon ran out of friends who had even a passing interest in spending their evenings shivering in the nosebleed seats, feigning an in-depth knowledge of the bunting rule.
AND SO THEN HE STARTED GOING TO THE GAMES BY HIMSELF.
We're talking several nights in a row here, you know: several nights in a row of stadium beer and $7 hot dogs for dinner, several nights in a row of being an absentee parent to our cats, several nights in a row of "ooh, let me just check how much a ticket might cost, oh, go on then, I might as well, you can cover me next month for the rent, can't you?" When you hit the penultimate home run in San Diego over the weekend, Barry Bonds, the one before the one that broke the record, Sean's world crumbled just a little with the unfairness of it all. "I should have been there!" he cried. "I should have been in San Diego! WHY DIDN'T I FLY TO SAN DIEGO? WHY WASN'T I THERE?"
I stroked his hair and said "there, there, little one; you'll be there for the one that matters." In this way, I consigned myself to another week's worth of cheese and crackers for dinner (why cook when there's only one of you to cook for?) and lonely evenings alone on the couch with only the Home & Garden television network for company---well, and sometimes Jemima when she dropped by so we could paint our toenails, eat guacamole, and talk about boys while watching Dirty Dancing. (Again. Because once each in 1987, 1989, 1991, 1993, 1994, 1998, and 1999 just wasn't enough. You know how it is; that Patrick Swayze is like a goddamn magnet.)
Really, Barry Bonds, it was a pretty heavy situation. I was in danger of becoming a baseball widow---will this man ever hit this home run? I used to ask myself, I mean, like, ever?---but you finally put an end to that tonight. You saved me from a lifetime of Designed To Sell marathons, possible scurvy, and having to explain to the cats where that man who feeds them had disappeared to and why he always came back with peanut shells in his hair. So thank you. Thank you, Barry Bonds, for the home run that gave me my boyfriend back.
Forever in your debt,
PS: But seriously, couldn't you have done it, like, two weeks ago?