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I can’t tell you exactly when the heart on my sleeve was sewn on, but what I can tell you is the seamstress did excellent work. The stitching is impervious to professional-grade seam rippers. That motherfucker is not coming off.

Similar to the nuisance of a faulty pen, my red ink bleeds through any emotional shield I’ve tried to use. The heart on my sleeve teamed with the rosacea on my cheeks has routinely blown my cover over the years. What felt like a scarlet letter in my tweens now feels like a family heirloom in my twenties. My ancestry is heavy with hyper romantics. So, why fight it? I’d be a lousy soldier anyway. If love truly is a battlefield, I’m probably the hopeful drummer boy dying out first. 

I can still remember how intense my first crush in grade school felt and how intensely it crushed me. I sent my BFF to tell his BFF that I had feelings for him, only to watch her walk back shaking her head “no”. A decade later, on the first holiday break from college, we had a hometown hang. We finally made out just for me to realize how lame he is and for him to realize how wonderful I am. 

How tragic. It took him 10 years to get it?

I sent a high-five to 8-year-old Glennon and never talked to him again. I didn’t care how cute he was, I was fucking free from the grip of a useless crush. Refreshed and prettier like after a new haircut.

I took it upon myself to continue my romantic heritage at an early age. I spent hours bathing in stories of my grandparent’s love letters, relentlessly asking for more pages of the stories like an investigative journalist. I would sneakily watch my mom and dad do their slow dances after dinner from our front staircase—my cheeks mushed between the wooden pillars, my eyes widening “…that’s gonna be me”, sheepishly observing all my older sister’s suitors fawn over their beauty and popularity “…that’s gonna be me”. This led to hours spent watching romantic montages from 90’s romcoms or The OC or early seasons of Gossip Girl, then, hours studying the lyrics of love ballads from Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Mariah Carey, Norah Jones, and Alicia Keys. No 9-year-old should be singing, “When you left I lost a part of me, it just so hard to believe, come back baby please cus we belong togetherrrrr”. A petri dish of misguided infatuation and future codependency—I was a kid drenched in romance.

Thinking about it now, I probably could have become a child prodigy with all those hours. I could have been first chair clarinet in the Philadelphia Orchestra or quelling some chess master or at least put out a banger at 13 years old like JoJo. Honestly, those heartbreaks on the playground would have been a great resource. Now that I have arrived in my late twenties, I’m still a little damp from that monsoon of romance from my younger years.

Nevertheless, the heart on my sleeve remains and continues to lend me highly entertaining, freakishly kismet, mildly gut-wrenching, and seldom successful love affairs. Whatever alchemy I practiced in my childhood lab of daydreams worked a little too well. So, when a postcard from Tokyo arrived on my doorstep a month ago addressed to me with an ambiguous signature and a seemingly neutral message, I took a deep exhale and thought, “No fuuuuccccking way.”

I read it about four times until I had to put it away. “Who the fuck sent me this postcard?” I repeated the question to myself in many different tones based on the possible candidates I drew — flustered, cheeky, delighted, pissed, annoyed and eventually landing back at bewildered.

The message was just neutral enough that it could reeeaaally go either way. Depending on who it was from, the meter from platonic to romantic could sway hugely.

I felt like a detective at their wit's end on a case—a small (big) part of me was secretly enjoying this cosplay. I credit this to being a Scorpio or maybe my era of intently watching the hit 2009 series Lie to Me. I sweeeaaar to god I always know when someone is lying to me because of that show. There is close to nothing you can hide from me. I know that sounds terrifying and a little cringe, but between my intuition, my disgust for deception, and my verrry loyal friends, it is the truth! Consider this information helpful.

The amount of Venn diagrams I constructed in my head of the POIs was alarming. Who did I give my address to????? Who in my past mentioned they had Japan travels?? Or desires to go?? The signature looked like an “M” but also maybe an “H” or maybe a “D” or honestly just kind of a fuck you scribble. Is there anyone petty enough to send this just to fuck with me? Let me bring you up to speed. The message reads:

Hi Glennon,

I hope this card reaches you. I hope all is well in your life. I’ve been taking a break to see some of East Asia and consequently a bit of new art. Let me know when you pass through yonder the next time.

All my best wishes,

(unsure signature)

Friendly, right? They’re not confessing their love for me but they are inviting me over “yonder”, but where the hell is YONDER? You can understand my perplexity. I had to rule out anyone who knows my current address because, frankly, with my oversharing tendencies on and offline and my loose-lipped family members, my current address could be easily retrieved. Also, it was a postcard from the Tokyo National Museum of Modern Art the front being a photo of Harada Naojiro’s Kannon Bodhisattva Riding the Dragon, so whoever bought this card had taste. This helped rule out a few people.

I was flipping through my mental Rolodex of nicknames I had given to past lovers.

Was it the French Chauffeur? He always mentioned how he wanted to go to Tokyo on our rides to the La Rochelle train station. I left every weekend for a trip and he was always happy to pick me up from my French host parents’ house and drive me. Our dates consisted of late-night car rides, spliffs, deep talks, making out, and our playlists. He asked me what song made me the most emotional. At the time, it was “Somebody Else” by The 1975. I remember we listened to it in silence in his car by the ocean and he looked at me and said, “Je comprends.” I finished my semester abroad and never saw him again. Maybe he heard the song in his travels and felt inspired?!

Was it the Kentucky Husband? When we first started talking he mentioned how this company wanted him to lead a trip to Tokyo in 2022. Or maybe it was, in fact, 2023?! He was coming up as a foodie influencer at the time we met and he didn’t know how to handle it. Our dates consisted of very long Facetimes with very long, cute conversations. I DMed him about a recipe then he asked me for a Facetime date. He was in Kentucky and I was in Charleston. A Covid love story. He flew out to come see me and it was one of the most romantic long weekends I’ve had. My roommates and friends thought we were soulmates and going to get engaged, hence the nickname. This did not happen. Honestly, I was hoping it was not from him. But the lack of apology in the postcard would track.

Was it the Hottie Art DJ? We spent half of a 4th of July party making out on his friend’s rooftop and watching the fireworks. During one of our conversations, he told me about his love for animé and how he spent time in Japan, and how he wanted to go back to Tokyo and brush up on his Japanese. Our dates weren’t dates. It was a culmination of very flirty texts, one random date, random “hangs” and party makeouts. I hit on him at an art gallery in Chelsea. He was the hottest DJ I had encountered and I had to shoot my shot. He played friend zone doubledutch with me and I couldn’t hop out. His doe eyes and smile had me totally hooked. He was a useless crush. Maybe he finally made it back to Japan and sent me this postcard??

Was it the Yoga Goddess? She was my yoga teacher when I was living in Mexico City and I would stay after class to flirt with her. I thought she was into me because she always corrected my poses so sensually. Whenever she said “exacto”, I would literally go weak in the knees. The language barrier was tough but we talked about traveling and she mentioned her deep desire to go to Tokyo. I wish I had mentioned my deep desire to get a drink and makeout. I would always leave the studio cursing wishing I could speak Spanish the way I can speak French. Maybe she made it to Tokyo and found my address from the booking portal?

Was it the Downstairs Himbo Sublet? He was living in the apartment below me over the summer. A model visiting from Brazil trying to bring his honey company to the States. I met him when I was coming home from set and had too many things in my hands. He held open the door for me and we bonded over a forgotten bike chained in my driveway. We would go on runs together and he told me how much he wanted to travel the world and share his honey. He called me his neighbor crush and would watch me come home from dates from his window. Creepy from anyone else, but somehow endearing from him? Maybe on his way back to Brazil, he made a pit stop in Tokyo?

I didn’t have the energy to keep flipping through the nicknames. Reliving these love sagas was making me feel insane.

By the top of the third day, I needed backup. I had to consult SOMEBODY. A second opinion is an invaluable resource. I require AT LEAST one daily. So, I brought the postcard over to my friend’s place to magnify any further clues. My friend Cecilia read it and paused, “You know, Glennon, that “yonder” really looks like “London” to me.”

A BREAKTHROUGH.

London was the key to the mystery. I don’t know how I ever thought it was “yonder”. How long have I been reading?? I had no excuse I was taught cursive in grade school and the penmanship was nowhere near chicken scratch. It is comical the things we convince ourselves to see and believe.

Cognitive dissonance is a sneaky SOB. But once you disrupt it and see things clearly, it is such a sweet, sweeeeet release.

By definition, it is: a mental conflict that occurs when your beliefs don't line up with your actions. It's an uncomfortable state of mind when someone has contradictory values, attitudes, or perspectives about the same thing.

A useless crush is a prime example of cognitive dissonance. Like any victim, you know that this crush is no longer serving you and you know you deserve more attention and better treatment, but you can’t help it because they’re annoyingly hot or have a cute baby face or they’re an amazing kisser or they were a really good meet-cute or all of the above (dangerous).

Suddenly, all you can think about are those inside jokes you guys made when you hung out, that fun photobooth makeout, the cute PDA shared at that one wine bar, those vulnerable conversations about family trauma or life goals that gave you false hope your relationship was going somewhere. Then, the breadcrumbs begin. Things stagnate so you send some dumb meme to keep the fire stoked. Then, maybe they hit the like button on your IG story which you plotted specifically for them. This, of course, further affirms the delusion there is still a slight chance you guys could fall in love, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. They’ve got you on the hook and you’ve given away all your power to someone who doesn’t know what they want—you’re crushed. The good news is, it doesn’t last forever. The crystallizing moment of clarity eventually comes. The ick arrives and you realize how deeply unattractive it is for them to waste your time. The best part is, people like that, always always always always ALWAYS ALWAYS come back. Trust me.

I firmly believe that anyone single has a useless crush once a year. We all have our weak moments and there is no shame. I had my crystallizing moment about a useless crush a couple of weeks ago and I feel fresh as a daisy. Ending the year with all my power back in my cup.

So with this “London” breakthrough, came the answer. The postcard was sent by my friend Merlin from Berlin. Yes, you read that correctly. The signature was a combination of his first initial and last initial. Although platonic, I did meet him through a cavalier romantic pursuit—Hinge.

I found myself aimlessly swiping, as one does, spending about 5 minutes on the app until I became overwhelmed by choices or, more commonly, disturbed by them.

Merlin popped up. His profile was a bunch of photos of dinner parties which, naturally, drew me in. After the profile skim, I scrolled down to read the first prompt and it said, “This is not a dating profile. I host dinner parties to foster connections for kind strangers. I cook everything all I ask is you bring yourself and something to drink. If this sounds pleasant, please message me at @dinneratmerlins.”

Aghast by the brilliance of his guerrilla marketing and, even more, at my excitement from a Hinge profile (a RARE occasion), I quickly slid in his DMs. Every single thing about that concept had my name all over it. Dinner?? Strangers?? Solo adventure?? “something to drink”??

Merlin is wonderful and his dinner parties are iconic. If you find yourself lucky enough to attend one, I am happy for you. If anyone is looking to marry a German man, let me know. I can vouch for him. He deserves to get a visa so he can return to the States and revive Dinner at Merlin’s. If he likes you enough, maybe you’ll get a postcard too.

Otherwise, I am continuously open to receiving love letters of any kind (i.e. anonymous postcards, a message in a bottle, carrier pigeon). Use your imagination. It pays homage to my romantic ancestors and reinforces the stitching of the heart on my sleeve.

Many thanks,

Glennon Rose

xo