Just My Type
Three years ago today, I met someone who sees me.
In between all the creative projects I produced via pencil and markers as a burgeoning young writer, I also loved the futuristic mechanics of the typewriter. In my father’s art studio or my mom’s gallery space, I’d type imaginative stories and little love letters to no one, the thrill of words (or at least an interesting combination of letters) click-clacking out of my fingertips; it was a magical tool, one of many relics I’d cite later as a facilitator for my love of language.
When I decided I wanted one as an adult—for pure writerly whimsy—I knew it was something I didn’t want to buy for myself. Not because of cost or lack of independence (I have rarely relied on someone else for my wants), but simply because… it would make me feel seen.
I didn’t care if it was vintage or brand new; once-white or aquamarine; if it worked perfectly or just looked lovely on the shelf. I wanted to be given this gift by someone who could say, even wordlessly: I see you, I understand you, I know you inside and out.
I once overly expressed to a boyfriend in my late twenties how much I desired a typewriter. For an anniversary gift, he bought me a cheap beaded-chain necklace with typewriter keys of our first initials. Thoughtful, sure. But not exactly what I had in mind.
Listen to me: never settle for parts when you deserve the entire machine.
I continued to lust after typewriters I’d see in the wild, but maintained restraint in the name of a stupid little test my hopeless-romantic brain conjured up.
And then, after a decade of using too much ink to type a lot of question marks, I met you.
On December 10, 2022, we met at the Fairmont Olympic Hotel bar after exchanging Hinge messages for two days. We bantered and drank cocktails and quietly searched for signs of depth and hope and connection in each other’s eyes. (Instead of my usual: at the bottom of a wine glass.)
We all know how the rest of that love story goes!
Maybe once or twice in passing during our time together, I mentioned a typewriter. Never outright, never requested—just subtle acknowledgments of an object I found intriguing. I never felt the need to say: Hey, I want this self-designated poignant thing from you! (Related: Gift-giving is neither of our love languages.) I decided I loved you so much, it didn’t matter if you found the missing piece to my sentimental love puzzle—you’d do so in a million other ways, you were more than enough to forget about a gesture I could’ve remedied myself.
The day before our wedding, with sweat on your brow in the middle of October, you nervously handed me a giant box.
(I’d just given you a personalized video from your favorite guitar-show guys, acknowledging you and our impending nuptials. It brought you such joy, that I’d even think of such a thing.)
We were running late for our rehearsal, but I opened the box slowly.
There it was: a brand-new, aesthetically-pleasing, memory-unlocking, soul-confirming, white MapleField typewriter.
To see and be seen!
I asked you to put it together before we left, and you did, quickly, in a way the keys didn’t fully function yet.
Then you typed:
I Lov e you so much!
It seems silly, in retrospect, to wish for something in the name of feeling understood (or redemption for being misunderstood?), but we’ve all done it to some degree in our relationships—or in pursuit of one. If so-and-so gives me this particular sign or says this one exact thing, it means they really love me! We value communication so vehemently while also yearning for Our Person to read our minds, mimic our souls, be our mirrors. (With these kind of silent ultimatums, these pre-written scenarios, we certainly set ourselves up to be devastated often, don’t we?) But we’re all allowed to desire validation of our most basic rom-com fantasies, despite the risk of devastation.
I didn’t need this typewriter to understand how much Adam loved me, saw me, knew me. He had loved, seen, known me from the very beginning. And I, him. But it was, in fact, further proof he was just my type.
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