An Open Letter to Chris Evans

It’s Called Satire. Calm Yourself, People

Snowpiercer spoilers ahead. As if you care.

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Pictured: second husband in cardigan

 

Dear Christopher Robert Evans,

You, Sir, have broken me. When I found you…I mean really found you…I had buried myself so deep into Hiddlesmania that no one could pull me out. There were hours upon hours of Henry V fanfiction being read, yet you waited patiently for me on the sidelines. I can recall the exact moment that it happened. I was sitting on my couch, scrolling through Pinterest on my phone, shouting, “Did you brush your teeth?” at my children periodically. It’s how I do mornings, don’t judge me with those baby blues and the strong jaw line and those beautiful long eyelashes. Just don’t.

Damn it all, I hate Pinterest because there you were in that gif, talking to a baby. You were even in uniform and I don’t know why. Some modeling shoot? That’s what the Bearded Chris Evans Tumblr told me anyway. Did you know that there’s a Bearded Chris Evans Tumblr? There’s also a Chris Evans Sexual Frustrations Tumblr…not that I’ve visited it or followed it because no thanks I have a certain amount of pride still yet. But it’s hanging on by a very thin string of thread.

Did you know that there’s an entire group of women on the internet who can’t sleep at night all because of that stupid red belt that you wear? While you were in China, minding your own business golfing (badly for charity none the less and it was really rude) hopes and dreams were being destroyed over that belt and an entire 2 inches of your midriff being out in the open for all of us to see. For God’s sakes, man. Undershirts. And that green suit you wore to the Winter Soldier premiere in Paris? Just…no.

And let’s not forget that time you were having a ball at US Open while drinking Heineken and wearing that stupid backwards trucker hat? My husband used to wear backwards trucker hats all the time. Yes, I’m married so no it would never work between us because I do really love my husband. But here’s the thing. I think he’s in love with you too. Your Boston accent and love of other men’s left breasts may just be our downfall. You see, every time I would mention Hiddleston his eyes would just glaze over and he’d go, “Uh huh”. The most interest he ever showed was while we were watching “The Hollow Crown” and he asked me if that was his natural hair color. I knew he didn’t care, he was just trying to find some kind of common ground with me again because that’s the kind of man he is. A good one who supports my hopes, dreams, and also hopeless crushes.

But then you came along. And now every time I mention you his eyes light up. What I’m saying is that if you’re ever interested in an open marriage with two really hilarious, interesting people with three amazing children just let us know because that may very well be a thing we could look into.

Your mom seems awesome. Mine’s the worst. Let me join your family.

I watched “Snowpiercer” recently. Twice. Okay 2 ½ times. When you stand there at the front of the engine, crying and making crucial life changing decisions? I don’t care how Curtis’ coat must’ve smelled I NEEDED TO HUG YOU. I don’t even want to go into the damage that must’ve been done to a woman’s psyche who still wants to bone a man who’s just admitted to eating babies. I blame the beard. My husband has a beard. You could be hot bearded husbands together. My husbands. With beards.

Remember that Patriots game you went to last month? I feel the need to tell you that all this stalking is Tumblr’s fault. I mean, I’m not like actually physically out there stalking you. I do have a life outside of you for at least three hours out of my day, okay? But those videos were all over Tumblr and in that moment I believed in football. I have spent the last 34 years of my life despising football. I hate the spandex. I hate the ass slapping. I hate the helmets and the mania that surrounds it all. I purposely married a man who didn’t like football so my Sundays wouldn’t be interrupted by sports. That’s when football is usually played, right? On Sundays? Chris, I don’t know football. Please teach me all about football while wearing that cardigan you wore to the game.

But seriously. There was a Patriots game on when I took my kid to a birthday party last weekend and I looked at the score, wondering if you were watching the same game I was watching. You’re making me think about football and I love hate you for it.

In conclusion, the next time you see a baby at ComicCon please don’t take selfies with it and in turn cause me to implode. Instead, find me in the crowd (because after all, I have hitchhiked my way there and bribed every security guard with nothing more than my natural charisma to get to you) and profess your love to me. It’s only fair. And if Hiddleston happens to be there feel free to let him know that he’s welcome to come along on our romantic dinner and walk along the harbor when I visit you in Boston. But he has to bring the Loki helmet. And it wouldn’t hurt things if you wore that strike suit. You know the one I’m talking about…the blue one…the one that destroyed my heart. And my husband would be there too, of course he would. If you could convince Scarlett to come as well I think that could only help. Ask her to bring the Black Widow spandex number.

Forever yours (after my husband, of course),

Wasted in Wanting