Dear 16-Year-Old Me,

You are so welcome. (Also, the keyboardist from Jesus Jones is following us on Twitter. You'll learn what that is eventually; for now, you should enjoy still thinking that DMs are Doc Martens.)

Sincerely,
33-Year-Old Me

Dear 16-Year-Old Me,

Tonight I'm going to see your second favorite band. The one you discovered on the tape you asked a friend to make for you before he left town for the summer (the one with no track listing, just a homemade cover, a photo of a man leaning into the trunk of a car, clipped from a magazine and carefully taped in place before you handed it to him to fill with whatever). You don't know yet that it's your second favorite band; you still think it's b-sides from your first favorite band. You're still figuring these things out.

He'll set you straight when he comes back in the fall, just before he tries to steal your car.

Sincerely,
32-Year-Old Me

P.S. Though he says he wouldn't have actually done it.

Dear 16-Year-Old Me,

I meant to write before. There are so many things you should know — how the world turns out, how we turn out. But I'm not supposed to tell you too much. It's against the rules. Like wandering off the path and stepping on a butterfly, it might send you looking for a different ending. And I wouldn't want that.

Just know you're happy. You have a good life! You read a lot, but not so much as to be asocial. You have healthy eating habits. And you've discovered some good things, such as true love and Joan Didion. And DVR. But I'm probably not supposed to tell you about that.

They let me send this letter to you to tell you one thing: Tonight I'm going to see your favorite band. I wanted to write and let you know that you'll see them some day, even though it may seem to take ages. It will take ages: another 16 years. But you'll see them. I promise.

Today I even dressed like it's 1992. Not the way you dress now (Censors: am I allowed to tell her not to be upset when she loses those horrid brown pants with the 23 Skidoo patch when our parents sell the Scirocco? Honestly, they were horrid, and she was so needlessly upset...), but, after sixteen years of fashion experimentation, bad choices and minor mistakes, today I'm dressed like the women you always wanted to dress like. And we wear it well.

Can I say it again? Tonight I'm going to see your favorite band.

Your friend Kevin told you that "To Here Knows When" is the song you hear when you go to heaven. I still happen to think he's right. I also think you're right in your conviction that this band is the most important thing in your life. At the moment, it probably is. What could be more important to you than the sound of entering heaven?

There will be more important things. I can't tell you what they'll be yet. That would ruin the experience of figuring these things out for yourself. I can't tell you how the world has changed, but I can give you a bland taste of our life.

The sky is blue today. The air is chilly in this home of ours. We woke up under a nice layer of blankets, brewed coffee, checked e-mail (you'll know what this is in about two years), read a few blogs (eight more years before you figure that one out). On our way into work we saw a man sitting in his car, trimming his mustache with a pair of tiny scissors. City workers feeding metal air ducts into a dump truck, watching the sides bend and crush. A man walking an exotic cat on the end of a leash. There were men in suits on the bus, headed off to work. Reading papers. People still read the papers, walk their pets, take buses to work — everyday things. And you're still an observer. Like you always were.

This may all get censored. Tossed out. I've said too much. Stepped on all sorts of butterflies. So, just in case, here's the clean version:

Dear 16-Year-Old Me,

Tonight I'm going to see your favorite band. I just thought you should know.

Sincerely,
32-Year-Old Me

P.S. If it gets too loud, I'm ducking into the toilets. Don't hate me.