Dear future hubster,
I changed the battery in the kitchen clock. Time doesn't stop just because you're not here.

Dear future hubster,
I thought I would not set up criteria for your position, but I have come to the conclusion that having read and understood The Little Prince must be a prerequisite. It will make things easier for both of us.

Dear future hubster,
according to this theory, you have been singing Geri Halliwell's Mi Chico Latino for the last two days. I can't help but wonder why.

Dear future hubster,
it may sound odd, and you may think my level of self-esteem is a little too healthy, but I have to admit that I love my cooking.

Dear future hubster,
if somebody asks me just one more time how come I'm still single while being so pretty and smart, I will tie them to the kitchen chair and give them a long lecture on how this has nothing to do with being smart or pretty. Or nice. Love is not a victory march.

Dear future hubster,
you have no idea how long it's been since somebody waited for me at the airport arrivals.

Picture appears courtesy of Bad Kitties Be Good

Dear future hubster,
don't you think this whole relationship business was easier if ... ok, I almost said, if we did it doggy style, but boy that's NOT what I meant! ... so, if giving hints didn't have to be so subtle?
Like it was in kindergarten. You like me, you pull my hair, then we make crowns out of beads and then you're the prince and I'm the princess. Tadaaa!
Yes, I know, we're not in kindergarten any more. Although often it still feels like we are. So if no pulling of the hairs is allowed, and you can't just say "Hey girl, you look so insecure, let me be the one who changes that", then I think we're back to taking lessons from dogs.
You know, boy-dog likes girl-dog, boy-dog pees on girl-dog. Girl-dog gets hint, all parties are happy.
More pee, less drama.

Dear future hubster,
for your information, I'm dreaming of a glorious day when there will be a man in my life who knows what he's doing and why he's doing it.
Mind you, in my wildest dreams the same man in my life also tells me why he's doing what he's doing, so I don't have to second guess.
Just saying.

Dear future hubster,
if you want to see my exhausted happy face, take me to the skating rink.

Dear future hubster,
You need to be prepared: your future wife is a gypsy at heart. She loves going to places she's only dreamed of, her heart speeds up when she smells the unknown. Discovery makes her feel young and, her curiosity makes her always want to know more.
She will occasionally (or rather regularly) tell you, in that whining tone you will be very familiar with by then, that she hates being constantly on the go, that she gets sick of the mere thought of a suitcase, that she's done with it, she wants to stay home and watch Grey's Anatomy.
While at that specific moment she won't be lying, be careful, dear future hubster, with cancelling your hotel reservations and flight bookings. It's the exact same future wife who will tell you, after her usual 7 minute bah session, still on the plane, that the following summer she wants to see Sarajevo. And probably make it to a full Balkan-tour.
Yeah, dear future hubster, I'm afraid that your future wife is not the most consistent person on this planet. You will have to live with that. And travel with her.

Dear future hubster,
I think it goes without saying, but just to be on the safe side: a walk-in wardrobe in our future house is an absolute necessity. 

Dear future hubster,
can you tell me why do I try finding consolation in keeping left-behind property of people long gone? And especially, why do I find it important to note whom they used to belong to? Eli's cosmetics, Bea's delhaize bags, Milla's dumbbells, Orsika's French dictionary, Kati&Fruzsi's paper cranes?
I keep their habits, too. It always has to be mentioned that the no-flour chocolate cake is à la Cindy, and so is putting cinnamon in the tomato salad; whereas double chocolate muffin always follows the Evike method; piling up the dishes in the living room is pulling an Arthur and saving sushi for dessert is definitely York.
I think it's safe to declare, dear future hubster, that I'm a hoarder of not only objects but also mannerisms. Be prepared, I will take and wash your cutlery before you would know like my gramma does, and leave just a sip of coffee in the mug like my sister. 

Dear future hubster,
if you happen to be a musician, please, please, do start your shows on time. It's irritating not to know how much longer we have to wait, and what for; in fact, you're making your own task of winning me more difficult with every minute passing. You're ready, we're ready, let's just get going.

Dear future hubster,
you probably have no idea, so I'm telling you now: take that lead, it makes you highly attractive. A man in charge is hottttttt.

Dear future hubster,
clichés are true. And coffee in Italy is oh so good.

Dear future hubster,
I am sure there are millions of supersmart tips on how to be attractive to women, and most of them are probably worthless. Or annoyingly vague and obvious. "Have an engaging personality." Well thanks, that was helpful.
In any case, if you need just another tip, dear future hubster, here is one. Know your wine. I know next to nothing about wine (my policy is that if I like it, it must be good), but boy can it be unexpectedly attractive when a man knows his wine. Don't be a snob, don't lecture, just have a solid taste. Maybe it's simply called self-confidence in a bottle? 

Dear future hubster,
there are days that I just spend wired up, aggressive, impatient, wanting to hit somebody. It would be so much of a relief if you were home waiting for me, waiting to take that punch, tell me I'm dangerous, and that I should apologize to my colleagues tomorrow, and then everything would be just fine.

Dear future hubster,
when you draft a motivation letter, on the back of an old boarding pass, in about 7 minutes, instead of the usual painful two days of writing and re-writing and still not making any sense and hating it all, then you know you've found something you actually really want to do. And that's uplifting.

Dear future hubster,
I've spent the whole weekend fitting into society's stereotype of a housewife. I cleaned the flat, cooked for a week and ironed for two, exercised and did my hair. Now I'm going to read my newspaper (not a girls' magazine, an actual newspaper) so I can be not only a pretty one who can feed a family, but also an informed one who knows what's going on in the world.
Mind you, it took me two entire days to do all the above, so don't expect the same when we have children.

Dear future hubster,
I either need warmer pyjamas, or you really need to come home. Mornings are getting chillier, I'm shivering under my blankets.

Dear future hubster,
my feelings towards the different devices developed to store and transport personal items could be summed up as follows.

• backpacks: being young, being free. Knowing we're young and free. Taking a break from life to be young and free for a while. Excitement over the upcoming trip, the journey, the people; over life.
• suitcases: cool. chic. urban. annoying. Choosing chic over comfort and regretting it heavily. Travelling for a reason, not necessarily leisure, but still a hint of excitement about the journey itself. Growing fear of separation, memories of too many goodbyes, longing to belong.
• moving boxes: annoyance of the procedure, excitement and anxiety over the unknown, and hearts getting heavier every time. Every single time. 

Dear future hubster,
my self-diagnosing practice continues: I love feeding people because that's an easy way to convince myself that somebody somewhere needs me. 

Dear future hubster,
my funny habit of leaving things behind where they don't belong (jewelry in bathrooms, CDs in rental cars, clothes in hotel rooms) has a simple reason. No, that simple reason is not that I'm forgetful, not only. Dr. Freud and I established that the root of the problem is my desperate need to be noticed, remembered, missed. Somewhere in the back of my mind I always doubt that my presence or lack thereof makes a difference, so I try to make sure that I leave a trace after I'm gone. A piece of me, so you can remember I was there.

Dear future hubster,
please promise that we will teach our son that harrasment is not acceptable in any form. But also, that we will teach our daughter not to accept what isn't acceptable.

Dear future hubster,
I love theater. Still.

Dear future hubster,
my emotions towards the Balaton have changed. It used to be a matter-of -fact, taken for granted, lightly treated and slightly ignored love; it has somehow become a deep, unsettling, guilty longing.

Dear future hubster,
I wanna be diggin' the dancing queen.

Dear future hubster,
I don't know why I often end up with boys who don't watch football, but I certainly hope you do. Or if you don't, at least let me have my 3-week Euro/World Cup fever every other year. And the Champions' League Final. Please.

Dear future hubster,
please note that you need to be willing to come summer festivaling with me. You may not actually need to come to a festival for real, but you need to be ready to do so. I want to share my uncontrollable joy of feeling free, free to put my blanket on the garbage-covered field and turn my face towards the sun, free to breathe in music and noise, free to watch people, free to be alone with the crowd, free  to feel intimate like you only can in big parties. I want to be a part of it, and want you to be a part of it.

Dear future hubster,
every time you take responsibility over another piece of my, our life, my heart sinks a little. Not because I think it's soooo cuuuute, not because I feel my female empowerment, gained in hard battles I didn't fight, taken away, no. I just have this heavy feeling, this dark thought, that given task will come back to me one day. That all the good will you're putting into changing that proverbial lightbulb will be in vain at the end. That one day I will have to do it alone again. That my famous independence is a protective measure. That people, including you, dear future hubster, always go away.

Dear future hubster,
when you see me having difficult times because my body is angry at me for having missed yet another opportunity to produce an offspring, just hand me a vodka shot.

Dear future hubster,
the dresses that zip in the back and are annoying early in the morning are one thing. But then come the bracelets and necklaces that give me a hard time - sometimes I feel like I need a third hand to put on everything I want to wear given day.

Dear future hubster,
I want to dance! I am not really good at it, and I'm shy and bashful most of the time, and get nervous about how I look and whether I move in a ridiculous way (talking about insecurities, huh), but now I really want to go! Some tacky music from our youth would do; you know, something that would make Matti laugh in disbelief. It's ok if we look ridiculous and people think we are drunk, let's just go and dance and laugh.

Dear future hubster,
this road trip reminded me: we need to talk about honeymoon.

Dear future hubster,
a non-representative and non-exhaustive track list for driving home from home (both ways) in May 2013 would look like this:

the obvious:

the one-you-wouldn't-think-will-get-this-much-airtime:

the brand new from a not-so-brand-new:

the "we believe it's summer so it will be summer soon":

The lumberjack:

the "hey! Who are you? I like you!":  (I swear the girl looks like she lived in our dorm)

the "I keep thinking it's her but I'm not convinced but then it is indeed her":

And the bonus, because I'm very proud that the content of my trunk is approved by them:

Dear future hubster,
I don't only miss you when I have troubles I don't want to face alone. It's a lot more melancholic not having you around when I have joy to share. Little things, like the first spring evening on the balcony; when they fly the blue-white flag for the Octave; a windy Sunday afternoon up at the castle's ruins... it would all be a bit sweeter if you could only be there with me.

Dear future hubster,
I've been diagnosed with a severe case of wanderlust long ago. You need to know that this is a permanent condition and thus doesn't get healed. Sometimes the symptoms are milder, but that's temporary. We need to travel; I love being somewhere else, I love exploring the unknown and taking a piece of it with me. Would you go with me?

Dear future hubster,
ever since I came back from Spain, I'm being told or asked, with a more or less surprised undertone, how much weight I've lost. I don't really know, as I go by the famous hit of Die Sömetings: You Don't Need the Bathroom Scale Anymore, but yeah, quite a bit. The more or less surprised tone usually goes on to tell me how much better I look now.
First I was flattered, sometimes a bit uncomfortable (I know people look at other people's body, but it's somehow not a conversation topic for me. I can tell if you're reading my boobs, but won't mention it.). Then it got me thinking, because it reoccurred so many times, and always with the same message: you look so good _now_. Don't get me wrong, they were all very friendly and appreciative about it, but still, it sounded more and more like they were implying the "old" me didn't look good. Because the "old" me was heavier.
Two things bother me about this. One, the obvious body image problem. I'm pretty connected with my body, even more so since Spain, and I like it. I'm not sure it likes me back all the time, but I try to be nice to my body. And yes, I like looking at it more nowadays, but hey! this is a very dangerous cliché and I refuse to believe that my body can only be considered beautiful if it fits size 38. (I was going to drag the even more cliché Jennifer Lopez into this, but then I realized, she probably does fit size 38.) It is dangerous for me at size 42, but also at size 36. I don't want to spend my life watching in the mirror if I'm still pretty today or I shouldn't have had the last slice of that garlic bread yesterday. And yes, I know, I should not care about what everybody thinks, but that's easier said than done. Especially when even their compliments carry an evaluation.
Second: I very rarely get complimented on achievements I consider more important and put more effort in. People don't stop you to tell you how amazed they are that you, I don't know, have a job, manage to keep paying your bills, speak languages. Do they think it's more difficult to lose weight than it is to hold your own in a foreign country, learn to drive, not die of a broken heart, make and keep friends, figuring out what you want or accepting you have no idea?

(PS. I've checked. Jennifer Lopez is 2cms and 1kg less than I am, so she can probably fit size 38 but then she doesn't eat or breath.)

Dear future hubster,
the problem is that I keep writing our story while you're not only not here, but also have no idea that we even have a story. And then you come home and don't act as I'd expect you to and I'm upset and disappointed because our story, the one I was writing while you were away and oblivious to my existence, doesn't mean the same to you.

Dear future hubster,
there are several reasons why I insisted that this winter-to-summer-tyre-business should be your job. One of them is that I'm really gifted at getting bruised and now I look like you've beaten me. Again.

Dear future hubster,
whenever you want to pop the question: my friends know where to get the ring.

Dear future hubster,
I know that once you're home, there will be no more Friday nights spent watching Desperate Housewives on my own. And I won't mind that.

Dear future hubster,
I think I'm sick of being strong.

Dear future hubster,
just for your information, I'm the type of girl who may be doubting her skills in the related department, but who will nevertheless find (sooner or later) the right lightbulb, even in this world of LEDs and other mysterious acronyms, and can put it where it belongs. All this in a work-appropriate outfit.

Dear future hubster,
if you end up being one of those with a different mother tongue, two easy ways to melt my heart (there are many others, fyi) are to talk to me in your language, and to talk to me in mine.

Dear future hubster,
it's really not difficult to make me happy. Sometimes it's enough to just be able to drive with the windows down a little bit, after that long dark winter. It's enough to just smell that hope, dreams and love is indeed in the air.

Dear future hubster,
I hope you listen to music the way I do.

Dear future hubster,
you have no idea how difficult it is to get in and out of all those dresses that zip in the back. I could really use some help.

Dear future hubster,
do not underestimate the power of the world famous afternoon nap. I'm probably  in my nicest, most generous, most loving and sweetest mood when I wake up from it.

Dear future hubster,
you're missing out a lot when you don't make it home for dinner. I try not to be too self-confident, but I think it's safe to say I can feed people well.

Dear future hubster,
the other day the boy next to me on the plane was reading Céline. Although the Voyage au bout de la nuit was quite a traumatising experience, still I felt I miss somebody I can talk about French literature with.

Dear future hubster,
it took me long to understand, but now I am sure there is a pattern in fictional young boys making me cry. Nemecsek Ernő Kapitány, then Nyilas Misi, the Little Prince after, and now Peter Pan.

Dear future hubster,
when I wake up from a bad dream, scared and agitated, will you tell me it's all fine and hold my hand until I fall back asleep?

Dear future hubster,
although I'm getting significantly better at it, you should still know that packing makes me very frustrated, irritated even. This frustration may be expressed through mild to severe hysterical scenes, bad moods beyond expectations, clothes being thrown around the room, and other, yet undiscovered methods. Take shelter, and don't take it personally.