You're too sensitive, Dunyasha

Dear future hubster,
do you ever feel like there is an exhausting personality around you; somebody who is dragging you down and needs to be slapped or shaken back to reality, get a life, something? And that you would want them to avoid you until they get back to being their better selves, because you really can't handle their lethargy, only to realize that this temporarily dead weight person is... you?
How do we handle ourselves when we are being whiny little chekhovian anti-drama queens?

It's the way back home

Dear future hubster,

if I had to describe with one word, what's missing from my life right now, that one word would be intimacy.

If I was given a few more words though, I could detail it a bit. What intimacy is.

It's eating from the same plate. And possibly stealing all the cheese bites.

It's me choosing your shirt.

It's you telling me to wash my feet before I put them on the fancy cream sofa (seriously, who has a cream colour sofa??)

It's you letting me loose in your kitchen. Because, you know, I'm not a guest.

It's you tucking me in when I need a nap.

Actually, it's me feeling comfortable to take an afternoon nap. It's also not always needing you by my side when I take said nap.

It's me letting you play your music in the car when you drive. It's also you trying to fiddle with the radio when I drive, and then stopping it when you see me glare.

It's waking up next to you, yes, but not only that. It's waking up next to you, grumpy and messy as I always am in the morning, and it's not having to talk. It's you kindly pushing me in the right direction, making sure I don't hit the doorway or the closet that I otherwise would. It's me making your tea while waiting for my coffee. It's you messing up my hair and it's me breathing in your morning scent, from the hollow of your neck. It's you asking me if you need a jacket, and it's me telling you I'm not your mother. (And then asking you to wear a scarf as well, because I act like a worrying mom sometimes.)

It's asking "how was your day?", but not as a routine, but as a starter of a real conversation. Because it's you laughing out loud when I tell you about the office drama, and it's me pointing out that you want to play the lonely hero at work. It's understanding where our limits are, and it's knowing that life and work are just not that serious.

It's me resting my head on your shoulder in that tacky romantic movie-way, and it's you poking my belly in a way no romantic movie ever shows.

It's you holding my handbag in the mall when I go to the bathroom; it's me carrying your keys and wallet in said handbag. 

It's me no longer feeling the need to leave the room when you call your mother; it's you commenting on my phone conversation with my best friend.

It's you not pretending everything is all fine when there is smoke coming out of your ears; it's me not feeling self-conscious burying my face in your chest, even when I know I'm upsetting myself over something irrelevant.

It's being comfortable with who we are, in the presence of somebody else.

It's intimacy, and it's not that easy to achieve, or to accept.

It's still what we should both be aiming for.

Definitely a #firstworldproblem

Dear future hubster,
another difficulty of a life in a place where summer is pretty much eternal: one (especially if that one happens to be a woman) continuously displays a relatively large surface of bare skin. And one, driven by cultural norms engraved in them, usually feels that said relatively large surface of bare skin should be perfectly hairless. At.all.times.

A warning sign

Dear future hubster,
for your information, and future references, the Universe usually knows better. I had to learn the hard way, again. I should have been smart enough to call it a day, quit trying and take a nap right there when I got stuck in the toilet, sometime around 10 in the morning. It was an uphill battle from there. In a pink dress.

Most probably a #firstworldproblem

Dear future hubster,
It's lovely to live in a place where summer is pretty much eternal. However, I wouldn't be me if I couldn't find something to stress about even in a place where summer is pretty much eternal. My fellow females, especially those with mild to serious body image issues will understand what I mean when I say: it's always bikini season. 

Because boys

Dear future hubster,
besides the office whining buddy, I am also in desperate need of somebody who can talk to (and more importantly, listen to) my 16-year-old self. I suspect it would have to be a woman. A girl, really.

Good enough for government work

Dear future hubster,
today, as celebrations of International Women's Day were going on, and I'm sure many powerful speeches were delivered, I did what I normally do: trying to make other people's day better. Not because I'm a wannabe Mother Teresa, and not because I'm a woman. It happens to be my job: I issue their visa letters, sort out their leave days, make sure their contracts are extended. It doesn't sound much, but for many, it's all they expect for me.
For the rest, I take my red skirt for a walk from MILOBS to Civil Affairs and back. 

Even the stones

Dear future hubster,
to motivate myself to return to exercise after the Indians lifted their ban, I announced that I need to get (back) that bikini body I never had by the time we go to Mombasa. Then I started wondering - who would actually care about my bikini body, or lack thereof? I quickly came to the conclusion that the answer is nobody, except for the sharks.
And I was quite content with this result, until I was told that there are no sharks in those water.
Not even the sharks!

And send birkas to each other.

Dear future hubster,

I have identified whom or what I miss from my office work sometimes. 

I'd love to have that office communicator thingy, and a person on the other end of it, so I can bitch about the cleaning ladies hanging out in the kitchen the whole day, and giving you the dirty look when you dare going in, but you need to go in because coffee has become increasingly more important, due to the construction works outside with drilling and chain sawing and hammering for days, which is already ironic because we have just moved to another compound and were so happy about leaving behind the engineering workshop with their constant background noise but apparently they have followed us, and also due to the  pile of grappa bottles the flatmate came back with, and he doesn't rest until we finish them all, and then the stupid whatsapp that wants to update itself every 3 months or so, but I don't have internet that's powerful enough to do that, I haven't even been able to download my economists for the kindle for weeks, and now I can't buy my flight ticket because me credit card bounces back and of course the only browser that supports the stupid java application my online banking has crashes every single time... 

So yeah, I need somebody I can swamp with my firstworldproblems during office hours.    

I like them tall and pale

Dear future hubster,
you know already that if and when you see me drinking my coffee black, you should worry. Especially if I also wear flat shoes.
Don't worry too much though - it may be an existential crisis approaching, but it may as well just be shortage of milk. And this, dear future husband, is definitely the textbook example of a situation that ice cream can significantly improve.
Not that I can imagine any life situation that ice cream couldn't improve.