TTYL

Dear future hubster,
have you ever thought about the influence emojis have on your (any type of) human relationships? Because I have. And I find that it's oh so much easier to express yourself through them.
Honestly, how many times have you actually kissed someone you've sent the :* emoji to?

Such a fragile balance

Dear future hubster,
I'm sure there are many challenges in the life of independent modern women, and most of them, by definition of the independent modern woman, don't have and shouldn't have any relation to one's looks.
But can we stop for a moment and give a thought for the efforts we all make time and again to look good, without looking like we've actually made an effort?

I don't need your Maybe

Dear future hubster,
please don't be one of those people who are unable to say a straight No. Because they always leave me feeling disappointed, somehow cheated, and mostly, not respected. Like I don't deserve an honest answer.

I don't think it's irrational, actually

Dear future hubster,

I know the internet talks about that irrational fear of wasting a good outfit on a completely insignificant day, but I still believe that the frustration of a another situation also needs to be recognized. 

That is, the frustration of spending days being all dolled up, feeling confident about your looks and good in your skin, in a generally attractive mood, but not even once meeting that one person it is all supposed to be aimed at.  

And it can still be topped up with the "oh no" of that one afternoon when you decide to not care and run around in sneakers and without make-up, and yes, you have guessed, you run into that one person. 

Really, it's not about the glasses

Dear future hubster,

even though in high school it used to mean you're doomed, and now it probably means you're vain or self-centered, I figure I enjoy being a smart girl. And I no longer mind being considered as one. As long as it is known and accepted that I can also say extremely silly things and be ignorant about many, many things in life.

Oh, and I retain the right to let myself loose on playgrounds. I never said a smart adult, did I?

Sneaky little beasts they are

Dear future hubster,

let me tell you one thing about the butterflies. One thing that somehow everybody always gracefully omits.

That they are not fun. The ones in your stomach, I mean.

And you know why? Because they feel like an anxiety attack. And that, dear future hubster, is anything but fun.

Think about it for a moment: when you are about to fall for somebody, your stomach squeezes and your breathing somehow feels superficial and you have the impression that you don't get enough oxygen. (Which, by the way, may explain why you suddenly can't think straight.) Doesn't it sound like what they call hyperventilation, often occurring as a panicked response to fear?

It may as well be. Because butterflies, dear future hubster, are damn scary. You know you're heading for a fall and yet you keep going the same direction, bracing yourself for impact. Your attempts to saving yourself are lame. You know that butterflies can't be eaten away, they can't be drunken away. They can't even be jogged away.

I'm not sure there is a universally accepted anti-butterfly treatment. You just sit it out and see. Either you suffer temporary brain damage and will for a while be roaming around with a silly grin on your face (case of butterflies shared), or will at some point suddenly feel stomach and heart empty (case of butterflies unrequited).

Ironically enough, the moment you lose them butterflies, you will wish you could have them back.

You always take the weather with you

Dear future hubster,

I don't think I expected it, but it makes sense that a perfect summer weekend here, in this life, isn't that different from a perfect summer weekend in the style of the other life. 

Meaning: a little Return of the King on Thursday, girls' dinner night out on Friday, getting drunk on G&Ts while binge watching Game of Thrones on Saturday, lakeside girls' talk on Sunday, and sweet lazy reading on the couch in between isn't that different from movies with Bea, dinner at La Matese, drinking G&Ts while watching terrible music videos at the Heikkila Cultural Centre, and gossiping over coffee at Konrad's. 

The only different thing was the jogging, because I can't find a way to shuffle my music, so instead of a mix of Milow, Mika and Moby, I'm still running to the beat of the Complied Artworks of Her Majesty Madonna