Sunday, March 26, 2017

They are gifts from life

Dear future hubster,
I know I've discussed this before, but in my gipsy life, the subject becomes relevant every now and again: how friends happen to you.
The choice of words is deliberate here, as I'm a strong believer and frequent beneficiary of accidental friendships. The kind where you bump into a person in a random kitchen (often somebody else's), at a work lunch, classroom, and the next thing you know is you're discussing your (often miserable) love life with them. 
Now it's obvious that I don't mean the 'next thing' literally here. I normally put prospective friends on a probation period, and only start talking about boys and literature after they've passed. But the point is that the initial contact was made by accident. We don't walk into those kitchens, lunches, classrooms etc with the intention of finding a great friend. They happen when they are meant to happen.
This doesn't mean we don't have a choice. Oh yes we do. We choose which ones we want to keep, and we choose to put in the effort. In moments of grace, they choose to do the same. 

Friday, March 24, 2017

As soon as I caught my breath

Dear future hubster,
when I see people running at an early or late hour, or when the weather is not too nice or actually too nice, I always think "Wow, some determined person", and feel strong admiration and a bit of intimidation because that person ignored the weather and the hunger and put on the shoes and got out the door.
When I run, I'm sweaty and my hair gets ugly and my face is probably red and puffy, my nose running, and I'm sure I look like I'm suffering, and severely, plus my breathing must sound like Darth Vader competing with a steam engine.
But maybe to somebody I look like a determined person who ignored the weather and the hunger and put on the shoes and got out the door. 
So next time I see that random person feeling impressed although slightly concerned by my terribly uncoordinated style, I'll try to find the badass in me, and embrace her. 

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Pro tip

Dear future hubster,
when you notice that I have been drinking from your wine glass - or from anybody else's, really -, because there is none left in mine, you may conclude that I'm no longer thirsty. This theory could be supported by the volume of my voice and the philosophical depth of my speech.
En tous cas, please make sure I take some painkillers before going to sleep. It'll bee beneficial for both of us. 
And the greater good. 

Sunday, March 12, 2017

And his 'kafe' had a peculiar smell

Dear future hubster,
earlier I wanted to say what I always say this time of the year: that we're reminded that we survived this winter. 
But I couldn't make myself do that. 
Because somebody didn't. 
Somebody I haven't talked with or even thought about for quite a while, but somebody who was nonetheless important part of a transformational, coming-of-age period of my life. Somebody I always thought was bursting with energy, and somewhat raw; somebody I couldn't be indifferent about. 
And with all the fresh breeze and stinky trees and hope in the air I suddenly felt I need to stop and have a thought for him. Better would be a Longwy debrief session. 

But which one is the ugly twin?

Dear future hubster,
when the air smells like spring, which means that the stinky trees are in a full blossoming phase, and the grass is freshly cut, and we've been in comfortable two-digit temperatures (Celsius, not Fahrenheit) for days, and, as you probably heard many times, it feels like hope is quietly creeping back to the world, reminding us that the world didn't end this winter, then, dear future hubster, my clothing style alternates between two extremes. I either pull the knee socks and the heels, feeling a sudden urge to display as much bare skin as culturally acceptable and personally still borderline comfortable, with fresh hair colour and meticulously applied make-up; or I run around in teeny tiny denim shorts over awkwardly colourful yoga leggings, glasses and messy hair, like a student living in the library. Which technically I do. 
School day-me would barely recognize weekend-me.