May worth a try

Dear future hubster,

after a certain age, long days of driving will inevitably result in sore lower and upper back, heavy arms and a generally cranky mood. 

Meaning that when we are driving for long days, I will feel dirty, exhausted, and just beaten up. And will complain that my everything hurts. 

You may try providing a solution to this by offering a massage (which, I suppose, is a speciality of yours), and I may hiss at you "Don't touch me!", because I'm sweet that way. 

However, if you do manage to touch me and you do have The Touch, and my weary body will magically feel lighter, I will be very grateful.

And I mean very grateful.

How bittersweet this would taste

Dear future hubster,

I was singing in the car (it was a long solo drive), and when Adele came on, I thought about how I cried over Someone Like You a few times. Who didn't? Anybody who didn't, needs to see a professional, and urgently so. That song is the reason why a Top 10 of Songs to Belt out in the Car While in Tears list should exist.

Anyhoo, I thought about how raw the whole song sounds, and how she just says it as it is, and everybody (except those who need to see a professional, and urgently so) could relate to it and was haunted by it for months when it came out. 

And how it still is beautiful and very, very much spot on, but it doesn't hurt anymore. Because both Adele and I and most of the others have reached a different level of emotional maturity.

Very comforting a thought it was. 

Then I cried a little over Harry Styles. Different times, different signs. 

It's kind of the same thing

Dear future hubster,

when you notice that I finally started assembling the shelving unit I bought months ago, don't just assume that I finally overcame my laziness, and assessed the temperature as bearable for such endeavour. 

That may as well be true, but there is a high chance of furniture assembling being either the trigger or the symptom of some mild existential crisis. Spiced up with an anti-feminist moment. 

That, or I'm re-evaluating my shoe stocks. 

And sing Sweet Home Alabama

Dear future hubster,

as an unexpected heatwave has hit the isles, I was yet again reminded that in summer I often have troubles sleeping. Whether this is solely a result of the temperature or has something to do with summer often being transition time remains to be determined.

Maybe it's simply an opportunity for long, soul-searching discussions, from sunset till sunrise.

So open the windows, bring on the chilled sangria, and let's talk about life and love and the meaning of it all. 

Sometimes I even have matching socks

Dear future hubster,

I think I totally rock this adulting thing. I remember not to wear white when attending functions with high probability of wine presence, and, therefore, wine spillage. That's what they call responsible behaviour, no?

And not having to talk to the taxi driver

Dear future hubster,

I know it sounds obvious, but sometimes we need to state the obvious, and if we ever choose to do the vow-thing, I would like to state the obvious there.

That I will always try my best to be available and provide transportation when you arrive from somewhere, even if - or especially if - it's in the middle of the night, and I hope that you will do the same. 

Nothing says home better than being picked up from the airport. The train station. The border. 

Could have had a castle and worn a ring

Dear future hubster,

please be aware that when it comes to exes, high school crushes, imaginary boyfriends and almost-lovers, I will, in a very understated manner, always want them to regret it.

Not choosing me, that is. 

I wouldn't want them back, because if they didn't realise my unrivalled awesomeness, then clearly we weren't meant for each other, but I will somehow expect that one day they wake up with a facepalm and a worrying question: why did I let her go? At that point, I would also expect them to write a song about that loss. At least. 

Equally, I expect a regiment of your past romantic interests to feel a deep sorrow over not having chosen you. I expect them to ask themselves why.

The answer to that, which I'm more than happy to (smugly) provide to any of them asking, is simple:

So that you, dear future hubster, and I, can choose each other. 

'Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?'

Dear future hubster,

when in the morning I tell you that I had an exhausting night, because in my dream I was packing and worrying that I will miss the plane, while my old boss was taking the boys out for lunch, please do listen to me.

Yes, I know that it was just a dream, and wasn't even a nightmare, and yes, I am aware that the plane analogy probably reflects my worries over a deadline approaching, and anything about my old boss is just my need for recognition manifesting.

But it feels real and I need to have it off my chest. I need to sing my shadow home before the day can start.