At least somebody is a morning person

Dear future hubster,

it seems that of my many personalities, the linguist is the first one to be awake and (somewhat) functioning in the morning. 

I may bump into furniture and can't make decisions and stare at my wardrobe for long minutes and have difficulties remembering what day of the week it is, but I can roll out double negatives spiced up with unmarked subjunctive like it's no big deal.

Birds flyin' high, sun in the sky

Dear future hubster,

although we both know how I feel about dating in general (hint: queasy at best), if I had to pick a favourite, it would be breakfast dates (with skating rinks, amusement parks, rollercoaster rides and bumper cars being in strong competition).

I think breakfast dates are beneficial for all involved. I look my best in the morning, my make up is still mostly intact, my hair isn't a whole mess yet, and my pre-coffee brain performs somersaults even I can't follow, thus providing the entertainment of not exactly coherent, but certainly unfiltered thoughts popping up in a somewhat dizzying blur. On the other hand, my just-post-coffee self often acts like a combination of a kid with ADD and a penguin high on bubbly. Glasses may be knocked over, yes.

Besides, breakfast dates mean that the day is just starting, and it has equal chances of becoming something gray and boring and miserable, or something uplifting, filled with grace, happy. Or something blissfully ordinary, an uneventful day of going on about our lives, one that nonetheless started great - with food and coffee and time dedicated to each other. Mornings are the time of possibilities.

And hash browns. Cheese!

Here we are now.

Dear future hubster,

 sometimes I wonder how I/we will be in few years. You are supposed to be in the picture. Maybe kids too? Will we be doing the same things as today, listening to the same music, hanging around with friends, drinking wine and maybe smoking few cigarettes if we feel like? 

Or will our Sundays start at dawn, kids screaming in our ears, lots of outdoor activities to get them entertained and tired, and little time for us to chill on the sofa?

I guess these two scenarios do not exclude each other, but I wonder if I will still feel free to pour myself an extra glass of wine, if listening to my teenage years' music will still make sense or if it would suddenly feel awkward? Will I be able to explain to our kids that I spent hours trying to guess Losing my religion lyrics? Will I be willing to tell them that sometimes my dark side still runs up that hill with the Placebo? And you, my dear hubster, would you roll up your cigarette in hiding?

I wonder if there is a recipe to grow up without regrets, to be able to take care of tiny little humans without fear of messing up their lives forever.

No need to give me answers now my dear, I am sure we will have plenty of Sundays to figure them out. And though I think Nirvana’s songs may not sound the same to me anymore, wine will definitely taste better the older and wiser I get.

#FutureNotFlowers

Dear future hubster,

Valentine's day is really not part of my culture, and although I love looking at flowers, most plants die under my watch. And the flowers we call "fresh" are anything but. Roses are dead, and violets are not really blue, unless you speak ancient Greek, which doesn't have a separate term for blue and hence calls the sea wine-coloured. Violets are, you know, violet. And are better left in their natural environment to grow and blossom and thrive and give that magic smell that makes you believe angels are around. Let them be.

For the money we don't spend on flowers I would kill and chocolate that would make me fat, maybe we can, if not send a girl to school, but give her a book at least? Any girl, almost any book (I'll supervise the choice of course). So that they can have one more chance to learn, and a better chance to make their own choices.

I'll still love you all 360-odd days of the year, edible underwear or not.

A shower thought of some sort

Dear future hubster,

in those moments of desperation, when you feel like nobody wants you, and you fear that nobody ever will, think about all those mosquitos taking serious risks to be close to you. You may think it's nothing, you may think they are just hungry, that they don't actually think or have specific desires, and you may be right about all of that.

But that doesn't change the fact that they are willing to die just to bite you. If that's not attraction, I don't know what is.