Dear future hubster,
you know (or you will know with time), how I react to people thinking - and especially telling me - how amazing my life is. It's pretty much a fairy tale, right? With all the travels and living in this gigantic, envied-by-all city of blinding lights, working in buildings with several elevators, city and river views, having friends and flatmates from countries most people never think of. It has to be amazing, and I should be overwhelmed with joy every waking minute.
Except, I'm not. I'm whiny and I complain a lot, and, by the way, cities of blinding lights and buildings with elevators and river views don't come for free. Nor do travels, not even flatmates and friends. There are days when your sassy future wife is more sad than sassy, and she feels lost and helpless. Probably also guilty, for not being overwhelmed with joy, for not feeling the fairy tale.
But then, sometimes, magic does happen. Days when yours truly feels sorry for herself, when she doesn't know how she ended up where she is, and, more importantly, how would she get out of it if only she ever managed to make up her mind to do so, and she's cranky and jealous and feels abandoned and not loved and, generally, just not quite amazing.
And then comes the running into people who are almost strangers but not quite, the running into people who are definitely not strangers, the visit of friends, the homeless man who says "I love you" when no man with permanent accommodation had sad that in years, a heartfelt message from a friend who says "you helped me pull through" when pulling through seems so impossibly hard.
And then comes the sun and the morning breeze, the commute on the upper deck of the ferry, the ridiculously photogenic views of the city, the adorable toddler waving, that handsome man and his coy smile. Hidden, secret, sweet elements embedded in the noise of life. They resurface time and again, just to prove that the fairy tale is there.