I'll dress the part

Dear future hubster,

with my sudden and unexpectedly growing liking of this city, and with the slow and expected arrival of autumn colours, and my steady affection for large bodies of water, and flirty approach towards things I consider pretentiously classy yet fun, it is no surprise that the season to boat up on the Hudson gets me excited. 

I feel a strong need to be around people who have boats. Preferably be around them on their boats. So if you have friends with boats, and you have been hiding them until now, please bring them on. 

Double standards much

Dear future hubster,
I have to admit, as I have just recently realized, that I don't always find it absolutely outrageous and disrespectful to be hit on in public. Some can get away with it without triggering anything remotely close to fury, anger, or discomfort.
And no, this is not based on race or gender.
The only time I don't mind being waved, smiled, winked at, or talked to, is when the delinquent is under the age of 4.
On the contrary, all I want is to ask for more. 

A certain kind of torture

Dear future hubster,

beware of fairy tales and telenovelas and even Shakespeare, and what they tell you about forbidden love.

Newsflash: there is nothing romantic or heroic about it. It's like your Sunday morning run with the Manhattan skyline backdrop, and Marine One flying by: it looks like you're straight out of a movie, the sky is blue and the jet skies make waves on the river. But none of that changes the fact that you're out of shape, it's 26 degrees and 75% humidity, and you just want to give up.

Forbidden love, if anything, is outrageous and/or irritating.

Outrageous when it comes down to religion, race, culture, tradition, money. Anybody who is forced to choose between belonging to where they always have, and belonging with somebody they choose, probably doesn't see any beauty in that struggle, and just wants to have a way that allows keeping both. 

And then when it's more about convenience, when what really is in our way are the decisions we don't want to make, because they would shake up life as we know it, because they involve other countries or other jobs or other apartments or other tiny people, then the "can't" in "We can't be together" just means that we could but we can't find it in ourselves to make the effort. 

Either way, it's heartbreaking. That's why it's a favourite topic of all kinds of art. For art, dear future hubster, often is inspired by pain that finds no other outlet.

Cinderella don't you go to sleep

Dear future hubster,

Have you ever felt like you have this wonderful pair of shoes, but somehow you don't quite fit in them even if they are your size?

I know I have plenty of good things to be happy for, but there will be days where the only thing I would like to do is sit on the sofa and wear flip-flops instead.

If it will ever happen to you, I will not judge you.  So please, sit with me on the sofa and tell my feet are wonderful no matter which shoes I am wearing.

Simona, we're getting older

Dear future hubster,
it happened. I don't know how to say, so here: I voluntarily put on James Blunt. I'm not trying to find excuses. People change, I guess. 

Express track love affairs

Dear future hubster, 

I used to think that there is a great love story waiting to be written about the Q and F trains; how they can't be together and only meet at Lex&63 and look at each other yearningly but then have to go their separate ways.

But then I started thinking that they are not equally committed to this relationship.

I think the Q is all devoted and available and welcoming, all "hey honey F I miss you, why don't you spend a few days chez moi" and the F goes "a'right baybe, I'm gon' be runnin' on ya tracks all weekend" (I don't know why I picture the F having this fake movie redneck way of talking). And they do, and they let entire Manhattan know that they'll be playing house Friday to Monday so please adjust your travel plans accordingly.

But then the F turns out to be rather flaky. It says it would arrive in 7 minutes, but it never shows up and just updates its status to "expected in 25 minutes", if you're lucky. Rarely gives a reason why, and even when it does, you know it's nonsense.

And then the worse is when sometimes this flaky F tells everyone "I ain't goin' anywhere all weekend", and the next thing you know the E is suddenly showing up at a bunch of the F stops. What a coincidence.