It's been a long day

 Dear future hubster,

I'm sure you (and anybody who's ever met me for longer than 5 minutes) already know how much I dislike when people go away. From a workplace, from a city, from places we called home, from my life. 

But do you know how much I love it when they come back?

And do you think they know? 

They want you to staa-aa-a-ay

Dear future hubster,

if the currently trending word of self-care needs to be pictured with a cosmetic product (which it shouldn't, taking care of your body is basic hygiene & health, but then again, taking care of your whole self is basic hygiene & health, but this is a discussion for a different post), it shouldn't be the face mask.

It should be the foot mask. The little sock infused with those AHA thingies that make your feet look like they haven't been carrying you through the rugged terrain of daily existence for decades. Do you know why? 

When you put those little socks on, you can't move. You have to sit there for 45-90 minutes, on your couch, with your coffee/tea/wine/preferred beverage and your book, and not move. You can of course have your tv/phone/other screens on, but you're forced to very literally sit with yourself. 

That's where self-care begins. 

Above us only sky

Dear future hubster,
it is true, some things are not meant to last. Sometimes, there are people in your present that you can't picture in your future. You can't, you don't have the courage to, you don't want to make an effort for. And that's alright. You make your choices, and ideally you own your choices.
While you make those choices for your future, try to not forget today. Try to not overlook things, moments, people, that, although have no place in the future, make your present memorable. And more than that. The things, people, feelings that make the moment worth being in. Things, people, circumstances you can unexpectedly, unreasonably, disproportionately grateful for. Now. There's magic in there. Try not to miss it. 
The future can wait. 

It might be a Hot Mess Summer

Dear future hubster,

the first time I put on sunscreen, the smell of it hits me every time. It smells like summer, and not just heat and water. It smells like breeze, air, literally and figuratively. It smells like freedom, even though I'm not sure what from; it smells like long days and late nights, music, mosquito bites, being young and a little reckless. I write about this every year, because it happens every year, all my hardworking blood cells do their little dance and organize themselves into tacky motivational posters to tell me to live, laugh, love. And I do, I sleep less, I feel more, everything is a little more intense once the sunscreen is on. 

Last year all this intensity had nowhere to go. All we had was hopes being crushed, plans constantly postponed, grief, anxiety, nothing to look forward to. This year it feels very cautious, not-wanting-to-get-hopes-too-high, watching what others do, envying them for it, FOMO creeping back in, anxiety over how to do these things again, anxiety over whether people still remember me, whether they still want to see me, do I know how to be a normal person, how do we deal with the grief, where do we go from here.

I for one am going to a land of permanent sunscreen use. Part running away from the responsibilities of building back better, part escaping the FOMO, part phoenixing myself from under the weight of past summer lost.

I thought it might also be part hiding from the possibility that I'd lost that loving feeling, that sweet summer anticipation, that sense of urgency to live. 

But then I put on sunscreen for the first time this year. And I felt it all, like I always do. We might be scarred, we might be hurt, we might be grieving. But if my very scientific method of measurement is of any indication, dear future hubster, life is still out there. We might have to practice a little, but we will live again, laugh again, love again. 

Free doesn't mean easy

Dear future hubster,

in a recent discussion about values, I came to the conclusion that freedom of choice is something I value dearly, and something I would (and do) sacrifice other things for.

Now this might not be a surprise to anybody who's ever heard my signature "Don't tell me what to do" catchphrase, but in times like this, my preference for freedom of choice goes deeper. 

Just looking at the past week or two, it's easy to see what a privileged position it is to prefer having a choice. To be allowed to choose whom I love without having to fear that it puts them or me in danger. To be allowed to live where I choose, without having to fear that I will be evicted from my very homeland, which, in turn, will be razed to the ground and sowed with salt. To be able to walk the streets without having to fear being attacked because of how I look. To be able to make decisions about my own body without having to go underground for the services said decisions then require. To not have to worry about those I love because of how they look, where they live, whom they love.

Not trying to be dramatic here, but the words fundamental human rights somehow come to mind, and in my privileged position of being allowed to have preferences, I'd very much prefer that everybody has these fancy things. 

If that makes me pro-choice, I'm here for it. And since we're at big words already, let's throw in apartheid, racism, misogyny, and oppression for starters and see where we get. 

Don't feel excluded, dear future hubster. It might look like this is all about me, but you most probably also have the privilege of choices. You get to choose what you think and do about those big words too. 

And you get to choose what you want with a woman like me in your life. If you want me there, that is. 

Say it right

 Dear future hubster,

among the many things that we lost in the fire of the past 14+ months, my social skills certainly require an entry. 

Flirting, in particular, has taken a crippling blow. Probably because that was a very underdeveloped skill to begin with. A conversation could send me on an overthinking spree for hours if not days.

And now, after over a year of talking to the dishwasher and seeing interpersonal interactions only on screen, the situation is dire. I'm currently wondering whether my dentist was flirting with me. Probably not. But... he was being funny. Morning coffee? Lack thereof? Also, never noticed he has such blue eyes. The only part of his face I can see. Also, nice arms. He used them to take out my crooked wisdom tooth. Now I have to plan what to wear the next time(s) I see him. He's giving me the crown I deserve, after all. 

Moral of this confusing story is, dear future hubster, that in the interest of all involved, please indicate your flirting intentions and ideally signpost your ongoing flirting activities real-time when engaging with me. 

Early warning saves lives. 

And I won't do that

Dear future hubster,

if you think that my emancipated, educated, independent modern woman self is not going to perform some face-washing-in-first-snow ritual, you are wrong. Superstitions might be a laughing matter, but they are also traditions in some way, and frankly, nothing wrong with getting/staying fresh and pretty in case a certain future hubster decides to show up one day.

On the other hand, if you think that I won't go out and build a snowperson before I even clean the stairs, you're wrong again. Adulting might be unavoidable sometimes, growing boring is not.