Dear future hubster

Dear future hubster,  we have all been waiting for quite a while to be able to say " Go home, 2016, you're drunk ", and in a few hours, we finally can.  But, carrying on with the analogy, don't you think that when a friend is getting out-of-control drunk, we usually see it a long time coming, and not just magically notice the damage done? And, depending on the relationship and the level of responsibility we feel, wouldn't we try to either intervene and stop the train from derailing completely or at least publicly acknowledge that there is a potentially dangerous situation? It is no different with life and the universe on a larger scale. If you feel that 2016 was the shittiest in recent history, please take a moment to wonder whether you've done anything to make it any less awful. And maybe leave some room among your resolutions to do a little more next time around. 2016 got this drunk because we let it. 2017 will do the same if we let it.  No point i...

Dear future hubster, for people like me, who love their selected few and care about them and enjoy a good laugh together, but who also like time and space for themselves, the holiday season can be tiring. We can be contented but feel drained, cosy in a crowded living room but exhausted after it gets empty. Therefore, dear future hubster, I suggest that on the third days of Christmas, my true love (you) and I go for a long recovery walk, enjoy the fresh air, and then read our respective books on opposite ends of the sofa. I may cuddle closer as the afternoon goes by, and maybe even talk to you by dinner time. 

Dear future hubster, While in the giftshop of The Globe, I realized I'd love to have a man in my life who would consider wearing cufflinks with Shakespeare quotes. He probably wouldn't need to actually wear them, because I probably wouldn't actually buy them, but I quite like the idea of a person nerdy enough to entertain the idea of cufflinks that read "All the world's a stage". So, you know, something for you to think about.

Dear future hubster, if you're with Bonnie Tyler on the hero issue (ie you need one, as opposed to Tina Turner, who doesn't need another one), go to a university library at the end of the term, on a Sunday.  Everybody who is there before noon, is a damn hero. Even if they look like a bunch of defeated vikings, minus the blood, but with worn clothes, dirty hair, stubble, dark circles under and distraught looks in their eyes, with a hint of madness in it. 

Dear future hubster, I'm a firm believer in the existence of comfort music, to the analogy of comfort food. For times when you don't want to put up with anything complicated, just want to feel safe, familiar, and, above all, simply good.  In that aspect, Jason is probably my mashed potato, and Brandon is my pesto.

Dear future hubster, I think it's important to let you know that although I have many special skills, keeping plants alive is not one of them. I can cook for ten people and hold hours long drawing sessions with 30 loud children, but if you care about your philodendron, you need to take care of it yourself.

Dear future hubster, do you think my friends would consider it as cheating if I went out with other people, and, eventually, ended up enjoying it? I'd still be home by 10 and in bed by 11, I promise. Thing is, in every life situation, I'm looking for opportunities to share the experience. And sometimes it means awfully superficial talks about the boys in the class - something I can't really do with any of the friends I have all over the world. Simply, because they don't know the boys in the class. I have to rely on local input for the conversation, and local counterparts to create and/or share the experiences with.  This is how every story starts - with the people who happen to be there. 

And politics... dear future hubster, please talk to me about politics. I know it's sensitive and complex and more often than not we just want to ignore it all, but I do find it deeply intriguing as a broad topic, and on occasions either fascinating or downright scary as specific events unfold. I need a safe place where I can admit I don't understand, where you try to explain the parts you can analyze, where we can compare, debate, disagree, inspire, enlighten, learn, build. And even if sometimes we conclude that the world is a crazy place, we need to remind ourselves that it's a beautiful one, too. 

Dear future hubster, when I say I wish you were here, it doesn't just mean I'd need you rub my back and play with my hair and look at me with eyes glazed over because you think I'm so damn amazing. You can do all of that of course, but more importantly, I need somebody who understands what I do just enough to listen to me talking about it, be that work or school or some obscure DIY project I let myself talked into. Somebody who is genuinely interested in what motivates me and what discourages or annoys me. Somebody who doesn't take a movie as just a date out, but as a potential conversation, even debate starter. Somebody who shares their thoughts not only for me to admire them but to challenge them if they can be or need to be. Somebody who presents a problem not only for it to be solved, but more for it to be thought about, analysed, learnt from. Somebody who doesn't mind the "how was your day" routine to end up being a four-hour debate about the stat...

Dear future hubster, winter is indeed coming, Together with glühwein and mince pies. The boys may even switch on the heating one glorious day. Otherwise, we just need to cuddle a little closer.

Dear future hubster, although we may need to discuss the ROE in detail, I think acknowledgement of virtues of partners past should be acceptable occasionally. We're grown up, afterall, and will have a supportive, accepting, trusting and honest relationship. In that spirit, I feel that this chilly October evening is a good moment for me to tell you how sweet I found it when one time a previous candidate, whom I hadn't seen for quite a while, and whom I wasn't going to see for a very long time, assessed my condition as "you need a nap", and simply brought me a pillow and blanket. He knew we had limited time together and that the future was blurry at best, but he also knew that I had been up since 5 that morning and had been having problems sleeping lately (not unrelated to said future being blurry).  Said candidate didn't land the job, for various reasons. But not for his lack of strategic understanding.  Afternoon naps, dear future hubster, are import...

Dear future hubster, have I mentioned that time is of a weird nature? That it flies but sometimes crawls is no news; that days can be slow (not to mention meetings and lectures that feel like an eternity) but weeks and months made up of those slow days run by way too fast is a notion familiar to many.  I must admit that I'm not entirely surprised by it, but it is certainly curious to experience how a couple of weeks can feel oddly long and logically short at the same time. Missing the Kivu sun and Tshukudu food is justified because it was just two heartbeats ago (and my repatriation ticket is still not paid, so maybe I never left?), but then what's going on with this familiarity of streets and trees and St John's disco signs? Knowing shortcuts to get to class the spooky way if it didn't rain the night before? Only getting lost in the building every other day? Feeling like that's all I've ever done? 

Dear future hubster, Have you ever wondered about what it means when Frankie says I did it my way  "if I can make it there"? What does it mean to make it? What is _it_? And how do I know when I get there?  Could any time I'm happy, and happily aware that I'm happy being where I am doing what I do, be considered as having made it?

Dear future hubster, in short: I've missed autumn.  In more words: I haven't been in Europe during the autumn months for the last two years, and although I have been aware of my missing the seasons in general, and the feeling of being stuck in a time warp where the length of the days doesn't change, where the weather is practically the same all year long, I didn't realize just how much I missed the smell of an October morning. The colours of the late afternoon sky, baby blue, but with grey creeping in. The morning chill, which makes me wear earmuffs and brings colour to my cheeks (even though I still have some of my African tan). The wild chestnuts falling from the trees, and the slow, lazy, orange sunsets over the hills.  Equally importantly, I have missed the wardrobe choices I can make now. My polka dot tights and knee socks are ready to rock this season. 

Dear future hubster, if you feel that everyday life is not enough of a challenge for you, picture yourself in this - somewhat fictional - scenario: You're being thrown back to a first world country, although one that's different from all the others you've experienced before, and you're in a supermarket. Your goal is to purchase items that allow you to eat healthy, but to remain environmentally aware, and to be reasonable with your money. Oh, and you only have two pots to cook with.  

Dear future hubster, Do you think it's possible that one constantly gets hungry due to culture shock? And if one doesn't, why do I?

Dear future hubster, I know you know I will love you and cherish you and feed you and will tell you all kinds of things you never wanted to hear (including, but not limited to what the dentist said when both his hands were in my mouth, or which song I try to hum when I'm crawling around in period cramps), but please do not, even in a shared bed, expect that I would share my duvet. You'd be in for a lifelong disappointment.

Dear future hubster, if anybody asks me what I miss from my Goma life (and I suspect some will), I'm just going to say that I miss seeing the Southern Cross. It's about as romantic as pretentious as anything I would be expected to say, and is as abstract and un-relatable for them but personal yet unreal for me as anything else I could come up with.

Dear future hubster, please be aware that on her first day back to the so-called "real world", your future wife may display behaviours that seem strange to others. She may feel overwhelmed by the number of decisions she needs to take in the course of one single day, carefully choose a route to ensure that she doesn't have to turn left in an intersection that has no traffic lights (because her mental state doesn't allow her to handle that level of responsibility), be either timid or overly confident in a roundabout and will probably lose all remaining marbles when facing the toilet paper aisle in the supermarket.  Bear with her. And maybe enroll her in a DIY version of social reintegration programme, for former inmates.

Dear future hubster, since we both know that the little wins are just as important as the big ones, today you should be proud of your future wife. She put on a brave face, walked up to the counter at the cafeteria, and said: "Hello, I'm new here (which wasn't entirely true, but considering the conditions, was accurate nonetheless), how do I get a coffee?" And she didn't even blush! Result: nobody got hurt, but a nice cappuccino was delivered. Made extra delicious by the taste of that little win over useless little fears. One day this future wife of yours may even haggle at the market!

Dear future hubster, the issue of items I accidentally leave behind is on the rise again. While I have a tendency to frantically look for my keys every morning, even though I leave them at the same place every evening, there are times when I appear to be a secret Santa with a hole-y bag, dropping random belongings of mine at any place, any time. Hansel and Gretel could learn from me. One may say, this could be a symptom of separation and attachment troubles. One may not be entirely wrong.

Dear future hubster, There is a difference between needing a hug and needing somebody to ask you if you need a hug. Just thought I'd specify it.

Dear future hubster, when you see me at the start of a supposedly normal (working) day wearing an unusual amount of make-up, be sure that something is being concealed under those layers. And not only my teenage pimples and laugh lines.

Dear future hubster, for quite a while, I considered myself being the one that constantly gets away, until one day I realized I'd become a Stayer.  Then I thought being a Stayer was my true identity, that the real me was this breathing cornerstone that you can still find at the same place even after you've refurbished the entire building. Since I'm always looking out for some point of reference, I quite enjoyed the thought of being one.  Until I became a Goer again. And then I liked that again; blank page, no haunting ghosts from a past known to everybody, skeletons well hidden in the suitcase, brand new chances.  Except that you can only be a Goer for so long, and before you notice, you've chosen your points of reference, let the ghosts come out, built your relationships. Basically, I became a Goer who happened to stay. And now I'm a bit of a Stayer who ends up going. I picked up a Newbie today, will give him keys and instructions, and introduce him to ...

Dear future hubster, should it happen that your mother tongue and mine are not the same, please don't refrain from talking to me in any language that comes to your mind in the heat of the moment. I will interpret it as a sign of deep trust, feel honoured by it, and learn just enough of your language to understand you when you talk in your sleep.

Dear future hubster, I have to admit I lie about you sometimes. That is, when I'm asked. I lie about your existence because way too often that seems to be the only (or the only easy) way out of a conversation I have no interest in continuing any further.  Granted, I only lie about you to strangers. I answer "yes" without skipping a beat when asked if I'm in a relationship, when I know that the question and the conversation is proposing going out with the other person. I try to avoid further questions, but just in case, I usually have a somewhat coherent backup story - of my imaginary future hubster. How messed up is that. I feel guilty about lying, and especially that I tend to choose the easy way, instead of standing up for myself giving a speech on how my interest or lack thereof in somebody should be considered first. But sadly, more often than not, it's "hello, what's your name, I think you're pretty/cute/interesting/crazy/weird, do you ha...

Dear future hubster, I would like to inform you that under exceptional circumstances it could be acceptable to wake me up very early in the morning. At dawn, even.  Depending on the orientation of our home, watching the sunrise can be considered as exceptional circumstance, even though it happens every day. And regardless of the orientation, smelling the morning after a rainy night is worth the trouble. Summer mornings have a scent that makes the day start off well. Wake me up sometimes to take that smell in. Just don't try talking to me.

Dear future hubster, during years of struggling with all these candidates who ultimately turn out to be, well, not you, I have learned many things, about life, love, and myself.  Obvious it seems, this one is sometimes rather hard to go by: I want to be the person you love, but at the same time I need to remain the person I love. This is my baseline for all agreements and negotiations we may have. And of those, we will have many.

Dear future hubster, although I can't tell future, I think most of the time I will admire you for being so practical and straightforward and disciplined and determined. Occasionally, I will be annoyed by how hard it is to get to you, and will worry that I will never really manage. Mostly, I will happily live in the belief that you can't be harmed. You can be annoyed, disappointed, but not hurt. Until, inevitably, you are. Until that moment when a sudden and strong wave of cold fear for you washes over me, and I want to wrap you in something bulletproof and keep you somewhere safe. Until I can't sleep at night because I'm trying to figure out a way to protect you, knowing full well that ultimately, I can't. Still, I will pick up the light saber and kick ass when it's my turn. For both of us.

Dear future hubster, on my mother's birthday I came to the realization that my family contains a high number of quietly strong women (and I'm not only trying to find a excuse for my bossy tendencies). Somehow life twisted and turned in ways that taught them to hold their own, come hell or high water, and so they do.  But don't worry, dear future hubster; for we are lucky enough to have an equally high number of (sometimes quietly, sometimes critically, often invisibly) supportive men. You'll fit right in. 

Dear future hubster, I'm sure that you are already familiar with my somewhat peculiar eating habits (ice cream for breakfast, pesto from the jar, apple with cheese, really anything with cheese), and I certainly hope that you are somehow gaining valuable knowledge on other food-related behaviours of mine. The "How was your day" - "I need a drink" conversation is for rookies; there are days that can only be partially remedied by pizza (and generous amounts of cheese), or properly celebrated with some fabulous risotto (and generous amounts of cheese). Chronic "can't wake up in the morning" may require a peanut butter-banana milkshake, and weekend inactivity is probably a scream for a quinoa treatment. See, dear future hubster, not all cravings are emotional. Some are, admittedly, but others may be simply a nutritional need. Now you and I, we only have to figure out, on a case by case basis, whether we're lacking vitamins, or we're lacki...

Dear future hubster, One of the many things I love about my best friends is that books always make a good gift.  And that we are in such a deeply trusting and intimate relationship that we borrow each others' books. Clothes, occasionally. Kitchen devices, all the time.  But really, how could one live without people who categorize books and music and movies by "you would like it", but can also introduce you to styles and genres and subjects one would have never thought of otherwise?

Dear future hubster, try as I may, I don't like waking up alone on Sundays. On other days of the week I simply don't like waking up. I don't really mind sleeping alone, in fact, I'm growing increasingly fond of my weirdly sized bed (designed probably for the short (<175) and fat expat) under my mosquito net, but this Sunday morning business ain't that easy.  So if you could please practice your teleporting skills during the week and try to show up next Sunday, that would be appreciated. I usually start thinking about getting up around 8-8:30. 

Dear future hubster, there is a wide range of different types and levels of friendships. One of my favourite is when you reach the stage where your dishes and other kitchen stuff are at each others' place. Like there is no point in taking them back now, we'd be back next week anyhow.

Dear future hubster, I have a long history of living with people, and most of the time I quite like sharing my home; in this absurd land of eternal summer I would certainly not want to live by myself. However, on the rare occasions when both my flatmates are away, I shamelessly enjoy my sudden freedom, walking around underwear and whatnot, listen to guilty pleasure music in the morning (and sing along!), do yoga in the living room and don't talk to anybody for days. So, there future hubster, don't worry about me when you go on business trips. I may be living on smoothies for a week, but I'll have some quality time with me. 

Dear future hubster, you know how much I enjoy the "big" talks. The discussions on life and love and music and humanity, the joint soul-searching into the dark hours of the night. I develop a deep affection for the people who understand that "what am i doing with my life??" is a real question, and that sometimes anxiety wakes me up in the middle of the night because I'm worried about the future - ant not just mine, but yours, ours, the future of all of us. But. The beauty of the little things shouldn't be underrated. I love the people who are able and willing to stare at that big blood moon over the Indian Ocean with the same excitement as I do; I will definitely need (and want) somebody in my life whom I can tell how I almost killed myself falling down the stairs of the bathroom in my heels, and who understands what a terrible way of dying that would have been, and recognizes the importance of decent underwear during a near-death experience. (What if...

Dear future hubster, Note this for future references: every time somebody leaves, it will feel like a betrayal, no matter the reason. Every time you leave, it will feel like a betrayal, no matter the reason. Plot twist: not leaving may also be perceived as one, depending on the reason. So good luck avoiding the guilt trip.

Dear future hubster, No matter the continent, the weather, the occasion, there will be a moment when I don't watch out and find myself wearing knee socks. They are simply part of my identity.

Dear future hubster, No matter how much I practice, I still get anxious about travelling, and, particularly, packing. If you see me madly running around the flat, mumbling nervously, you can be sure I'm looking for something. And please don't try help me find it. All you have to do is to tell me that I only need my charger, my passport and my credit card, and all is going to be fine.

Dear future hubster, I know it's old school, and at the same time a bit of a teenage thing, and most probably I would step on your toes, but slow dancing would be so nice sometimes. We don't have to do it in public.  Occasionally, you may also hold my hand.

Dear future hubster, I trust you have understood long ago that music is going to be very important in our life and relationship.  I have a questionable taste and strong opinions about music that can play in our house, so I hope you will recognize and appreciate just how intimate it is to discuss and listen to music together.  And if I ask you to show me something new , music for a road trip, something that you like, something that would fit in the genre of meaningful, intriguing, relaxing electro - then, dear future hubster, we have reached a depth of trust that does not simply happen every day.

Dear future hubster, have you noticed how decapitated love stories can sometimes be bitterly beautiful? When something is not possible, everything becomes a 'what if', and since there is no chance to reality check it, every 'what if' remains a distant theoretical possibility. A dramatic longing, an obsession that makes everything else blur into the mundane practicalities of life, when every day is like a new battle you need to gather courage and strength for -  a powerful feeling. An exceptional state of mind, an endlessly analysed, reproduced and represented topic in all forms of art. Don't try it at home.

Dear future hubster, I decided that I'm going to consider this extra day as a gift given to us from the grace of the lunar or the solar or some other cycles, and will be grateful for getting one more of everything - sunrise, Monday, coffees.  And I honestly think it would be a perfect way to celebrate this day by staying home, eating ice cream while checking out all the Oscar dresses, and being in love with Stromae.

Dear future hubster, I have a track record of planned impulse purchases (contradiction, I know) when in an emotionally unstable state. Once I reacted by signing the purchase order for my car to somebody saying the w -word when I was anything but ready to deal with that. I booked my trip to New York upon hearing the phrase " My ex is visiting next week ". Feeling mildly love-sick regularly results in concert tickets.  Not shoes though. Those I buy when I'm happy.

Dear future hubster, sometime I think I just constantly need somebody I can worry about.

Dear future hubster, Sometimes you just watch Glee for a day, and all you walk away with is: Mike Chang is still hot.

Dear future hubster, I can't really fool my body. We've been together for too long. This body knows exactly that this time of the year we're supposed to be cold, suffering through short and snowy days and endless winter nights. Mind you, this is the exact same body that, for seven years living on the Western edge of the GMT+1 time zone, couldn't get over the fact that there can be daylight at 9:30 pm in July. And the same one that's utterly confused on a permanent basis because we're going on 33 and have never been pregnant. Quite a smart body, this one. So no wonder this body is surprised by the mild temperatures (24 Celsius), the strength of the sun, the breeze coming from the lake, and the overall warm smell of the air. No wonder the body tells the mind "It's summer! We're young! We're free! Love!" and other silly things. It tells the mind to be more relaxed, more sociable, more easy-going than usual (the mind is a bit of a paranoi...

Dear future hubster, there are ways to get used to electricity that comes and goes, to symbolic water pressure, to tragic network quality, bumpy roads and utterly chaotic traffic, but it strikes me sometimes how badly one can miss the presence of men who smell good.

Dear future hubster, I've recently been reminded (by life itself) just how tiring anger could be. After half a day of being agitated, irritated, annoyed in disbelief, I'm simply exhausted.  I'm sure you already have a method to ensure I can't be mad at you for long, but just in case, practice your puppy face time and again.

Dear future hubster, somebody left a dream catcher my office. It probably has been there for ages, maybe belongs to Lola, and Lola has been long gone, I just never really noticed or cared enough to see it. But today I did, and it made me think of that probably made up story of some indigenous people in an unidentified south-american country, the story that says they always start the day with a song, a song that is unique to the person. They are singing their shadows home, because the shadows go wandering at night. That story was told in the dining hall of the albergue in Fonfría , and it fit the ambiance perfectly, for Fonfría is a magical place. That same night some traditional maori melodies were sung, and we even learnt a pilgrim song in what was supposed to be occitan.  Plenty of that delicious almond cake was had, email addresses were scribbled on a napkin, I had a bit of a crush on a boy, and was deeply in love with life. The next morning it was so dark and foggy...

Dear future hubster, Sometimes I just need somebody I can drunk text when I get home. No more, no less than "the room is spinning". You ok with that?

Dear future hubster, don't just get carried away and hear the church bells in your head when somebody tells you they have feelings for you.  Disappointment is a feeling too, you know. So is disgust. Fear, remorse, contempt, aggression - depending on which school of thought you follow.

Dear future hubster, I've always found it hard to determine my preferred love language. I always thought time and attention were the most important factors for me, and I never had to wonder whether I was touchy. I am. Tactile till the bitter end. But then I was accused of being a notorious gift-giver, and when I have a good long look inside, I know I'm guilty as charged. I suspect it's more a display of my insecurities and means that I try to leave my mark (the same way I forget pieces of jewelry everywhere), but I can't deny that I have certain Santa-tendencies.  Then, in one of my extremely wise moments, I realized two things.  One: I'm trying to anxiously fit myself into a category, because I hope it will be a relief, to finally have rules in something as slippery and amorphous as love. This should be the manual I've been desperately looking for! Two: All love languages come basically come down to one: being there. You're there through your ki...

Dear future hubster, I think a sub-category of the famous "people come and people go" needs to be acknowledged for present and future generations. Inspirational people are no different. People who influence your life, whether you know them personally or not, are no different. They will leave. Some will die on you, some will walk out of your life. You will be standing there, angry at life for those who passed away, and angry at those who walked away.  You shouldn't. In either case, there is nothing you can do to turn it back around. They showed up in your life, did what they were supposed to do, and left. What you learned from and because of them, how your view on the world, life, love and yourself changed, is yours.  Now have a look at all those lessons - their legacy, if you like -, and pass them on to the people that are still in your life. Be what the lost ones have been to you. 

Dear future hubster, There are many memorable, significant, irrelevant but sweet moments in every relationship. Two of my favourites are: The moment before you first kiss me. That split second when I already know that it's going to happen; when all excitement and anticipation boils up to near explosion point; and The moment when all is said and done, either because we decided that we are going to do this, and invest time and energy in a tomorrow and maybe even a next week together, we're relieved from having made that big decision, and the responsibility feels like a noble one because we chose to bear it; or, because we came to the conclusion, that "this", whatever it may be, can no longer go on, for reasons within and beyond us; we're relieved from having made that big decision, and the feeling of responsibility hasn't even started fading away. Those are deliberating moments, when things appear the way they are, raw, random, senseless, meaningf...