Dear future hubster

Dear future hubster, I've been wondering about this whole independent girl thing. (Yeah, Emma Watson at the Assembly General, and Sandra thinking I'm becoming too independent may have something to do with that.) Thing is, most of the time my actions, especially the ones that seem brave, bold, crazy or just weird are trigerred by others. Usually men. Either I do something because a man told me I can, or because he told me I can't. 

Dear future hubster, not that I'm planning on doing it any time soon, but I heard everybody dies one day. Should you be still around when it happens to me, please make sure you have a party rather than a ceremony for me. And by party I mean open bar and tacky music. 

Dear future hubster, for your information, I can park the big white jeep, backwards, as Svetoslav taught me, even when five men, all in different uniform, are watching me in disbelief.

Dear future hubster, if you ever wondered just how much water one needs to clean themselves after a long day and a decent workout, I can tell you that an average (not that I ever associate that adjective with myself in any way, see also the infamous pickup line of Sir László "I like average girls", but for scientific purposes I can agree to its use here) female body requires 4.5 liters.

Dear future hubster, whenever I arrive to a new and thus unfamiliar airport, I get intimidated. I always think I've seen it all, but the same old stores are suddenly arranged in a different way, I have to figure out how the taps and hand dryers in the bathroom work, sometimes even the money isn't what I'm used to... it can be unsettling. So I go back to the shell of my shy self and retire to a corner somewhere. Then, in that relatively quiet corner I pull out my good old Nick Hornby and very quickly become what I like being, the usual weirdo, laughing out loud in a corner, comfortably, blissfully ignoring the noisy overwhelming world around.