Dear future hubster

Dear future hubster, after a certain age, long days of driving will inevitably result in sore lower and upper back, heavy arms and a generally cranky mood.  Meaning that when we are driving for long days, I will feel dirty, exhausted, and just beaten up. And will complain that my everything hurts.  You may try providing a solution to this by offering a massage (which, I suppose, is a speciality of yours), and I may hiss at you "Don't touch me!", because I'm sweet that way.  However, if you do manage to touch me and you do have The Touch, and my weary body will magically feel lighter, I will be very grateful. And I mean very grateful.

Dear future hubster, I was singing in the car (it was a long solo drive), and when Adele came on, I thought about how I cried over Someone Like You a few times. Who didn't? Anybody who didn't, needs to see a professional, and urgently so. That song is the reason why a Top 10 of Songs to Belt out in the Car While in Tears list should exist. Anyhoo, I thought about how raw the whole song sounds, and how she just says it as it is, and everybody (except those who need to see a professional, and urgently so) could relate to it and was haunted by it for months when it came out.  And how it still is beautiful and very, very much spot on, but it doesn't hurt anymore. Because both Adele and I and most of the others have reached a different level of emotional maturity. Very comforting a thought it was.  Then I cried a little over Harry Styles. Different times, different signs. 

Dear future hubster, when you notice that I finally started assembling the shelving unit I bought months ago, don't just assume that I finally overcame my laziness, and assessed the temperature as bearable for such endeavour.  That may as well be true, but there is a high chance of furniture assembling being either the trigger or the symptom of some mild existential crisis. Spiced up with an anti-feminist moment.  That, or I'm re-evaluating my shoe stocks. 

Dear future hubster, as an unexpected heatwave has hit the isles, I was yet again reminded that in summer I often have troubles sleeping. Whether this is solely a result of the temperature or has something to do with summer often being transition time remains to be determined. Maybe it's simply an opportunity for long, soul-searching discussions, from sunset till sunrise. So open the windows, bring on the chilled sangria, and let's talk about life and love and the meaning of it all. 

Dear future hubster, I think I totally rock this adulting thing. I remember not to wear white when attending functions with high probability of wine presence, and, therefore, wine spillage. That's what they call responsible behaviour, no?