Dear future hubster

Dear future hubster, in this search, this quest to find each other, you might feel hopeless time and again. In the sense that you think you lost all hope of ever finding me. I know I do. I wonder if you're as bad with directions as I am, and hope that somebody someday will give you a map. It's not just the map though, it's the crippling uncertainty, that scary thought of "how do I know?".  I don't know how you know it; I don't know if you or anybody ever really knows .  But here's an advice I got from a friend: when you meet somebody who makes you feel at ease, in your comfort zone, safe to be yourself, wanting to be a better version of yourself, and who also makes you want to rip their clothes off more often than not, you know what you do? You effing marry them. 

Dear future hubster, recent, non-representative research found further indicators that increase the likelihood of somebody being categorized as "my type". They also increase the likelihood of me being categorized as superficial, but hey, science requires sacrifices. It would appear from the findings that those additional attributes of the person of interest are: great hair, and cool socks.

Dear future hubster, it is a common advice and life philosophy, based on a true story, to look for the helpers. And it's a good one. They are there. However. We usually evoke this wisdom and/or hand out this comforting line in times of big troubles. Natural or human-made disasters, large-scale tragedies. The helpers we're looking for are saving lives, point literally.  We tend to forget that we need helpers in times of smaller troubles. A hard day is hard, a heartbreak sucks, loneliness kills. So does chronic stress. There is no shame in looking for the helpers on a less than tragic day.  And they are there. The helpers are always there, even when they are not literally saving lives. They bring you a coffee, or maybe they spill their coffee on you, they smile at you on the ferry, they tell you about their incredibly boring weekend so you don't have to talk about yours, they tell you to give exactly zero flying fucks, they send you cat videos. Make no mistake, dear ...

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. 

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.