Dear future hubster

Dear future hubster, ever since Dr. Simon recommended that I dance to my own beat when stressed, emotional, overwhelmed, or simply need to express things I have no other way to express, I have been practicing rather regularly. I would describe my style as a mix of all 3 belly dancing moves I know, some good old headbanging, shaking everything Mother Nature gave me to shake, some poor imitation of line dancing moves and what I think should be polka if it was more elaborate, some jumping and fist-pumping and pointing other people do at concerts (where I normally just stand still), and of course dramatic moves to accompany my stadium anthem singing. You might refer to it as "versatile" if you ever have to discuss it.  Now why I'm telling you all this is because I want you to be warned: whenever I take a second Monday off and say that I don't have anything special planned, please know that most likely you will come home to some kind of soup enough to feed the Dothrak...

Dear future hubster, working in flexspace teaches me many things, and routinely disinfecting every morning is just one of them. It shows me, if occasionally somewhat forced analogies with life in general. It is probably not surprising that I have a selection of tried and confirmed locations where I like to sit. It is definitely not surprising that I do not like being told where to sit. It is understandable that untried locations feel like they are outside my comfort zone, and I only move to new ones on days when I feel I'm up for a little challenging stretch.  Now there are days when I move far away from my usual locations. Maybe for more quiet, maybe for more pleasant climatic conditions, maybe for discovery. Or maybe, just maybe, sometimes I withdraw just to see if anybody would notice I'm not around. If anybody would make the effort to come look for me.  Almost like saying "You're missed". And maybe not just at work. 

Dear future hubster, a week ago I started creating a Spotify playlist. I called it Resistance , and now I can't rename it, because apparently, you can't do that with Spotify playlists, you would have to delete the whole thing and start a new one with a new name. If I could rename it, I would probably call it We're Still Here.  I think it's fitting for this end-of-the-year season, to say "this is me, and I'm not going anywhere, so deal with it". This year has not been easy. Not for the world, not for me. It was rewarding, it taught us many things, it got us to places, but easy it was not. Still, we managed to get this far - the last day of the year (unless you're in East Asia or somewhere in the Pacific, in which case, Happy 2019, dear future hubster), and plan to carry on. We're still here, and we are who we are, only a little more experienced than this time last year.  There is a chance that 2019 won't be much easier. Hell it may b...

Dear future hubster, the rules for being my flatmate are quite simple: 1. Coffee in the morning comes before everything and everyone else. 2. Accept it as a fact that I don't have too many shoes. 3. Only put the bottle of alcohol back in the fridge if it still has a visible amount left in it. Otherwise just empty it and get me a new one.

Dear future hubster,  when you finally decide to show up, and I convince myself to settle down for a while (don't even ask me to settle down forever, that's way too unnerving, let's just start with a few years at the time), and we can finally have a fully equipped kitchen, please be prepared to have plates that insult you and your guests, weird Danish pinboards and unicorn-shaped cushions, and potentially mugs that promote Trudeau 2020. I come with an eclectic style, yes.