Dear Future Husband,
Remember a long time ago when I used to write letters to you on my old blog, before my old blog cannibalized itself and I wound up with a new blog? And my new blog is, what, three years old now? So it’s not really new anymore? As part of the blog-cannibalization process, those old letters are lost, and I thought maybe I should write a new one, basically because I don’t have anything else to write about. I mean, because it’s important to keep the lines of communication open with an entirely fictional entity, yes? Sure.
So. How are you? I hope you’re having a nice day. My day so far has been okay. I don’t have to work today, sort of. I did have to attend a meeting for work, but that really only took an hour. And the rest of the day is mine to spend at my leisure, so that’s pretty nice. Not as nice as it would be if I didn’t have to attend a meeting, but then, the world is an imperfect place.
Future Husband, I feel like I should apologize in advance. I am a colossal pain. I know this about myself and I’m sorry. I try not to be a colossal pain, but I still somehow always wind up being a colossal pain anyway. I mean, yes, I’m charming and often a hit at parties. But I’m also moody and uncommunicative and when I’m angry, I usually go straight for the jugular, because why waste time? I try to make up for this by being nice most of the time, and I really am nice most of the time, but yes, I’m a pain. I know. Sorry. Really, I am.
I’m messy. I tend to leave things wherever I was last using them, which means that I have stuff everywhere. I’m better about this than I used to be, but I’m just going to tell you now that I have earrings everywhere. Earrings and shoes. And bracelets. And necklaces. And if I do manage to put something away, then I usually can’t find it because why aren’t those earrings in the bathroom? I took them off before I took a shower. Etc. I am often looking for stuff, and I will constantly ask you where my things are, and you won’t know, because how could you? And then I will be irrationally irritated with you for not knowing, though I’ll forgive you as soon as I find it.
Incidentally, I have a lot of stuff. I’m not going to lie. I sometimes daydream about having a house with an extra room that I can convert into a closet. This room would be beautiful. I’d probably keep a chair in there and read books. Even though I tell myself that if I had adequate storage for my extensive collection of clothes, shoes, hats, scarves, gloves, coats and jewelry, the truth is that I know myself, and I’d still leave shoes in the middle of the floor to be tripped over at night. Be careful, is what I’m telling you. I wouldn’t want you to injure yourself.
I’m a restless sleeper and I wake up several times a night. I do not like to cuddle. Please get off me. If I’m cold, I do like to cuddle. Please come closer. You’re a smart man. You’ll figure it out.
I’m pathologically incapable of accepting a compliment in a graceful way, but I still like getting them.
I can be impatient and terribly insensitive. If you interrupt me when I’m writing, I will ignore you. But on the other hand, I don’t mind if you talk about stuff that bores me to death. I think it’s cute when you go on about things that you’re into, even if they’re things I don’t care about in the slightest. I am never going to be interested in football, but I’m good at pretending. I probably won’t answer your emails, and maybe not your texts, either, but I will read them. I will always judge your grammar and spelling, no matter how much I love you. (Correct use of the subjunctive makes me a little weak-kneed.) (And maybe this is a little hypocritical, since I’ve been told I have a weird relationship with commas.)
I will make dinner, but please stay out of my way when I’m cooking. Really, it’s for the best. Do you want to be in my way when I’m wielding sharp knives? I can make a perfect pie crust, by the way. I’m just saying. It’s a skill. Sometimes it may not seem like I’m doing anything, because it looks like I’m just staring into space, but those are also times you should stay out of my way, because usually right after is when I say “I have an idea.” That happens a lot. It often means home-improvement projects are moments away. I hope you’re ready to move some furniture!
Gifts make me uncomfortable, and I despise conversations around Christmas when everyone talks about what they’re buying or what they received. Gifts are lovely things, but I don’t like what seems like enforced present-buying. I’d rather your time and attention than more stuff. Even so, I’ll pay close attention to what you love and I will always find you the perfect thing. I may give it to you at a non-holiday time, just because I’m like that, and I want you to know that you’re on my mind, even at the end of March or the middle of August or whenever else. I’m just about the least romantic person I know, but flowers do make me stupid and gushy. FYI.
I talk in my sleep, I shed more than my dog does, and eating cheese gives me terrible gas (but I love cheese so much, so, um, sorry). I don’t trust dairy milk, so I hope you’re okay with soy or almond, and if not, then you’re on your own, pal. Ordering takeout makes me anxious. I don’t like eating in public. If the book you’re reading looks interesting, I’ll probably steal it before you’re done, but I promise to read it really quickly. I’m a bit obsessive-compulsive and everything I do goes in a certain order. You probably don’t do things in the same order, which will confuse and occasionally upset me, but I’ll do my best to keep it to myself. Sometimes I won’t be able to stand it, though, and I’ll explain how you could do things if you cared about doing them the right way. I’ll admit that it’s fairly annoying. There are times when I’ll antagonize you just because I can; I never really outgrew my pest phase.
So, there it is. Of course, I don’t really believe you exist (you’re a bit like Santa that way), and neither do a lot of other people, since they think I’m gay, because I haven’t met you yet, and I’m terribly picky so I don’t just date for recreational reasons. I’m not gay, even if a few weeks ago, I did stand in my friend Missy’s kitchen and feel her new boobs (they’re pretty fantastic, by the way… modern medicine is a marvel). That’s probably not helping my case any, but really, it’s not like you blame me. You would’ve done the same thing if you were in my position.
The point is, even though you’re probably not still reading because you’re thinking about me feeling up my friend in her kitchen, I started this letter as an answer to a prompt, “Run, and don’t look back.” You may do just that. I haven’t known anyone yet who hasn’t, though it’s true I do my fair share of goading. If you surprise me, though, I’ll bake you a pie. Even if it’s blueberry, which I hate.
For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Sherree challenged me with “Run, and don’t look back” and I challenged Ixy with “You didn’t have to try it to know you wouldn’t like it”.
14 thoughts on “an open letter to my future husband”
Loved this! So funny and straight forward. I assumed the prompt was to write a letter to your future husband so it was a nice surprise to see how you did use the prompt which makes the whole thing even more amusing.
Thanks! I started with a really serious idea as a response to the prompt, but I didn’t feel like being really serious, so I thought about what might be more amusing, and this is where I wound up.
Fantastic. I absolutely loved what you did with the prompt. Unexpected, but very honest and real. Well done!
Hi. Thanks for the prompt! I had fun with it.
This was a terrific read.
Love it! This line is great…”when I’m angry, I usually go straight for the jugular, because why waste time?” I’m afraid I may be a colossal pain as well. Maybe I should write an apology letter to my current husband.
Heh. Colossal pains of the universe, unite.
What is it about ordering take out that makes you anxious?
It just seems like a bad thing to do, calling people who are busy at work and asking them to make me food. I know that’s the point of ordering takeout, but I just… I don’t know. I never said I wasn’t a total weirdo.
I’ve always thought people who talk in their sleep should record what they say. Apparently, some famous novelists write their books this way. Or at least it seems that’s what they did when I’m slogging through them.
Maybe I should try that. Though apparently I just mumble and it doesn’t even sound like words. I’m such a boring sleep-talker.
Come over on a link from Trask Avenue. Love the post and if you can find a guy the understands . . .
“I’m pathologically incapable of accepting a compliment in a graceful way, but I still like getting them.”
Grab him. I think the rest will be a piece of pie.