An Open Letter To My Future Husband

Dear Future Husband:*

I will love you a lot and I will love you well, but there’s something you should know:

I’m way too weird for most people. People who will probably include your parents and at least some of your friends.

A Limited and Highly Incomplete List of My Weirdness

I drink green juice in the morning. It’s noisy to make and full of kale and spinach and other things that have no earthly business in juice. It’s also a little alarming how deeply I enjoy mutilating perfectly innocent produce with a loudly-whirring motor.

I had hippie parents and the hippie does not skip a generation. I will talk a lot about meditation and life purpose and love for all things and will probably be really damn annoying about it.

Alcohol and sugar and dairy and meat are slowly making their way out of my life. Apparently, being the high-maintenance vegan girl who asks about almond milk makes me feel better. My days as a ravening sugar beast are winding to a close. This doesn’t mean I won’t turn around and demand bacon and coffee and blueberry pancakes on a sunny Sunday morning. You’ve been warned.

I can be a lot of fun. I can be very quiet. You’ll never know which it’s going to be, but if we’re together we’ll probably be having lots of fun.

You’re the one I want to tell things when they happen, the big things and the little ones. You probably have smart, kind, insightful things to say on most topics and I will really appreciate that about you.

I laugh a little too loudly sometimes and get really excited about things that confuse people, like random architectural details or leaves in heart shapes or monsters in kilts or the fact that I just saw a frog face in a grate. You will have to stop and wait as I take pictures of all these things and you’ll have to keep waiting as I post them on Twitter, because that’s what I do.

You don’t have to be on Twitter.

We will have conversations where I claim I’m a superhero. When you ask what my superpowers are, I’ll reply, “I’m armed with the power of whimsy, yo.” You need to find this endearing or it’ll be a really long life.

My quirks make you happy. Your quirks make me happy.

I’m very sensitive. This is now officially your problem. I’m pretty good at managing it on my own, but help is almost always appreciated. I accept help in the forms of listening, dinner made, dishes done, hugs given, back rubs offered, and sex-based distraction.

I reciprocate. When your things crop up, I will be the most supportive ever. Dinners made, back rubs given, sex-based distraction offered. You’re welcome.

I will love you a lot, but sometimes my head gets muddled by life or emotions and I forget how to show it. Or you might think that I don’t for a few days because forgetting happens. But I do. Always.

I love best when I feel safe. I feel safe with you.

Love,

Me

* Note: We don’t have to get married. But I’m way past wanting more boyfriends and whenever I say partner, people think I’m gay. I guess I’ll just go ahead and keep calling you My Person. We will be best friends and lovers and companions in whacked-out adventure and all of the words, but none of them capture exactly what I want that relationship to be. Because I want it to be everything. But in a healthy, independent, happy-as-long-as-you’re-happy, content-to-wander-off-and-do-our-own-thing-when-occasion calls sort of way. Yeah. That.