dear [future husband.]

Originally published on The Well Written Woman.

~~~

Dear Future Husband,

When I wake up in the mornings, I am UP. Like, the-birds-chirping-outside-your-window kind of up. Sometimes it takes a few snooze buttons, sometimes it comes later than I anticipated, but as soon as my feet hit the carpet, I am like a kid on Christmas. Even when it’s Monday and I have back-to-back meetings until 4, I am excited to start my day. I sing in the shower, I dance while I make my coffee, and I cannot wait to talk to someone, anyone. Get ready.

When I say I don’t want anything for my birthday, I have never told a bigger lie.

I can crack every joint in my body. I do it often, I do it loudly, I do it absentmindedly. Yes I know it is an irritating sound, yes I know it makes me look anxious, and yes I know it will probably cause my fingers and knees to crumble beneath me one day, but I still do it. And if my bones shrivel up in my very body, you will take care of me. And you will type out all of my tweets for me.

Coffee. Every day. No questions asked.

Some days, I am the most go-getter, type-A, productive lunatic who’s Post-it notes have Post-it notes, and who’s to-do lists have to-do lists. And other days, I want to lay in bed and watch Netflix until my eyes burn. Variety is the spice of life.

I will never understand sports. But I will also never get sick of you teaching me. So that works out, yeah?

Sweats. I wear them, I look good in them, and you love me in them. ‘Nuff said.

“Sure” = the worst four-letter-word I have ever heard. Don’t believe me? Watch my face when you say it.

I will sacrifice double-ply toilet paper and name brand shampoos in an effort to save money, but don’t you ever buy the grocery store’s version of Diet Coke. It’s the real deal or the cold shoulder. The choice is yours.

Call me out on my crap. I do this thing where I pretend that I’m not an idiot sometimes. But if I’m acting like an idiot, tell me so. And then strategically place flowers on my desk as soon as you can in order to avoid any further damage to either of our egos.

Overturned cups on the kitchen floor = huge bugs that can’t wait to meet the bottom of your foot.

I have no idea how to get anywhere, even if I’ve driven there a dozen times. I need you to be my map, my guide, and my rescue when I accidentally end up on a freeway with no streetlights and a speed limit of 75.

I cry. A lot. Please don’t get frustrated, and please don’t ask me to stop.

If we have a fight, I promise not to run to my closest girlfriends to tell them all about it. There are levels of arguments that simply run too intimately close to our hearts to share with anyone. But if you spend 45 minutes trying to convince me that the movie is better than the book, I’m putting that crap on Facebook. You crazy.

At least once a year, you are required to play hookey with me and spend the day getting lost on a winding road and taking pictures of the sunset.

Speaking of taking pictures, our wedding photos will be the most expensive purchase we ever make. Start buying frames now.

I will always love you and support you, in every decision you ever make. But if you try to wear running shoes with jeans, I might leave you. At least temporarily.

Sincerely,

Rachel