When the clock strikes twelve, after everyone has counted down from ten, in that awkward moment when I have no one to kiss, I think of you. I haven’t met you yet.
Right now you might be in a relationship. That’s fine. I haven’t met you yet. Since you’re my husband, I’m assuming you two will break up at some point. I’m sorry. I hope that if she breaks your heart, you get all your questions answered. If you’re the dumper, I hope you do the same for her. I hope she doesn’t break you down completely, leave you with scars and—the worst part—questions that linger and drift in your mind and cause rifts in the parts that should be healthy and clean . I would like you whole, if I can. But I love you, after all, so I’ll take you any way I can.
Maybe you’re not in a relationship. Maybe you’re single, like me, and you go to movies alone and sit at the single’s table at weddings and bear all these little, micro-abrasions that aren’t uncommon or unnatural but somehow make a person feel left and a little less loved. If that’s your case, I’m coming. I’m coming, babe — I’m looking. Keep looking for me, too.
But darling, take that last bit with a grain of salt — because I get scared. I don’t put myself out there, not enough. We average looking girls hid behind books and words and smarts, thoughts and dreams. I’m generous of myself only with friends. You’ve got to get past that. You must.
My last love was the type where we both knew we’d never end up together in the end. But it was good; it was grand. He was nice and he taught me not to stereotype men. You should know that.
When we meet, don’t stress over your opening line. “Hello” works fine. “What comes after ‘Hello’” you ask? Don’t ask me. I’m just as hopeless as you are. Ask me about what I’m reading, I guess. Just please just be exactly as you are. Actually, be as you are, all the time. Be anxious, be lonely, be funny and sad. That’s how I’ll know you, that’s how I’ll recognize you when we meet. You’ll be the anxious one.
I hope I remember to be patient. I have to remember to give second chances. What if I’m grumpy when I meet you? What if we meet at the airport and you judge me for my lululemon leggings and holey old converse? What if we meet on the subway and don’t make eye contact? What if we meet, heaven help us, in the morning?
I hope you tolerate my occasional but obsessive bouts of Modest Mouse playing.
I hope you love food enthusiastically, because I love to cook. I hope you read and I hope you like music, but not all the same stuff as me. Because that would be boring. I hope you love terrible dancing, because I have no rhythm, but love to dance in the kitchen when I think no one’s looking. I hope you like long emails. What am I saying? What is all this? Of course you do. You’re my husband.
I hope that when you go to buddies’ bachelor parties, you’re respectful and tip the strippers well. I hope you’re the kind of person who’s efficient in airports, has good friends that love you, and sees beauty in small things. I hope you’re the older sibling in your family. I hope we have that in common.
Be patient, and wait. Become the best version of yourself. Learn everyday. Change a little bit, because change is good. Read things. Say hi to the girl. Just hi, please. She might be me.