dear future husband, part 3

Dear Future Husband,

Hi. Are you still speaking to me after I practically banished you in my last letter? I was pretty hurt when I wrote that. Truth is, I'm still pretty hurt-y inside--but it's steadily mending, only making appearances when I see or hear certain things that remind me of you in the various forms you've taken.

Most of the time, I'm blissfully content. More than I have been in a long time. Content on my own. In that type of way that scares me a little bit because it's exactly what I wanted--to get to a place where it didn't feel like I needed you anymore. Where I could do it on my own emotionally and financially and spiritually. I can't hug myself very well (which sounds less awkward than "do it myself physically." *Insert snarky laugh*), but I'm learning to be ok with even that. I feel in this for the long haul, unafraid.

I guess the thing is, though... I still want you. There. I said it. ok? I really do want you. Eventually. I want you to be the right man at the right time who likes me in the same way I like him. I want all that perfectly imperfect mushy stuff I said here. Which is what worries me about this level of comfort--that you'll get forgotten along the way as I keep settling into a type of happiness that doesn't require anything but my boys and myself and my writing and my friends. How do I keep wanting you without needing you?

Also, how do I trust I'll find you when my track record as of late seems to indicate that there is generally something glaringly wrong with every man who likes me?  Without meaning to, and yet out of self-defense, I have learned to love everyone but trust no one. I have learned how to be friendly but not to bond. Have no expectations. Make no plans. Assume if you're spiritual, smart, funny, talented, and I find you attractive--you will have no interest whatsoever in me. Either I will not be pretty enough. Or I will be too quirky. Or not quirky enough, if quirky is your thing. Or you might possibly be a big fat liar, liar pants on fire.

Is it any wonder I feel better, safer, more confident on my own?

I really have too much to be doing to be worrying about this, right? Like six personal essays to write, and three critical essays, and one advanced thesis proposal, and polishing up both my Fiction and Poetry portfolios, and locating the source of this mystery smell coming from my family room which I'm pretty sure is some dead animal in my chimney...

I guess this is just a heads up that when all the stars have aligned and it's time for you and I to finally get together (I'm picturing me carrying a bundle of packages and you crashing into me with your Dutch bicycle and turns out the packages were filled with live doves and the lids burst open and the doves fly free while we laugh through our mutual concussions) --you might have to bring along a rolled up newspaper and hit me up alongside my (concussioned) head to get my attention because while my trust and heart might able to be pried opened again with a  sustainable amount of effort and time (and dark chocolate), if it's anything less than a bike wreck with a dove release followed by a newspaper bonk...I might miss it. I might miss you.

Don't let that happen, alrighty?

Ok--now go keep doing awesome stuff and I'll do the same. True love will find us in the end, at least that's what the song at the top of my playlist says. See ya when I see ya, baby.

Love,
Me