A Letter to My Future Husband

Dear Future Husband,

My dad always told me I wasn’t allowed to date until I was married. So either we eloped at first glance or you somehow managed to win him over. I’m hoping for the latter.

You must have done a number on me, too, to make me believe in love again. And I don’t mean that rapid-heart-beat, room-spinning, butterflies kind of love. I mean that can’t-eat, can’t-sleep, reach-for-the-stars, over-the-fence, World Series kind of stuff.

You know, the kind of love where you’re able to quote Mary Kate and Ashley movies with me.

I’d like to think we have this romantic story of how we met: we were both reaching for the same organic avocado at Whole Foods, or we got stuck on the same elevator one night. Although, let’s be honest. If you’re my husband, the more likely story is you helped clean up the coffee I spilled all over you and the barista at Whole Foods, or you helped me untangle the hem of my pants that I’d gotten stuck in the crevasses of an escalator. You know I can be a little clumsy that way.

I may have brushed you off at first. You may have thought I was playing hard to get. But the truth is, I have zero game.

I probably offered to cook you dinner one night, and I probably set off the smoke detector, which probably woke up the whole apartment complex and left my place smelling like burnt popcorn for the next few weeks, because that’s probably the side dish I would have served with our grilled cheese. So we probably ate out after that.

You may have made reservations at a really nice restaurant, which you’d regret the second you picked me up, because I really don’t know how to dress for those occasions. But then you’d feel relieved, because if you’re my husband, we both don’t care too much for fancy restaurants anyway. Maybe we picked up two pints of ice cream, two spoons, and sat in the back of your truck with a really romantic backdrop. Like an empty field full of wide-open spaces, because you know how I like the Dixie Chicks and anything that reminds me of home.

And maybe you laughed or looked away when the ice cream dripped down my shirt, because you know that happened at least once, but more than likely you let some dribble down your chin too, just to let me know that being messy isn’t a flaw. Its just part of who I am.

And we probably talked a lot after that. About all the important things: your favorite brand of salsa and if its ok to wear fanny packs anymore and do narwhals really exist and what would you change your name to if you had to be named after a type of leafy green vegetable.

But you probably listened to me too. About where I’ve been and the mistakes I’ve made and the roads I’ve taken that have ended up becoming hills I never thought I’d get over. You’d have those stories too. The kind you think you’re supposed to hide, because who could ever love you for them? But you love me for them.

Because here’s the thing:

You and I, we’re more than just two bodies inhabiting this earth. We get that there’s all the things we see—eyes and noses and the dang hair on my toes that I blame on genetics; dog hairs on white carpet and coffee rings on glass tables and toothpaste hardened in marble sinks; sunsets and sunrises that merge into a black infinity littered with holes to heaven. But we also get that along with all we can see, there’s also all the spaces in between that we don’t see—the space between the atoms that make up our bodies; the breaths of air that fill up every room and stain and hollow marble sink; the space between the colors of the sunset that coalesce and convene into the greatest truth of all: love.

We get that, you and I. That in the midst of so much form, so much to see, possibly the greatest gift lies in what we cannot see.

And so really, the only thing that makes sense in this life is to love without judgment. Love freely, love passionately, love willingly and love wholly. And love before romance even throws you a bone—love the grass and the mosquitoes in the Mississippi Delta that sting like daggers in your skin. Love the falls and the scrapes and the bruises because at least they let you know you’re alive. Love the sun and the rain, the heat and the cold. Love unconditionally. Love fearlessly.

So, future husband, if you’re reading this, I hope you’re out there loving this world and all the maddening things in it. I hope you’re making peace with your mistakes, because I sure as hell am. And one day, when I meet you, we can laugh about all the times we thought we were alone.

Because here’s the other thing:

Even if we never meet, we’re never alone. There’s enough love in this world to last a lifetime.

But hey, if you do choose to show up (and I hope you do), know that I make a mean grilled cheese..

Just be sure to bring a fire extinguisher with you when you come.