Dear Future Husband,
It’s been a year since I started writing and well, you’re still somewhere trippin’ and not here. I stopped writing you a long time ago because honestly, I kinda stopped thinking about you. I know, I know. You’re probably saying, “Oh, you’re just gonna give up on me like that?” and the answer is yes, yes I am. You’ve had plenty of time and opportunity to show up. Also, it hasn’t hurt that one of my friends, who’s already been married twice and is obsessed with finding a third husband, relocated out of state so is no longer around to constantly bring up the issue of men and marriage. So you just haven’t been my primary focus lately.
Actually, I did attempt to write you back in April. I wanted to talk about love languages. Wondering if you know what yours is and if your primary love language is the same as mine, Acts of Service. What I learned from my last relationship (don’t worry you’ll learn more about that later) is that when you share the same language, loving the other person doesn’t really feel like work at all. It comes naturally because you love the way you want to be loved. But what happens when the love language is different? My guess is that it feels like a stretch assignment for which you weren’t quite ready to perform. Hey, perhaps that’s why we haven’t come into each other’s lives yet. Maybe I’m not ready to do the work required to love someone who doesn’t love like I love, or maybe…you’re not.
Well, until we meet,
Dear Future Husband,
What a busy weekend it’s been. It’s now late Sunday night and I’ve just come in from an all-white day party in the city, thrown by one of the local chapters of my sorority. There were about 500 people in attendance, 400 of us were women. The music was great as were the hors D’oeuvres. I danced by myself, while eating a slice of pizza.
I hoped to meet you there. I hoped that you’d look past the other 399 beautiful women and see me from across the patio. Then you’d make your way over to me and say, “you don’t look like you’re having much fun.” And I’d respond with some witty retort, which you’d think was funny. We’d spend the next fifteen minutes talking, before being pulled away by a buddy of yours, but not before asking for my number. I know this all sounds dreamy, and honestly, though I hoped for it, I knew before I ever made it to the event that it wouldn’t happen. Not because I don’t think it could’ve, because I believe all things are possible. I just knew that it wouldn’t, and had resigned myself to enjoying the event without you.
Well, after two hours of standing and watching the crowds take pics, dance, buy drinks and stand around in huddles talking and laughing, the Holy Spirit said, “You don’t fit in here,” and it was at that point I decided I should leave. Though I love being on the Chicago River on a beautiful Summer evening, He was of course right. I don’t, for many different reasons, fit in with that crowd, so I quietly left the party and made my way home.
Welp, future husb, it’s late and I’m sleepy. so I’ll write you later. Good night.