Like A Boss.

I have been thinking lately about how grateful I am for my 20s. I really feel like my 20s are really just a booze-splattered, glitter-covered chrysalis of crazy that I will someday emerge from-- not to be less crazy just... a different kind. Not an insecure-making-up-for-my-childhood-traumas kind. Just... my own natural, short-tempered, overempathic kind. The kind I feel myself becoming more every year. I become more myself every year. I love it. I adore it. Don't get me wrong. I can still do crazy (and oh, btw, people's scared of crazy) but it almost universally works in my favor these days. I feel at peace most of the time and really excited about the future.
The fucking future!! If it's this good now, I just can't imagine what it'll be like when I am even better. Gaah! I just can't wait.

I think about my future husband a lot. I wonder if I know him. If I don't, where will we meet? I hope it's at trivia. I hope it's a great story.

I wonder if he'll see past the dumbass who keeps this blog to the girl who has a really simple dream. I don't say this often but all I really want is to work with kids and talk to them about books and literacy. I want a clean, safe, pleasing home with (a) kid(s)/dog who know both parents love them first, best, and unconditionally and who know that it's ok to be as fucked up as you are, whether it's a lot or not much at all. My feminist friends always want me to have more ambition. I just don't see why my dreams are anybody's business but my own. I mean, money or some sort of... renown? would be nice, I suppose. But everyone has frustrations in their lives and to quote another friend's blog, I would rather be unsatisfied about material things than anything else. I grew up poor. I know how to do poor. I really, really hope he gets that.

I wonder if he'll know that this blog is partially a gift to him, so he can see, in a way that's more effective than any baby album, how I grew to be his wife, someone he could love. Someone who could love him. Like some twisted love letter in snippets and stories for him to laugh at with me. I hope he's a little twisted. I hope he has empathy for the human being who really lived all these things and managed to make them mostly funny stories about some real pain and that he knows the scraps of bitterness passed.

I hope he has a nice laugh. I hope I can tell him that I am so glad he's here randomly while doing dishes after a fight or tell him that I am glad I didn't die before I met him while I am quietly sewing after like three years of marriage. Or that he won't think it's stupid or insane for me to sing about the dogs or memorize Harry Potter.

I hope he is this kind of excited to meet me. I hope he's proud that I only rarely feel impatient for him to get here.

Because if he's not out there. Because if I never find this person, I hope I never forget that I am actual and whole and only getting better. I hope that he appreciates that I would rather be alone than with someone who doesn't get me or makes me sad.
I hope that even if he doesn't exist, he, too, is forever alone, like a boss.