A Horrible Day
One of my favourite things to read on the internet are Peter Dewolf’s letters to his future wife, not necessarily knowing whom that future wife might be. They are sweet and hilarious and smart. In fact, I challenge anyone to read through them and not want to marry him at least a little bit. This week, Peter challenged his readers to write letters to their future spouses. With my own future husband no longer a work of fiction (although he’s so darned awesome sometimes I wonder) I couldn’t resist the challenge!
Dear Future Husband,
Someday we will have a terrible, horrible, no good day.
Someone will get demoted, the kids will just be real jerks, we’ll have to take the dog to the vet, Stephen Harper V 3.0 will win the election, someone will die, I will forget to do that thing I keep promising I’ll do – again. You’ll start to seriously wonder if it’s on purpose. If I was, in fact, just put on this earth to deliberately find ways to frustrate you.
So basically we will be cranky. Real cranky.
We will both feel a little mean and small and fed-up.
With no one else around at the end of the longest day, and no energy or ability left to accept things with grace, or laugh it off, or just go the heck to sleep and do things better tomorrow, we will turn on each other. And we will fight.
We won’t fight fair, either.
We will prod at tender places and spit salt and lemons into secret little cuts. Seeds and all.
Odds are, I won’t swear, or call you names, but I’ll find some way to take a dig.
Then we’ll circle each other warily. Tired but stubborn. Nursing our hurts. Not ready to let go.
If you weren’t so mad at me, you’d probably just stare in some combination of fascination and abject horror as I work myself into a most unreasonable lather, and stalk around the place like a thundercloud.
It won’t be adorable. In fact, you’ll probably never be less attracted to my mean little face. And let’s face it, you won’t be looking so hot to me either.
A horrible day.
But here’s the thing, Future Husband.
I’m kind of looking forward to it.
Or, I suppose, more accurately, to what comes next.
I’m looking forward to that moment when we’ve seen each other’s ugliest, meanest, maddest faces. When we’ve been comfortable enough to let a glimpse of our very most shameful worst be laid out on the table, when we have been our absolute hardest to love.
And we decide that it’s not so bad.
That if this is our worst, our best or even our average more than makes up for it.
And we choose to let it go, or be the bigger person, or take our turn to back down.
I’m looking forward to the day that we’ve chosen each other every day for years.
And we choose each other again.
Horrible days and all.