Welcome to Saturday morning, future husband

If you read Peter Dewolf's blog, you're likely familiar with his series where he writes letters to his future wife. Well, Peter decided to challenge his readers to write their own future spouse letters, and for some reason I decided to take him up on it. I guess I thought it would be good to force myself out of my comfort zone - you know, by somehow trying to incorporate my signature cynicism in with his signature nauseatingly romantic series.

He clearly got the "challenge" part right, because it took me a long time to even start writing this post. But better late than never, I suppose. Here goes.

Hello, sexy future husband,

I'm excited that you're here. Because if you are, it means I've found someone so insanely, incredibly awesome that I was willing to share with you not only the rest of my life, but the other half of my bed.

I'm sorry about the bed thing, by the way. I know you hate that I insist on sleeping as far away from you as possible, but rest assured it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the fact that I'm a finicky sleeper and I want to get my requisite 10 hours so I can be all the more pleasant tomorrow.

What's tomorrow, you ask? Nothing big, just a regular Saturday. I imagine the morning will go something like this:

I roll out of bed sometime around 10:30 and see that you, truly my better half, managed to get up and go to the gym before I even woke up, and now you're sitting on the couch, eating some eggs and listening to NPR. I stop to say good morning on my way to brush my teeth, and manage to fake-whine about a) ew, you're still gym-sweaty, b) why didn't you make meeeee some breakfast even though you know very well that I don't like eggs?

You respond by grabbing me into a sweaty bear hug, and then going to the kitchen where you pull out a box of Lucky Charms that you bought for me on your way back from the gym.

This is why I love you.

So you eat your eggs and I eat some Lucky Charms (dry, picking out all the cereal bits first while separating the marshmallows into separate piles on our coffee table). I sit annoyingly close to you, watching over your shoulder as you do your fantasy football or baseball or whatever that I still don't understand or care for despite your 100 attempts to explain it to me or get me involved. I will insist on interrupting to tell you that there are only 3 shooting star marshmallows in my bowl of Lucky Charms yet there are 17 pots o' gold and AGAIN there seems to be some kind of weird new marshmallow and I would be able to tell what it is if only I wasn't too lazy to go get the box.

You look at me in that way you often do, which seems to say, "You are so completely weird but somehow I still find you adorable." And then you quickly grab all 7 horseshoes and stuff them in your mouth. You bolt off to take a shower before I can land a punch on your arm.

As we get ready for the day, we discuss who else is going to be at this day-drinking birthday party, and how best to get there from our Brooklyn apartment. I become quiet for a moment and then say, "Hey! I bet that when we get back here, I'll be drunk enough that I can fall asleep even while cuddling! GET EXCITED!"

You laugh and grab my ass. And then we head out.