Dear Maybe Someday Husband,
I’m really mad at you.
Yes, I know that’s not fair, since you’re not here to defend yourself, and technically you didn’t do anything, but occasionally I’m going to be mad at you without good reason so you might as well get used to it now. I’ll calm down and we’ll sort it out later, but for now, I’m ready to throw a few punches. And you just have to deal with it.
I’m angry because you’re missing it. You’re missing my life.
No, this isn’t about going to weddings alone or not having someone to buy me roses. Those things would be perks of having you around, but for me they’re not anger-worthy. I have friends who kill the dreaded spiders for me and a roommate who will make us Moscow Mules and play MarioKart and watch playoff hockey with me until we agree we should be responsible and go to bed. Most of the time, I really don’t care that you’re not here. I’m doing just fine.
And I’m doing whatever I want, which I know is a luxury. A married woman was quick to remind me of that recently when my singleness came up, and I assured her that I am well aware that marriage comes with a set of restrictions like checking with someone’s schedule and your agreed-upon budget before you spontaneously go skydiving. I’m appropriately appreciative of my independence, thank you very much.
And the sex…well, let’s just say I don’t really know what I’m missing, so that’s just a passing annoyance. Every once in a while I do think, “Hmm. This would be a time to have sex if someone was here for that. Oh well,” and I move on. I will say that although I can’t speak as an authority, I’m pretty sure you are missing out on some really good times, so keep that in mind.
So what is the problem?
You’re missing all the things that are happening, and all the people around me. You’ll never meet my grandparents, or one of my best friends. You won’t be able to remember that time we all did something ridiculous and laughed until we cried. You won’t know to tell me I did the right thing when I’m feeling the tough consequences of a long-past decision. You won’t be able to help me remember the moments and feelings that depression is wiping from my memory. You can’t tell stories of me when I was young and foolish when we are old and boring. You won’t know about this plain, early-May evening, sitting out on the patio, looking up at the new leaves, drinking tea and thinking about life.
Sure, I’ll tell you about it. I’ll tell you all my stories until you can tell them better than I. But I won’t know what I’m leaving out, and you will never have experienced those moments. You won’t have lived them.
I’m really mad at you for missing my life. And I suppose for me missing yours.
I’ll get over it, obviously. But I thought you should know.
If you ever do show up, could you bring another bottle of vodka? We’re running out.
I’m sure I will love you if you ever read this,
Your Maybe Someday Wife