To my Dear future Husband
I apologise for kicking you in the face when we sleep. Have you ever heard of Capoeira? Well basically it’s a Brazilian kind of fusion between martial arts and dancing that involves a lot of cartwheels, headstands and flying kicks. And judging by the chaotic shambles I find my sheets, duvet, pillow and polar bear (yes I’m 27 and I still sleep with a stuffed toy, go fuck yourself) in every morning, I can only assume I’ve become some sort of Capoeria master in my sleep. I’ve never seen myself sleep (for obvious reasons) but it’s the only conclusion I can draw. Also, I apologise because you’ll have to sleep with a rather large stuffed toy in our marital bed, but he’s been around a lot longer than you and he’s earned his place.
I apologise for singing. All the time. Out of key. And for luring you into a false sense of security, because we will probably already be living together the first time you hear a note out of me. (singing in front of other people is actually one of the few things that terrifies me). But once I start, you can expect daily renditions of your favourite Taylor Swift or Mariah Carey song from the bathroom, kitchen, shower, bedroom, you name it, but especially the car. Man, that place is like a moving karaoke bar. And if I haven’t got the vocal range to mimic the song, I’ll just sing really loudly and even more off-key.
I apologise for my cooking ability. Or more specifically, the lack thereof. I will happily clean and wash up after you cook, but it is one of the few chores I despise. Plus I suck at it. Like really suck. For example, I made frittatas the other day and the first batch I made were charcoal burnt on top and uncooked in the middle. The second batch was better cooked, but the egg was stained from the beetroot (because I left the mix in a bowl in the fridge overnight) resulting in an off-grey frittata. (The next week I just bought frozen meals)
I apologise for the old, faded and saggy underwear I will wear leading up to washing day. And for all the times I can’t be fucked shaving my legs and it looks like I’ve begun the transformation to a human porcupine, but kinda given up half way. But if you can make it up past my legs on those days (maybe even weeks, or months) everything else should be in relative order (thank you laser hair removal.)
I apologise for the times in winter where I decide it’s a good idea to watch bulk Game of Thrones on the couch in my sleeping bag, but when it’s time to get up, decide it’s too cold to get out of the sleeping bag and spend the rest of the afternoon “caterpillaring” my way around the house and trying to talk you into playing sumo sleeping bag wresting with me (it’s a thing, look it up).
I also apologise for the times I will try to crump dance in a much-too-big chipmunk onesie in an attempt to make you laugh (probably because I'm in trouble). I’ll try not to do it in public too often (I’m totally going to do it in public as often as I can).
I apologise because I will always take four times longer than you to come. I can’t help it, I’m just really good at what I do (you’re welcome).
I apologise for the two times per year I will accidently get rip-roaring drunk in public and puke beside, above, or all-over our bed. And then you’ll clean it up and in the morning I’ll wake up cheery and won’t remember it ever happened.
I apologise for not having any sense of direction. Or having the sense to remember direction. On average it will take me ten times of going to the same place before I remember how to get there. And always assume that if we’re going somewhere new, I’m following you and have no memory of where we are or where I parked the car.
Most of what I say is one long, incoherent, tangent from the last thing I said. But rest assured, I probably won’t remember what I said, so I will never expect you to. I’ll also repeat my stories. Or think that I’ve already told you something, when I’ve actually told someone else. Did I mention I repeat my stories?
I apologise for having the memory of a gold fish. If you tell me to remember something, and don’t see my write it down, or electronically record it somewhere and set an alarm, assume I've forgotten.
I also apologise for secretly organising to have the Imperial March music from StarWars play while I walk down the aisle at our wedding. (Although some would argue this was an awesome idea.)
Finally, I apologise because I will never apologise for any of this. You knew what you were getting yourself into. Suck it.