Nico Lang: A Closed Letter for My Future Husband

Dear Future Husband,

I hope you exist.

However, if you do, I don’t know if I’m ready to meet you right now. I’m still young, dumb and kind of a mess. I don’t own a checkbook, and if I do, I don’t remember ever procuring it. I never do laundry and will insist on recycling it until it fails “the smell test.” I talk too loud, walk too fast, talk too fast, always forget to put the toilet seat down and have a habit of knocking over everything in my path. I have quit smoking approximately twelve times and will probably quit at least two hundred more over the course of our relationship. My breath always smells like coffee, and it takes me an hour to get out of bed in the morning. For the first hour of the day, I am a total jerk and will blame everything on you.

I’ve got lots of flaws, and I plan on keeping a lot of them. But someday, I’m going to make you so happy you won’t be able to stand it.

I’ve been thinking about you all of my life, where I might meet you, what you might look like and if you also think that Sporty was completely underrated as a Spice Girl. (Hint: The answer is always yes.) I’ve thought about what I might say when I meet you, what your name could be and whether I’ll ever be able to get your family to like me. (I have a bad track record in this department.)

I want to meet your mom, your sisters, your zany aunt, your zany aunt’s zany aunt and any other weird relatives you deem introduce-able. I want quarters pulled from behind my ears and a stocking with my name on it, one that your mother swears she didn’t take a long time hand stitching.

Full disclosure: I really hope it has a gingerbread man on it.

I don’t know a whole lot about kids, how many kids we should have, if I even want kids, if I even like kids, if I can even have kids after the number my family did on me. Do I want to perpetuate the cycle? Do I want to adopt? Will my children learn French, German or Spanish?

God only knows. But I want to live a life filled with love, and if you want to bring kids into our lovefest, I think I’m fine with that. But if you go down this path, know that I will be the craziest, most over-protective, nutrition-obsessed soccer parent this side of a Sandra Bullock movie. Get ready for it.

I will pack their lunches. I will cut off their crusts. I will personally screen every R-rated film they see before they see it. I will drop them off at whatever niche interest summer camp we are paying way too much to send them to. I will teach them what Garrison Keillor is. I will hold their hand when they get stood up at the dance. I will kill their first ex with an ax sharpened just for the occasion. I am going to be a character from a Jonathan Franzen novel, but I hope you can love me anyway.

Those kids are going to know every second of every day that someone has their back, that someone is off somewhere psychotically obsessing about their safety, that someone has loved them so much that they will spend the rest of their life in therapy working it out. And if that means I have to join the Harper Valley PTA and wear Mom Jeans, I will do it with tits on.

Also, I know a lot of people are doing the kids outside of marriage thing, but I’m not sure if I’m that kind of person. I have no clue why; some people think I’m old fashioned, but I think that I was brainwashed by 7th Heaven. And I know I always publicly insist that I don’t want to get married, that I’m not sure if I could be monogamous, that I don’t think human beings are capable of not cheating on each other all the time, but I want to be wrong. I’ll be waiting for you to prove me wrong — counting down the hours, minutes, seconds until you do.

I am still unclear about how gay weddings work, as I’ve never been to one. Is there still a bouquet? Do we get bridesmaids? Will Melissa McCarthy be there? Who walks down the aisle with whom? Do I get cold feet or do you? Do we both have bachelor parties? Do they still play “Here Comes the Bride?” Could they play “Anarchy in the U.K.” instead?

However, I want to figure it out with you. I’ve never planned a wedding, as I missed out on that part of the queer genetic package, the part that also is supposed to make me see why people like Ke$ ha so much. But I think we can do this thing. I think we are cut out for it, and I can’t wait, especially for that awkward moment where we have our first married people kiss and we can’t figure out how much we are allowed to kiss each other. I’m going to kiss you so hard, every minute of every day for the rest of your life. I don’t care if it’s “church appropriate” or not.

I also don’t know anything about wedding receptions, but I know I don’t want a DJ, as I think that the B-52s deserve better than drunken, middle-aged, tulle-covered writhing. I always thought that having wedding troubadours would be perfect, especially if said troubadours know how to play “Digital Love” by Daft Punk on their guitars. I know we’re supposed to dance to Frank Sinatra or some shit for our first dance, but something about French electronic music just makes me feel romantic.

You should probably be warned that I can’t dance for shit and tend to resemble Elaine from Seinfeld when I try. So this reception thing might be a nightmare for your feet. However, if you’ve ended up with me, I’m guessing from my full-frontal nerdity that you can’t dance either. Afterwards, we can just rub each other’s feet before we enjoy a wedding night bonanza of naked Twister, sexual relations and Arrested Development. (However, if you would prefer we watch Gilmore Girls while we make the sex, I’m fine with that as well. As long as there’s Sour Patch Kids, popcorn with the kettle seasoning sprinkled on it and Raisinettes involved, we’re all good.)

After we get married, I can’t wait to get older with you, especially that part when we get to be an old married couple. I am not really a fan of the parts where we dress the same and fight all the time, but I like the things about finishing each other’s sentences and being able to know what the other person is thinking, even before they think it. However, I always want to be able to learn new things about you, to find out something exciting and unexpected that I never knew before, like that you always secretly liked Full House because it reminded you of your family. I want to build those houses and families with you; I want to grow with you, like interconnected vines winding up a tall oak tree.

I don’t believe in God, unless I get into an airplane and we hit turbulence or the Cincinnati Bengals are down by a touchdown after the two-minute warning. However, I’m not scared of what happens after we get old, when our bodies have had enough life. I just hope I’m with you, to be the last thing you see before you go to wherever it is old people go. I always kind of hoped it was out to the farm where my goldfish and dogs went, a place where you can run and play with all the other old people. But wherever you go, I hope I can go with you. I hope we have legs so we can run together. I hope I can still hold your hand.

You don’t know any of this right now, and I probably haven’t even met you yet. When I do, I hope you will understand about the life you’re getting yourself into, about the clustercuss of family and friends you will also be dating, about my Tracy Flick-like work habits and my over-obsessiveness about everything. I hope you’re waiting for me at home with a cup of coffee ready and my computer all booted up — because you understand that these things are a part of me. I can’t wait for you to be a part of these things, too, a part of me I can’t live without.

But I hope, wherever you are, you know some of these things about yourself, too. I hope you have your own letter, just waiting for me in a drawer somewhere.

I can’t wait to read it.

Love,

Nico

Note: This piece was originally posted on In Our Words, and you can find the original here.

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