How I met my husband, part 3

It is a surprisingly hot Finnish summer. Super hot! I don’t know what to do with myself. Every piece of clothing feels too much. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, birds are singing… and all I want to do is stay inside in the shades, because otherwise, I swear, I would melt. It’s Thursday.

“Thursday is a really weird day to go on an evening date.”, she states.

She’s right. But it wasn’t my idea and I was excited to go on a real date – something I never really had before. He said he would take me out for coffee and ice cream in a neat little outdoors café by the river. It sounded nice… or then: it read nice, since all our communication was still limited to SMS.

“What are you going to wear?”, she asks.

“Err…”, I look around in her tiny room that belongs to a shared student flat. We share the room now, my mattress on the floor, her and my clothes partly in backpacks, partly spread around the room. Right now, I am wearing two towels – one wrapped around my body, the other wrapped around my head. Taking a shower had been the best 10 minutes of this hot day so far, but the feeling of being refreshed and clean wore off within seconds. Why is it so hot?

“Err…”, I repeat.

She grabs some of my clothes and tosses them into two piles: possible and impossible.

I take the towel from my head and brush my hair. It’s finally back to its own color, after being red, then black, then violet, back to black, and then this seemingly endless phase of  ‘growing out’ your own color again: “stray dog blonde” as my cousin and I use to call it. Not really blonde, but not brown either. We both don’t like it, but we both have it.

I look at the two piles. ‘Impossible’ is very big. I don’t usually dress up for anything. I simply pick something clean. This time, it’s a jeans shorts and a gray sleeveless top. Around my hips I tie a cyan lumberjack shirt that once belonged to my mum. What a fashionista I am!

She looks at me strangely.

“Knee socks? With shorts? Are you kidding me?”

I hadn’t even realized. I take them off and switch them for sneaker socks. Then I slip on my checkered gray sneakers. I don’t own any sandals. Or ladylike shoes.

“Make up?”, I wonder. I wasn’t wearing any usually, but then again, this occasion for once was not ‘usually’. However, the make up would probably just melt right off, leaving me looking even worse than with no make up in the first place. Argh… it’s hot!

“Maybe a little.”, she offers.

Okay then… blush seems unnecessary: the heat made my whole head blush anyways. So I went with a little powder and mascara. Done.

“You gonna do your hair?”, she asks.


I run my hands through my hair. Stupid stray dog blonde hair. But at least finally strong and healthy. As I lower my hands, it falls back in place, just long enough to reach my collar bone.

“A ponytail?”, I ask – my one and only hair style, besides ‘open’, ‘messy’, and ‘messy bun’.

She tilts her head and lifts her eyebrows in disapproval.

“Just leave it as it is.”, she advises.

Some deodorant, some perfume. One of my biggest fears is to be smelly. I don’t care for unstylish, but unhygienic is a no-go. Speaking of hygiene… I go brush my teeth.

I never prepared for a date with a friend before. It’s funny to see how abuzz she is, for she knows him way better than I do, and she knows me much longer than him. She seems so confident in her role as cupid.

I step out of the bathroom and give her an insecure look.

“You look beautiful.”, she says. “You always do.”

I smile and reach for my phone.

He said he would pick me up after taking a shower after work, around four thirty, maybe five. I check the clock. It’s twenty past four. I can feel my heart rate building momentum.

What do I even expect from this date?


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