Late at night, when the kids are finally asleep, the lights are dimmed, the phone is off, the dishwasher is humming, the doors are locked, and I’m in bed with my husband, he whispers an insecure, anxious thought:
“You only love me for my body.” He gulps. Are those tears he’s blinking back?
“Oh, stop wiggling and get over here!” I demand. I move closer.
“No! I’m more than just a hot body, you know!” He hugs a pillow to his chest and effectively blocks my embrace.
“No, you’re not. Quit fighting and give in!”
“Seriously, stop being so dramatic and give me what I want!” I yank the pillow away and it sails through the air and nearly kills a cat.
“But…but…!” The whimpering starts anew.
“No buts,” I keep my voice firm. “That’s enough nonsense. Come here.”
And then I stick my freezing ice cold feet in the panini press that is my spouse’s legs. Ahhhhh … Bliss! Then he says,
(Which I think is something over the top like, I’m not just a piece of meat you know! I have feelings and a brain too! I feel so used! It’s hard to understand him when his teeth are chattering and clanging together. For goodness sake, even his teeth are melodramatic).
We’re pretty good at this romance thing, but I understand if you struggle with it. It’s an art form and it takes practice. Sometimes Hubby tries to be romantic too, but I tend to kill it with sarcasm so we just eat some more leftovers and DVR something.
On Valentine’s Day, he usually spends his day in fear at work because he knows I said that it’s just a Hallmark holiday and he does NOT have to observe it, but of course, like any man he wonders if this is a test. Am I serious? Will he come home empty handed only to have me burst into tears? This has happened. This is not pretty. Mascara running everywhere, sobbing echoing through the room, piles of yoga pants being strewn around.
Last year at Mother’s Day, Hubby forgot to do anything. When I mentioned it, his eyes got wide, he broke out in a cold sweat, and he muttered, “I thought you said it was just a Hallmark holiday, riddled with commercialism?!”
“That’s Valentine’s Day. Not Mother’s Day. Do I need to go over the birth stories with you again?” I explained, through my teeth. I proceeded to get out the baby books and go over each pregnancy, complication, and birth in painstaking detail.
Sometimes he gets a little twitchy and gets this haunted look on his face. I don’t know why. Men are an enigma, that’s for sure. I’ll never understand them.
He’ll probably bring me a card. But he better not bring me flowers because that’s a waste of money! Plus I will kill them posthaste. Even cacti run in fear from me. And my hips don’t need any chocolate–my yoga pants mysteriously keep shrinking. And I only like the funny cards, not the mushy, sentimental ones. But it has to be the BEST funny card! You know, the one you find after you’ve read each and every single one at the store?
Actually, it’s probably just best if I find my own card and have him sign it. And after fourteen years of marriage, he had better know I was only kidding about the chocolate.