My husband is not a romantic guy. Not at all. That’s okay – I love him dearly anyway. Either they don’t really teach that swoony kind of romance in Iowa or he skipped that day. At least he didn’t fuss when I invited myself along to the movie for our first date and even agreed to my idea of getting married. He completely let me plan and have my lifelong dream wedding — I wore a DEVO t-shirt, brand new Chucks, and a leather jacket. SIGH. That’s swoonworthy to me.
I am incredibly thankful he is trusting, understanding, tolerant and supportive of my obsession with music, even if it’s not exactly his cup of tea. He has a hard time keeping everyone straight so he’s taken to teasing me and referring to everyone collectively as my “German boyfriends.” Please note that this is an innocent term and no transgressions have occurred. As I’ve been compiling the pieces I’ve written in this blog, I find myself not wanting to make any of my “boyfriends” jealous by writing something longer or more serious about one or the other. Silly, I know. Maybe it’s from being the youngest child of five and wanting things to be fair. Give me time, guys. 🙂
Yesterday I had a rough day and hubby was trying to let me know how much he loved me. This is what he came up with: “Honey, if you go first, I’m going to make a Kathy steak suit out of you, put it on, and then feed myself to a grizzly bear. That way we will forever be co-mingled in bear poo.”
You’re a strange one, honey, but I love the stuffing out of you.