“She’s smokin’ hot,” my husband said one night, as we talked about some new bimbo on a TV series.
While that may sound like something a surfer dude, hipster or hormonal tween might say as a girl walks by in a short skirt, rest assured, my 30-something husband said those words exactly.
I felt my eyebrows shift slightly.
“What’s that face for?” he asked.
“I don’t think you’ve ever described me as ‘smokin hot’. But this girl, she gets that title,” I said.
“It’s different. You’re my wife. You’re -”
“Boring and ho-hum.”
“No. You’re putting words in my mouth. I don’t know her. Of course she’s hot, but she’s also probably annoying as hell in a hundred ways.”
“I can’t be honest with you?” he laughed.
So there it is. My husband doesn’t see me as some steamy porn-worthy slut.
Oh, wait. That’s a good thing, right? I’d like to think I’m the kind of girl a guy (my husband, of course) can be himself with and not the kind of girl who makes a guy (my husband, of course) feel like he has something to prove. Not that I’m saying a guy who’s married several years shouldn’t go the extra mile every now and then. (He should.) I just don’t like to make people uncomfortable.
Be comfortable. Put your feet up.
Is it ok in your marriage to talk openly about people you find attractive?
No, we’re not swingers. And no, that won’t be happening any time soon. Not as long as I’m clear on what year it is and what my name is.
It is fun sometimes, though. I love when I point out a friend of a friend of a friend or a nice, funny dad at my son’s school who I think is cute and my husband says…
“What?” I say as I try not to laugh.
“He has a quality.”
“Yeah, his quality is grossness.”
“You’re a man. You don’t get it. Women love that.”
And by that I mean confidence, charisma, some kind of endearing goofiness or a sexy accent (at the least). Occasionally, he’ll mention a woman whose appeal I can’t understand and he’ll play the she has a quality card. But usually it’s about the boobs.
It’s always about the boobs. I’m starting to think these babies have serious power I haven’t fully tapped into yet.
For example, our first family trip to the movies…
I’m no Victoria’s Secret push-up bra model. Imagine my surprise then as I sat contentedly, sharing Reece’s Pieces with my kids, waiting for Cars 2 to start, when another family entered the theatre and sat two rows ahead of us. The dad was the last to sit down in the row and he made a slight but unmissable head jerk at my rack.
First I kind of choke-laughed on my candy and tasted peanut butter in my nasal cavity, since I’m usually unaware of men checking me out if they ever do. Then, Yay! I’m not flat-chested! and eventually Gasp! You’re with your wife and kids, weirdo. I thought it was hilarious and mentioned it to Michael who was definitely not amused.
Like I said. It’s always about the boobs. Even when you’re at the movies with your kids.