Saturday, March 7, 2009
To Cute for Our Own Good
My husband and I will soon celebrate our one-third of a century anniversary. (Do the math.) We've known each other considerably longer. We are a dying breed in this age where people move on average every two years. We grew up together. Childhood sweethearts.
Technically, even though we have known each other since childhood, we didn't start dating until we were both eighteen. People tend to go "awwwww" when they hear our journey to couple-dom and discover how long we've been together. It makes me feel cute. And I hate to feel cute. I've threatened divorce several times for that very reason.
But what makes feeling cute almost worth it is when they ask what finally brought the two of us together. If my spouse opens his mouth first he says something appropriate about falling in love with me on the playground in grade school. If I answer first, I tell the truth. A shared passion for illegal, recreational drugs accompanied by lots of hot sex. (But not on the playground in grade school.) Their reaction tells me a lot about the person.
My better half claims he really did have a crush on me in elementary school. He freely admits he frequented the underside of the old fashioned Monkey Bars, staring upward towards heaven, whenever I was perched on top. Since we were in grade school during the neolithic age, strict dress codes still required that girls wear dresses. Pants or shorts were forbidden. The unintended result of this dress code was that my husband swears he can describe in detail every pair of underpants I wore in the fourth grade.
Ever since he made this slightly off-putting confession, prudently waiting until the ring was on my finger and the marriage license duly witnessed and signed, I've been alternately repelled and intrigued by the visual his confession creates in my mind. I am touched though, that he equated my underpanted ass to heaven.
Lately I have been toying with the idea of switching my normal response to the queries about what finally got us together. I'm thinking about attributing it to my better half's, fascination with little girl's underpants, conveniently leaving off the detail that he was 10 years old at the time, and had no interest in actually wearing them himself. He already cringes every time I mention the sex and drugs thing. This might send him over the top.