I seriously debated what to title this. My first thought was, “When A Man Loves a Woman” but thought that I might have a horde of people show up in my yard with torches and pitchforks for planting that earworm on them. Especially if it was the Michael Bolton version. So, When A Wolf Loves An Imp it is.
Now, Wolf and I have been together a while now. Twelve years in October since our first date, actually. I can honestly say I’ve no flipping idea where the time went.
If you’re a long time reader of this blog, you probably remember me saying that Wolf isn’t exactly the romantical type. And yes, ‘romantical’ is my word, I made it up, so pttthhhhppppttt to anyone that doesn’t like it. He’s not the hearts and flowers and poetry spouting kind of guy. You know, the type in romance novels, love songs, etc. That’s not him.
His version of romance is going to three different stores to find the right kind of ice cream. Always remembering to bring me home my Timmies coffee when he goes to town. I’ll admit, in the early years of our marriage, I was often upset, because I was looking for the flowers and poetry. Because I was so SURE that I knew what love was supposed to be like, how men were supposed to act when they were in love, I was completely missing my husband showing me, over and over again, the love he had for me.
Because it didn’t look like the songs and movies and stories say it should.
Some day, I’d like to kick some serious butt with the Media Powers That Be. I wonder how many other women believe the song lyrics, the movies that talk about what love is, how it feels, what its supposed to be, and what impact that has on their relationships. Yes, I know that parents should raise their sons and daughters with a better perspective, and more knowledgeable than to depend on media for any sort of truth, but some parents don’t. And when they don’t, there’s a vacuum to fill, and media is always around us, surrounding us.
But I digress.
Once I realized that my husband’s way of being romantic was in actions, the gift of doing, I became a much better wife. I actually apologized to him for not getting it for so long. Here this man was, knocking himself out to do everything he could to please his wife, and I was such an ungrateful brat, I was rejecting his gifts of service because they weren’t what I’d been taught romance was supposed to look like.
Every now and then, I need my butt kicked.
Ok. Fast forward to yesterday.
Wolf took the kids and I to a fall festival. Basically, that’s a fancy name for a big farmer’s market/craft sort of sale.
So, first off, there he is, pushing the baby Minions in the stroller, because I can’t. I’m the one who wanted to go, and Diva was already busy with her gig, elsewhere in the fair, so wasn’t with us. He could easily have said he was tired, just wanted to drop Diva off, then come home and relax, but nope. I asked to go, so off we went.
Then…we saw a booth that was doing air brushed temporary tattoos. The Middle Minions wanted one, so we were looking around…
Then I got an idea.
“Honey,” I cooed at my husband, “How about you get a tattoo? On your chest?”
A look of horror, embarrassment, and ‘she’s got to be kidding me’ crossed his face. “No.”
“But I think it would be really cool!” I protested.
“You’re serious?” he asked, incredulously
I nodded. “Yeah! It would be cool!”
“You’re serious.” he sighed, in resignation.To add to the fun, Diva spotted us, gained permission to leave her post, and rushed over to watch Daddy getting a temp tattoo.
Of course I had to take pics. And mention it was going up on the blog. Because, yanno, I LOVE my readers.
He asked me, “Let me guess. I had the same look as a dog at the groomers.”
Nope. A bit sheepish, perhaps, but nothing bad at all.
And the finished result:
And yes, I have suggested that a permanent version wouldn’t be a bad thing. I never knew I liked tatts so much before.
That’s love, non Stepford Style. Being willing to bare his chest and let someone spray paint him.
*wanders off, all twitterpated*