A funny thing happens when you’ve been married for a while. (In our case, “a while” is defined by the course of about six years, in case you were wondering.)
Somehow, slowly, over the years, you start to change.
You gain a few pounds there, hair gets redistributed to strange places here, the body you once loathed in high school suddenly becomes a shining, unattainable ideal.
But like a baby who changes imperceptibly before your eyes, one day you will wake up and realize that the person you married may not look anything like the person sleeping next to you. Or on the couch from you — no judgment here.
Luckily, the nice part about true love (does anyone else always hear the priest from Princess Bride when that phrase is uttered?) is that the physical stuff starts to not matter as much. I know someday my husband will be totally bald and he still thinks I’m beautiful despite the ravages of what will soon be four children have had on my body; let’s just say I’m not Heidi Klum when it comes to having four kids, OK?
But there’s a freedom to knowing that you can be attracted to each other despite the lack of rock-hard abs or legs that look killer in heels.
Yes, ma’am, I thought my husband and I had moved past the “you’re so hot” stage and into the more comfortable “you look nice in those sweatpants” stage.
Until, that is, the day I checked out a man at the grocery store.
It started out innocently enough.
My husband and I loaded up our three children into two separate carts at the grocery store late one evening when we hoped the stores would start to clear of the weekend throngs of shoppers. Since having children, shopping has, sadly, almost become our activity “out.” There’s also the fact that neither of us want to shop alone nor be the one left at home to wrangle all the children while the other inevitably misses the #1 item on our respective shopping lists. So away we all went.
Except that when we got there, the children turned into writhing, whining beings bent on escaping the carts and destroying every shelf in the store. So we decided to rip our list into two and make like strangers by splitting up.
Only, apparently, I took the whole “strangers” bit a little too far.
Because when I turned down the rice-and-pasta aisle, a man in a black wool coat lingering near the macaroni and cheese section happened to catch my eye. And I thought to myself, just for the splittest of split seconds, well, there’s a good-looking man. I felt, much to my horror, a slight wave of attraction for the winter-clothed stranger.
Until that stranger turned and happened to be holding my baby and I realized he was actually my husband.
Now here’s where things get tricky. I am still confounded by this happening because, honestly, I don’t go around checking out random guys at the grocery store on normal days, especially when, goodness gracious, I have a cart full of small children. So on one hand, was I a horrible person for checking out a guy I didn’t actually know was my husband at first? But on the other, it really happened in less than a second and probably on some subconscious level, I recognized him and that’s why I was attracted to him, right?
I’m still not sure of the answer. Luckily, when I decided I hadn’t actually done anything wrong and confessed to my husband, he thought it was hilarious.
And whether or not I am actually a horrible wife or the wife-of-the-year, one thing is for certain:
I still think my husband is hot.
Image via Polycart/Flickr
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