How I Know My Husband Really Loves Me – Scary Mommy

How I Know My Husband Really Loves Me

I used to be hot. Wait, don’t stop reading. This isn’t going to be one of those self-indulgent articles where a middle-aged woman who’s popped out some kids sits and laments her long-lost beauty. I’m telling you that I used to be hot because it’s relevant to what I really want to talk about: my husband and his fortitude of character.

The beginning starts with the simple truth that my husband started courting me for no other reason than I was hot. He met me, talked to me for maybe ten minutes, and then asked me out. He didn’t know me. He didn’t know one thing about me. I could have been a domestic terrorist. I could have been dumber than a box of pubic hair. I could have been one of those “don’t stick your dick in crazy” women I keep hearing about all over the Internet.

I wasn’t any of those things. But I could have been. My point is this: at the time, it didn’t matter. Not to my husband. All that mattered was that I rocked a body.

Before anyone starts screaming reverse sexism, I’m going to point out that my ever-so-wise 26-year-old self also agreed to go out with my husband after only talking to him for ten minutes. Not knowing one thing about him. Not knowing if he was even safe. He was a complete stranger who very easily could have been a PUA rapist murderer jerk.

But man – did he rock a body.

So. We’ve established that I was just as horny and superficial as he was. Or maybe we’ve just established that the two of us were thinking with our sexy parts, like everyone on Earth does at one time or another. It’s not really important. What is important is that despite the purely chemical attraction at the start of our relationship, we are still together twelve years later. And happy, in spite of a noticeable decline in our physical appeal.

“Okay. You’re older. You’re heavier. You’re wrinklier. You’re tired-ier. So how is it you’ve stayed together all these years?”

You probably have no interest in asking. But I’m going to tell you anyway.

It’s all down to my husband’s fortitude of character.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that underneath the surface of my physical appeal lay a whole host of irritating quirks and tendencies. Maybe he should have hightailed it out of there once he discovered these things, but he didn’t. His fortitude of character is what has over the years allowed him to embrace, cope with, or outright overlook the following:

1. Despite a brief period of former hotness, I am either a) no longer attractive or b) no longer capable of thinking I’m attractive. Which results in a lot of maddening conversations like this:

Him: “You look gorgeous today.”
Me: “No, I don’t.”
Him: “…”
Me: “I look fat and my hair is greasy and I think there’s a corn flake in it and also my gut is sticking out of my shirt.”
Him: “Well, I think you look hot.”
Me: “It’s just because you’re desperate.”

FIVE MINUTES LATER:
Me (sobbing): “WHY AREN’T YOU ATTRACTED TO ME ANYMOOOOORE??? WAAHHhhhh”
Him: *face palm*

2. I respond to absolutely every one of his requests with “No.” Hold on, though – before you get outraged, please understand that I’m easily convinced and it doesn’t take long before I cave in. Which means that my husband ends up getting his way about 9 times out of 10. But that first “No” drives him nuts.

Him: “Can I spend some money fixing up my bike?”
Me: “No. We have no savings, a ton of credit card debt, and neither one of us has been paid.”
Him: “What if I sell stuff to get the money?”
Me: “No. If you can sell stuff to get money, let’s use that money to fix the toilet that’s sinking into the floor.”
Him: “What if…”
Me: “No.”
Him: “…”
Me: “No.”

FIVE MINUTES LATER:
Him: “Are you sure I can’t spend some money fixing up my bike?”
Me: “Eh, fine.”
Him: *face palm*

3. I have a penchant for drama. Some might say that I’m the Queen of Drama, or if you’ll forgive me the etymological contrivance, a “drama queen.” (And I somewhat ashamedly admit that my flair for spectacle and embellishment does tend to materialize in the presence of bugs.)

Me: “AIEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
Him: “What?!”
Me: “I’m going pee and there’s a spider in the bathroom!”
Him: “Where is it?”
Me: “Over by the door.”
Him: “So…finish going pee and kill it.”
Me: “I can’t.”
Him: “Why not?”
Me: “If I move, it might see me.”
Him: “So?”
Me: “If it sees me, it might run over here and crawl up my vagina.”
Him: *face palm*

That’s probably enough evidence for now, though as I’m sure you’ll agree, a list of three items is in no way comprehensive. I admit to having many more issues and quirks that my husband must possess an amazing fortitude of character to put up with. I haven’t even mentioned my bitchy resting face, my long list of medical problems, or the fact that I can cook but don’t like to.

And don’t get me started on my complete lack of interest in fitness or sports, my never ending hormonal dramas, or the stubborn willfulness I exhibit when wanting to sleep in on the weekends.

The point is this: my husband is a mensch. When we met, he may have only wanted to bang me. But now he cares for me deeply. Loves me forever. Will be there with me until the bitter end.

The proof is in the vagina spider.