I fell in love with my husband because he was tall, hairy, and had the slightly unwashed look of a lumberjack. He played pool with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He looked like he partied too hard and laughed too much and didn’t give a shit. I, on the other hand, had the fresh-faced look of a girl who gave a lot of shits.
I remember arguing with myself: No, no. This is all wrong. HE IS ALL WRONG. He smokes and drinks, and he doesn’t go to church. Robbie says every irreverent thing I’m too afraid to say. He’s much too fun to be a good match for me.
It’s important to note that up until this point, I had pretty much only dated rule-followers, none of whom drank beer. I’m also positive that is why none of them were interesting. But I like to laugh, and he made me laugh—a lot. It also turned out that I liked to drink beer, maybe even more than he did. It was the oddest, most perfect pairing, and it confounded everyone around us.
As time passed, I learned my original assessment was right: Robbie Hobbs did not give a shit, and it was awesome. His confidence bled over into everything he did, and if he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he would turn to the side, slap his belly, and yell, “Yeah!” before continuing with his day. I was mystified by the confidence this hairy man possessed. I wanted to have it.
Three kids and one decade later, I’m realizing I did not adequately appreciate my body when it had an endless supply of collagen and elastin. I want to look in the mirror, slap myself on the ass, and yell, “That’s right!” just like my husband does. Why can’t I just be happy with myself, cellulite, huge nipples, scary vagina and all?
I wish I had the confidence of a man.
I also wish I could teleport back in time to dress in inappropriate outfits, just effing because. I’m pretty sure this is why some older women dress like they fancy themselves teens. They’ve realized they should have embraced their bodies a lot sooner, and as death creeps ever closer, they stand in the juniors section of JCPenney and think: Why not wear this super-tacky-looking thing today!? I’ll never look any better than I do right now!
And that, my friends, is how a cougar is born.
A few months ago, I was standing naked in my bathroom and got pissed. Fueled by several glasses of wine, I marched out to our living room in front of Robbie and declared, “Take a good look because this is as good as it’s going to get.” I spun slowly as he stared, and then stomped back to our bedroom. It was so liberating that I did it the next day and the next, and have continued to do so every day since.
This is not a method of seduction. I turn on all the lights to illuminate all the flaws. There is no flattering candlelight or strategically placed sheet. It’s straight up National Geographic in this bitch. But for whatever reason, I suspect because most straight men like boobs, it’s the highlight of his day. If I forget, he’s quick to turn on the charm and remind me in a super-romantic way like this:
Robbie: Wait! Don’t forget to show me your boobs.
Me: Let me flip all the lights on first so you can get a really good look. Tomorrow I’ll look a little bit worse, so make sure you get a good view in today.
Through this experience, I have learned that the secret to having the confidence of a man is the absence of apology for one’s appearance. This is it, baby. For better or for worse, my areolas ain’t getting any smaller.
Now, let’s go have sex—with the lights on.
This post originally appeared on Mamalode.
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