My Husband is a Guy

My husband is coming home tonight from his grandmother's in Missouri. I thought I'd enjoy not having him around for a while, just having some me time, but I've missed him. I'm happy he's on his way back. He may be driving me batty by tomorrow, but right now, I want my man.

Before I got married, I had these visions of what falling in love and marriage would be like - you know, stuff like that amazing scene after Nickolas Cage falls in "City of Angels" and even "The Big Chill" formed my opinions. It would start with overwhelming oceans of love (which it did) and then progress to something comfortable (again, ditto) where he would think of me and buy me flowers (...) and take me on dates (...) and wear fashionable clothing and we would look natty and sophisticated as we drank in wine bars eating tapas.

So here's the thing. My husband is a guy. He likes sweats and jeans and tee shirts and ball caps. He wears a sleeveless undershirt every day. He reads and re-reads motorcycle magazines till he can quote them back word for word. Sometimes he gets, well, gamey (this, thankfully, never lasts long, or I would drag him to the shower and not for the un-family blog types of things he would be thinking). His mom is the one that buys me flowers. She knows I like them. He doesn't know what a tapa is, and if confronted with one, would most likely think that such a small piece of food is a waste of a clean plate. He doesn't like fancy restaurants. Big Boy is more his speed. His side of the bed is rather a mess and does not fit in with my decorating scheme. His fingernails often have oil under them and sometimes crude comments sort of ooze out of his mouth.

I'm convinced that Hollywood is part of the reason that some marraiges fail. Two people in love get married, the honeymoon fades, and suddenly the husband isn't like Sam from "Ghost" anymore. There are no Everly Brother's pottery wheel love moments where you get miraculously clean on the way to your pristine white couch for fabulous love making and moonbeams. Because we marry men. Not Hollywood movies. Sometimes you might get, like, a moment that is, what, .5% as fantastic as the "Ghost" moment and you feel like the whole earth shook because a moment that fantastic hasn't happened in a month. Cuz that's what the world is really like.

My daughter is stuck on the Hollywood love model. She doesn't quite get that her boyfriend, unless he develops insane Hollywood style love skills (we're talking wooing skills here, nothing more!) is never going to be as sensitive as Eric Bana in "The Time Traveler's Wife" (sigh). I keep telling her, "you are dating a guy, a really good guy, but a guy, and he's a teenaged guy at that! Give him a break! He hasn't drank the Hollywood love Kool-Aid, and chances are, he never will." She's understandably disappointed, but I think I'm getting through.

I married a guy. Not a Hollywood love interest. A normal man. And I've never once tried to change that - well, except for the gameyness - that I cannot abide by. And I do nag him about his messiness, but that has tapered off, too.

I love my guy. I will never eat a tapa with him, but patty melts taste better when he's around.

Photos from We Heart It and Deviant Art