I was thinking about Hubby the other day. I was deeply contemplating the thought that I may or may not truly love him. I weighed our faults, equally, believe it or not. I may do sexual things or have sexting/chatting sessions with others, hate housework (read: laundry), and eat take-out (read: spend money-his pet peeve)…and he is an idiot most of the time (read: drunken mood swings, attempts at sexual things with others, etc), says inappropriate things (read: why aren’t I more like Suzy, his co-worker’s wife, who gives blow jobs every morning before he leaves for work?), bitches about stupid shit that he doesn’t need to bitch about (read: “You were rude to her. That was inappropriate to say.” “Uh, she gave me her number so we could do lunch tomorrow, dumbass. We hit it off.”), doesn’t really help out with Julia but does help with dishes and laundry, and he puts up with a lot of bullshit from me (see the previous blurb)….so, I think, we balance the idiocy. I don’t know, I just wonder if we have the ability to overlook our shared stupidity and inappropriateness…could it really be “love?” And if it is “love,” is this really what it’s supposed to feel like?
I think about when I was in labor with Mini-me. I didn’t even know I was in labor. I was just a little uncomfortable until the OB/GYN said, “Uh, you’re 2 cm dilated and 80% effaced. Go to the hospital NOW!” It didn’t hurt like everyone said it would. I wasn’t in excruciating pain. No eyeballs were being scratched out, no curse-words flying, I was just uncomfortable. Now, juxtapose that with being in love. Maybe, Hubby is the real deal. Maybe the feelings I have for him are what “love” is. It doesn’t feel all shiny and rosy all of the time. I don’t orgasm the minute I see his face. But, maybe, love is more than a Disney Princess getting her dream restaurant in the Bayou, the glass slipper fitting, or waking up from a comatose state with just her Prince Charming’s kiss. Maybe it’s the battles and journeys in between. I mean, maybe our philandering, while not okay, made us the couple we are today. Tolerant of certain things yet stronger in the end? Maybe I had to go and do what I did in order to appreciate what I have with him? Maybe he had to experience that whorish nightmare of debauchery in order to appreciate the relative stability he has with me (Yeah, I know, that’s sounds a little biased. Hey, it’s my blog!)? So, maybe love isn’t sunshine, roses, puppy dog breath, chocolate, and moonlit walks…all the time. Maybe, there’s that whole deleted scene in the film. Maybe, they cut out the bad stuff when they talk about “love” because little girls need something to look forward to after they learn they’re going to bleed five days out of the month for the rest of their lives.
“Awww, why ruin her whole day? We just told her about her period. Let’s now give her a fairy tale to look forward to. NO, NO! Can’t mention fights about money and housework. And dear GOD, don’t bring up the possibility of infidelity or jealousy. That’ll just ruin her for life.”
And then, those Powers that Be, they don’t tell you that you can love in different ways. The love you feel for your Dad isn’t the same as the love you feel for your Husband. The love you feel for your Child isn’t the love you feel for your Best Friend. Then, the love you feel for Man 1 isn’t the same as the love you feel for Man 2…and so on and so forth. So, pretty much, Disney movies have ruined the entire female population’s idea of love and what to expect from men.
Yep, I’m blaming Disney. Well, and my parents. Because any female knows that if she’s screwed up in any way, it’s always safe to blame either her Mommy or her Daddy. I’ll bet you $20 that you could poll all the therapists in the country and they’d mention Mommy or Daddy…well, they’d thank them for the beach house at the Cape.
I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to even have this thought process with myself. Hubby and I are there for each other. He lets me cry on his shoulder. I let him not cry on mine (he refuses to admit emotional pain, even if it’s completely obvious). He is my best friend in all senses of the word. He knows my worst traits, looks at me like I’m a goddess when I’m naked, he works to make me happy, and he is there to support me. You know how in the movies, the glowing teenage girl is trying to figure out if it’s real love or if it’s just puppy love. The mom always asks the question, “Is he your best friend? When something exciting happens, do you want to tell him first?” Well, the answer to that is yes. Hubby is my go-to. He truly is my best friend.
So, screw you Disney. Princess DJ is rocking this world and making her own rules. I don’t need to be fitted for a slipper, kissed by a Prince to be awakened from a comatose state, turned into a real girl from a Mermaid, or fly on a magic carpet with some derelict from the streets to prove myself. Dreamworks, however, is on the right track. Hubby is my Shrek and I’m his Fiona. Love, while waning at times, can exist in muck, mire, and belching.
Diary of a Dirty Domestic Goddess 