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Husbands

The guy licking my face is going to be my husband in a matter of months.
weird kisses

In trying to get used to calling Lobsterface “my husband”, the word, in my mind, has gone through somewhat of an evolution.

At first, the word sounded dusty. Stodgy and old, if you will. At twenty-six, I felt that I was far to young to be charged with the care and keeping of a Husband. Husbands were polo-shirt-wearing, golf-playing, Wall-Street-Journal-reading, boring creatures in which I really had no interest.

No offense to you wives who prefer your husbands to be all, or any, of the above. To each her own.

But in the past few months, I’ve started using the term more. When plumbers need to be strongarmed into actually coming and fixing our broken pipes (after two weeks and daily phone calls), wives have more clout than fiancees. So I tell workmen (and women, if we ever encounter any), that I am The Wife. The Lobsterface becomes, by default, The Husband. And so I am getting used to the idea.

I’ve been on board with spending the rest of my life with this attractive, intelligent, amusing man who seems to see those qualities in me for a long while. Now, three months before our wedding, I’m warming to the notion of actually having a Husband, too.

The word, “husband” now brings to mind peace, solidity, companionship and constancy. I no longer feel that becoming “my husband” will turn Lobsterface into someone dull. It helps that we’re planning to get new tattoos together.

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