The Perfect Man OR My Husband, The Bad Boy
My husband is home for the weekend. He gets exactly one and a half days off from the military base. He has to be back on Sunday – swiped in by 6 o’clock – or else he will be in BIG trouble.
“How was your week?” he asked me last night. He’d just spent five days out in the bush doing “military things”, and we hadn’t had a chance to talk.
“My week was all right,” I answered. “Typical. The kids are crazy. It’s been really hot at the gym. And I bought a new lamp for the living room.” Saying this stuff out loud makes my life sound so…so…cushiony and boring. The “crazy kid” part doesn’t translate into how hard dealing with them actually is.
“Well, I just spent the last five days out in the woods in the pouring rain, simmering in my own stench.”
“Wow, you win,” I laughed. I don’t feel too bad for him. I know he is enjoying some of what he is doing.
“On the upside, I am now licensed to kill,” he added. See what I mean? “And you said you like bad boys, so…I’m now officially a ‘bad boy’.”
“I’ve seen you drive slightly over the speed limit before, and you DO own two motorcycles.”
“But this ‘added bad-boyness’ makes you even more hot for me, right?”
“That is correct. Now help me make supper.” And then he did, and he was perfect.