Me: “Can I draw a tattoo on your leg?”
The Pretend Husband: “No.”
Me: “Why not?”
PH: “Because I don’t want a tattoo.”
Me: “What if I want you to have a tattoo?”
PH: “Then we’ll go to a tattoo shop.”
Me: “I don’t want you to have a real one. Can I just draw one?”
It’s unfortunate, but this is an example of the stunningly intellectual conversations that go on in our house. Don’t get me wrong– we sometimes talk about national events (“I heard Chris Daughtry got offered a job as the lead singer of Fuel after he got kicked off ‘American Idol.’”) and our future together (Me: “I want six kids.” PH: “Who’s the lucky guy?”). But more often than not, our conversations border on the inane.
Living together does weird things to people. I had a friend in high school who had no problem joking about various bodily functions while I sat next to her mortified by the topic. But you move in with a person and there’s no limit to what you’ll share. We’ve stopped short of calling the other person into the bathroom to show off our “accomplishments,” but there’s no end to the colorful descriptions about what goes on in there.
I could get all girly and talk about how nice it is to be able to share every little thing with each other and be so comfortable that we can talk about literally anything. But I won’t. I’m too busy designing the fake tattoo the PH will be sporting when he wakes up tomorrow.
So many books...
2 years ago