My husband is hot. It’s one of the many reasons why I married him. I know you think he’s hot too, and I’m cool with that.
He likes the attention. In the store. At the restaurant. You make him feel visible. You make him feel like “he’s still got it,” and that’s a good thing.
And I’m not mad or jealous.
Maybe I envy your gorgeous hair, your lovely, smooth body, and your wrinkle-free eyes, but I’m actually glad I’m not where you are in life right now. You’re still trying to figure things out. You’re looking for something that feels real to you, and fulfilling, and substantial.
You want meaningful.
You’re out there in the world trying to conjure your future, following everything and anything that will manifest your dreams. It’s a bitter-sweet place to be, but time is on your side. I remember it well.
I love that my husband feels good about himself. When you pay attention to him, he feels happy and confident. And, let me tell you, him feeling happy and confident works in my favor.
You see him in his khaki pants, and his sexy buffalo-plaid flannel shirt. You eye his awesome dad bod and his expensive boots, and you just can’t resist. He’s adorable in all the right ways. I get it.
I know he kind of looks like George Clooney. I know he’s aging ridiculously well, like a soap star. His salt and pepper hair, boyish face, and kind brown eyes are a beautiful combination. I know how it feels when he smiles at you and treats you with respect because I feel the same way. That’s who he is. He’s a pretty great guy. He looks at you directly, and he listens. He laughs at your jokes and he’s polite. He’s a fixer. He helped you call your dog back in the park that time, and you almost lost your head for a minute.
I totally get it. He’s the coolest.
But here’s what you don’t see. Sometimes he is just like everyone else.
Sometimes he’s not that nice. Sometimes he hogs the covers and sometimes “forgets” to call me when we need to talk about something important. Sometimes he’s selfish and judgmental. Sometimes he’s moody.
Sometimes he doesn’t clean up after himself. And he can be infuriating when he’s being stubborn.
When he gets sick he lays on the couch and acts like he’s dying.
What you don’t see is how worried he was when we were both much younger and newly married with a tiny baby and we were trying to make all sorts of ends meet.
You don’t see his insecurities. Like, when he lost his job and we had bills to pay and our kids were only four and six.
You don’t see all the times he took odd little jobs to make extra money so that our family would feel loved and cared for.
When you see him in the grocery store, or at the bank, or in the bar, you don’t see the other stuff. The parts that make him stable and honest. And weathered.
All that stuff was earned.
You don’t see what made him the man he is today, which, if I may say so, is a direct result of building his life with me, his wife.
What you don’t see is our history.
You don’t see how our disagreements and our hardships lead to changes in both of us that created deeper love.
You don’t see how much we went through to become best friends. And it took a long time to become best friends, believe it or not. It was work.
You look at him, and you like what you see, but you don’t see him the way I do.
When I look at him, all I can see is us. Us for miles.
But, I want to thank you. Sincerely.
Your attention makes him feel the way he felt long ago when he was out there in the world without cares or big responsibilities—without a family—an unattached guy still drinking from a keg in someone’s backyard with his whole life ahead of him.
When you throw your head back and show him your neck, you make him feel alive and virile and assured and young.
I can’t make him feel like that, because I know him.
So, again thank you.
Now kindly run along, dear.