I have a sensible husband named Henry. Whenever I try to drum up drama (Are you looking at my spreading ass? Are you looking at her perky ass? Are you accusing me of being an ass?) he gently yawns, stretches and gives me a hug. You just can’t ruffle the bastard!
I’ve paraded across the internets naked. I’ve had meetings with sexy celebrities (Luke Perry you know you’ll never forget me!). I’ve danced in bars with girlfriends and fondled particularly well-hewn gay men. I allowed a male go-go dancer to pull a five dollar bill out of my cleavage with his teeth (he unflatteringly asked, “Did you have to shove it so far down there between the ladies?” sigh.)
Henry? Cool as a cucumber. I was actually beginning to get a little bit insecure. Maybe he didn’t care if I ran off with Wally George (not sure why that guy springs to mind). Maybe he didn’t think I had Game anymore? Maybe he was conducting a secret affair with his favorite siren, Salma Hayek. (He has been smelling of Dior Homme and jalapenos).
Then yesterday happened.
I have a dear friend I met in a writing workshop many moons ago named Gabriel. We tend to see each other every three years when he’s in town interviewing for jobs as a broadcast news reporter at all the networks.
Gabriel’s almost ten years younger than me and is very handsome. He’s half Filipino half Caucasian and both ethnicities have melded to create a preternaturally patrician luminosity. (I just pulled that one right out of my ass).
On top of his seemingly ageless good looks, he’s smart, caustically funny and has won an Emmy for a news story he covered about a goat. And he tells you that with a cocked eyebrow. He’s in on the joke.
Throw in my joie de vivre and zaftig insouciance and we should be An Affair To Remember.
But here’s the thing. Gabriel and I are not attracted to each other. At all. Never have been.
There’s just something about that guy that reads LITTLE BROTHER in my brain. I can’t help giving him unsolicited advice about his love life and he can’t help listening. Sometimes I even scold him (which is so fetching).
I love the guy, but I just don’t looove the guy. And the feeling is mutual.
Yet whenever Gabriel blows through town and we meet for drinks, Henry always greets me at the door when I return utterly disgruntled. He scowls, quizzes and probes, just trying to see if there’s a crack in my story.
It always catches me a bit off guard because I’m startled, yet again, when I realize that Henry is jealous!!
HENRY IS JEALOUS?!
He stalks my perimeter as if I’m his territory and he does not want anyone trespassing. And because he’s never like that, and because he’s gentle and doesn’t wear wife-beaters and drink brewskis, I find it adorable. Endearing. And kind of hot.
I love it when this intellectual, sensible paragon goes cave man on me. I’m taking it for all it’s worth right now because I probably won’t see Gabriel again until 2017.
Don’t bother calling or knocking. I’m busy.
What does your lover do that lights your fire?
Shannon Bradley-Colleary
Shannon Bradley-Colleary blogs at The Woman Formerly Known As Beautiful. She's also a contributing blogger on The Huffington Post. Her posts have landed her on The Today Show, NPR, CNN, Raising America with Kyra Phillips, Fox11News and more. She's been published in The DailyMail Online, Babble, Blogher and MomsLA. Her book, Into The Child: 40 Weeks in the Gestational Wilderness was named one of the Top 100 Indie Books of 2012 by the Kirkus Review. Her book, Smash, Crash and Burn: Tales From The Edge Of Celebrity, details her life as an L.A. Wacktress (waiter/actress) in the early 90s; including her relationship with Brandon Bruce Lee and a her tête-à-tête with David Schwimmer. She kisses and tells. Shannon is thrilled to be a monthly columnist on Midlife Boulevard.
Follow Me:
