Oh, he’ll never forgive me for this. Thankfully, he hates blogs and will likely never, ever read this. And if he does, I’ll just have an excellent excuse to high-tail it for Newfoundland.
Every so often, The Hippie gets into a “cozy” mood. He curls up in bed, gets kind of giddy, and we end up talking and laughing half the night away. The other night I was goading him into being mushy. It doesn’t work, but I keep trying anyway. I asked him why he loved me, and he said “You’re pretty….” I had already listed off a number of reasons why I loved him, and “you’re pretty” was all he could come up with. Finally I got him to say “You’re pretty, you’re smart, and you put up with my shit.” I conceeded that I loved him because he put up with my shit too.
A few minutes passed, and I said, “You know, if we every get married, we really shouldn’t write our own vows: Because you’re pretty, you’re smart, and you put up with my shit.” He just laughed at that and then quietly said “Meh.”
One night a few weeks ago, he kept saying “meh” real quietly. The more he repeated it, the more insistent his “mehs” became. Finally I said “I just don’t know what that means!” and he replied “It means I love you.”
After he laughed and said “Meh” I repeated our craptacular vows: You’re pretty, you’re smart, and you put up with my shit. Meh.