Pillow Talk

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.

pillowtalk

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.

Meh.

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