Hypotheticals

My husband and I sometimes get lost in hypotheticals.
Last night, it was “If my face got blown off, would you still love me?”

What? Isn’t that normal pillow talk?

He posed the question first, and I told him that I would… of course I would. I told him that though I loved his face (especially his clean-shaved face), it wasn’t what I solely loved. I waxed rhapsodic about his many lovable characteristics, but he insisted that I wouldn’t be able to stand him.
“I’d be all blind, and what if my mouth was fused together?”
I thought about it for a minute and realized something amazing… I could get inexplicably fat! Make-up? Optional! I could wear WHATEVER I FELT LIKE… which I do anyway, but I do feel a twinge of guilt when I don my supah hot brown polyester pants I love so much fully knowing that my husband not only HATES them, but can only regard me as a girly scout master when I sport them. I could wear them every Wednesday.
“Darling, I’m so glad you’ve finally come around to these polyester pants. Do I look fabulous today? Thank you. You’re a dear for believing so. I love you too, ever so. ┬áRemember what we talked about… how shaking your fist only tells me how much you really love me.”

I’m sure the novelty would wear off in a few or ten years.

I then posed the question to him.
“Would you love me if my face got blown off?”
His reply, “Yeah.”
“Would you love me from a distance? or right next to me in bed?” I HAD to know.
“Right next to you, of course. Just so long as…” He hesitated.
“What?” I pressed.
“Just so long as you didn’t scare me.”
“SCARE you?!”
“What? Have you ever SEEN someone who has had their face blown off? It’s SCARY!”

Then again: what would be the point of having your face blown off if you couldn’t give your spouse a healthy scare now and then.
Boo!

I can’t be sure, but I think we’re hypothetically in real love.

Comments

  1. Okay, I’m not trying to scare you but we had this exact same conversation about two nights ago, but it was Adam reassuring me that he’d still love me if my head became a bald mess of bleeding scabs. I thanked him profusely. (Read into that what you will.)

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