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About 30 minutes before quitting time at work I gave Maria a call to see if she wanted a bite to eat before I headed home. The phone rang a little longer than usual and was probably one away from going to voicemail. Right as I was about to give up she answered.
"Hey...," she sounded a little distracted.
"Hey. What do you want from Panera?"
She mentions something about turkey, so I'm pretty much on my own to pick something with turkey. Cool.
I grab the food and head home with a $20 worth of overpriced sandwiches and soup, walk the three flights to get to our apartment and put my key in the door. When I turn it, I can tell that it wasn't locked. Maria never leaves the door unlocked.
I open the door and... I swear on a stack of bibles signed by my dead relatives, the first thing I see is some guy, a few years younger than me who I don't know, sitting in my chair, with my remote in his hand, looking at my TV (52-inch, flatscreen HD. Big boy model). The guy looked so at home that I fully expected to find a few beers missing from the fridge and him hitting me with a "Can I help you?" if I rummage through it trying to find one. Hmmm.
I step out of the doorway and get a full view of the living room and as my eyes scan up it appears a beer and a TV are the least personal of my belongings in his bubble at the moment. Yup. Right behind where he's sitting is my wife. All five-foot-seven inches. The hips I love, complete with brand new jeans from Christmas hugging those hips the way I like, the even-toned brown complexion, the smooth skin bathed in lotions and accented by Bath and Body Works that make her just ooze femininity.... ALL of it. And the arms that are usually thrown around my neck to greet me in these situations... Those arms are draped around this guy while he watches my TV like he bought it. This can't be life.
I'm so caught off guard by it that all I can say is "What's up?" while wearing one of those dumb expressions that you get when you're too thrown off to be cool.
"Uh, hey babe. This is (guy's name)," Maria spit out right away, like she felt the need to explain something. The guy doesn't even acknowledge me or look in my direction. WOW.
"So, uh. What's up?" I said, expecting an explanation.
Maria's eyes are on me, and I guess she already said all she was able to manage so she's silent. I look down to him sitting in my chair. Unfazed, he doesn't even feel the need to look from his episode of NCIS. How rude of me. I step toward the TV area and stand in front of him, blocking it.
"What's up man?" I said.
"Hi. Who are you?" he asked.
So... did she not feel the need to mention me? I just called about an hour ago about the food.
"I'm her husband. Who are you?"
"(Guy's name). You think you can move out of the way? You're blockin' the TV."
I lost it. Before I could even fully comprehend the disrespect I was experiencing, the bag of food was on the floor, my work laptop hopped off my shoulder and I punched him dead in his fucking face.
"Jarrett!" Maria screamed. And just like any lame movie or sitcom you've ever seen, her first reaction is to rush to his aid--as he's slumped down in the chair holding his nose and looking at me like I killed his dog.
I stood there, fists clinched, probably dangerously close to biting a hole through my lip, staring him down waiting for his move. That move never came. Neither did half of this, but it would have been a cool story.
Well, it's mostly true, I just exaggerated a little. There was a guy in my house when I came home. I didn't know who he was. The only part I embellished was that instead of being on the verge of doing my wife, he was just there because she was doing his hair. Really nice guy actually. Paid her a little extra because he was impressed with the style she came up with. I wear my hair pretty long so she's gotten a lot of practice between me and herself.
The point of this ridiculously stupid story is that I live in a relationship where; 1) I can trust my wife in pretty much any situation. 2) I'm not insecure.
A lot of husbands do themselves in by operating in extremes. They're either purse carrying, butt-kissing whiners who are afraid of their wives, or overcompensating confused weirdos who think tantrums and stalking prove manhood. These guys either let their wives walk all over them or make fools of themselves in the name of not "putting up with her crap." I'm neither.
But that's not totally because I'm special (though I am). My wife has never given me a reason not to trust her, which is a foundation we've built on since dating. It's only gotten stronger. That's refreshing because I've been in relationships where it wasn't like that. Glad I made the right choice.
"Hey...," she sounded a little distracted.
"Hey. What do you want from Panera?"
She mentions something about turkey, so I'm pretty much on my own to pick something with turkey. Cool.
I grab the food and head home with a $20 worth of overpriced sandwiches and soup, walk the three flights to get to our apartment and put my key in the door. When I turn it, I can tell that it wasn't locked. Maria never leaves the door unlocked.
I open the door and... I swear on a stack of bibles signed by my dead relatives, the first thing I see is some guy, a few years younger than me who I don't know, sitting in my chair, with my remote in his hand, looking at my TV (52-inch, flatscreen HD. Big boy model). The guy looked so at home that I fully expected to find a few beers missing from the fridge and him hitting me with a "Can I help you?" if I rummage through it trying to find one. Hmmm.
I step out of the doorway and get a full view of the living room and as my eyes scan up it appears a beer and a TV are the least personal of my belongings in his bubble at the moment. Yup. Right behind where he's sitting is my wife. All five-foot-seven inches. The hips I love, complete with brand new jeans from Christmas hugging those hips the way I like, the even-toned brown complexion, the smooth skin bathed in lotions and accented by Bath and Body Works that make her just ooze femininity.... ALL of it. And the arms that are usually thrown around my neck to greet me in these situations... Those arms are draped around this guy while he watches my TV like he bought it. This can't be life.
I'm so caught off guard by it that all I can say is "What's up?" while wearing one of those dumb expressions that you get when you're too thrown off to be cool.
"Uh, hey babe. This is (guy's name)," Maria spit out right away, like she felt the need to explain something. The guy doesn't even acknowledge me or look in my direction. WOW.
"So, uh. What's up?" I said, expecting an explanation.
Maria's eyes are on me, and I guess she already said all she was able to manage so she's silent. I look down to him sitting in my chair. Unfazed, he doesn't even feel the need to look from his episode of NCIS. How rude of me. I step toward the TV area and stand in front of him, blocking it.
"What's up man?" I said.
"Hi. Who are you?" he asked.
So... did she not feel the need to mention me? I just called about an hour ago about the food.
"I'm her husband. Who are you?"
"(Guy's name). You think you can move out of the way? You're blockin' the TV."
I lost it. Before I could even fully comprehend the disrespect I was experiencing, the bag of food was on the floor, my work laptop hopped off my shoulder and I punched him dead in his fucking face.
"Jarrett!" Maria screamed. And just like any lame movie or sitcom you've ever seen, her first reaction is to rush to his aid--as he's slumped down in the chair holding his nose and looking at me like I killed his dog.
I stood there, fists clinched, probably dangerously close to biting a hole through my lip, staring him down waiting for his move. That move never came. Neither did half of this, but it would have been a cool story.
Well, it's mostly true, I just exaggerated a little. There was a guy in my house when I came home. I didn't know who he was. The only part I embellished was that instead of being on the verge of doing my wife, he was just there because she was doing his hair. Really nice guy actually. Paid her a little extra because he was impressed with the style she came up with. I wear my hair pretty long so she's gotten a lot of practice between me and herself.
The point of this ridiculously stupid story is that I live in a relationship where; 1) I can trust my wife in pretty much any situation. 2) I'm not insecure.
A lot of husbands do themselves in by operating in extremes. They're either purse carrying, butt-kissing whiners who are afraid of their wives, or overcompensating confused weirdos who think tantrums and stalking prove manhood. These guys either let their wives walk all over them or make fools of themselves in the name of not "putting up with her crap." I'm neither.
But that's not totally because I'm special (though I am). My wife has never given me a reason not to trust her, which is a foundation we've built on since dating. It's only gotten stronger. That's refreshing because I've been in relationships where it wasn't like that. Glad I made the right choice.
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