At the beginning of any relationship, you run around with rose-colored glasses. The other person is absolutely PERFECT, everything is going SWIMMINGLY, birds are singing, the sky is blue and angels are farting pixie dust.
That phase only lasts for so long. Then the doorbell rings and you get a singing telegram from reality. In some cases, this can be a bad thing (re: all of my last relationships), and lead to the beginning of the “annoying the crap out of each other” phase that inevitably turns into the “I can’t stand you- let’s break up” phase.
In the relationships that last, the “welcome to reality” phase is the time when you realize “oh, even your quirks are endearing.” Or something like that. This is new territory, bear with me.
Though Army Boy and I have been spending increasing amounts of time together, he has continued in his vein of consistent wonderful-ness. While the majority of the world would think that is freaking boring, let me assure you it’s not.
However, he has his moments when he surprises the everloving crap out of me, and I am forced to remember that I am *GASP* dating a MAN. A manly man. Who went to Iraq. And has large guns. That shoot bullets. At People, if necessary. (The other guns are pretty nice too, btw. *lascivious wink*) Who also uses power tools on a regular basis and— well, you get the point.
This weekend, I was incapacitated by the Headache of Doom and Scorn and Incest, which caused me to basically be a worthless pile of crap. Which meant that I needed comfort food in the form of Kraft Macaroni and Cheeze and a viewing of “Twilight”. While we were watching the low-budget squee-fest that is Stephenie Meyer’s novel adapted for the big screen, I started to get txts from Danielle.
“Ok, odd fact of the weekend: Seth and I are getting ready to watch ‘Transformers.’ Which means I have to see Megan Ho Fox. Gag gag gag.”
The very thought of Megan Fox made me nauseated and caused me to flail about in dismay. Which I then of course had to explain to Army Boy.
“Megan Fox is a skank,” he agreed. I promptly texted that back to Danielle, and figured that would be the end of it. Except for the fact that Seth is also a MANLY MAN. And doesn’t want his precious slutty-hot Megan Fox trashed in any way.
A new txt flashed up on my phone: “Seth says to tell AB to get his balls out of Brooke’s purse. Don’t worry, I already hit him for you.”
And you know what happened THEN?!
My sweet, adorable faced boyfriend told me to tell Seth [filthy things about what he was actually doing with said balls that were NOT in my purse and have been censored because WOW. Just WOW.] I sat there and blinked with my mouth hanging open.
“Just send it,” he prompted. Trusting that it was the appropriate response, I did. Within a minute, I had a response- “Seth says, ‘hey there, atta boy!’”
In that exchange, I learned something. When someone calls your manhood into question because you don’t think (like every other man in the world) that Megan Fox is the greatest thing since sliced bread (or porn), respond with something pervy. Really pervy. That will leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that you love girlparts, dammit.
The next day, with that exchange still fresh in my mind, AB and I embarked on Part Deux of “Teach Brooke to Drive a Manual Transmission.” I haven’t blogged about this particular form of torture yet, because I am an overachiever and do not want to share the achingly slow progress that I’m making in this area. Mostly because my learning capacity is about one hour and 5 stalls, and then DAMMIT I AM DONE YOU’D BETTER TAKE THIS WHEEL OR I’M CRASHING YOUR STUPID CAR.
Yesterday went surprisingly well, and we agreed that the next lesson would be on some quiet country roads near my home in Amish country, where we’d be unlikely to run into impatient drivers (other cars in general, basically).
As we switched places and I was getting ready to take my place in the passenger seat once again, AB leaned in to give me a kiss/hug of “Good Job, you managed to not make my car blow up again.” Or positive reinforcement. Whatever.
While looking sweetly at me, he said “Wow, I was just remembering our first kiss.” I felt my insides go all warm and mushy inside, sure that he was going to offer up something insanely romantic.
“I was so nervous,” he continued, “because I really wanted to finally kiss you. But I had a massive boner and didn’t want you to notice it.”
AGAIN. My jaw dropped. THAT is what you remembered just then?! Your massive boner?! *blinkblink gape blink*
Because I am a woman and have the miracle that is “selective memory,” I am going to wipe that little conversation right out and go back to the ‘awesomely hot but shy guy finally working up the courage to kiss me’ scenario. Not the “leaning away from you trying to hide my junk” scenario.
Perhaps if I were a man and in possession of this wonderful organ/toy/visible symbol of my virility (aka penis) I would understand. I would feel a completely disproportionate (in 99% of cases. Yes, I’m looking at YOU Trombone Guy) sense of pride in said toy, and welcome any opportunity to reference it/flaunt it/shake it all about. As I am not, I shall just have to accept this as one of the many peculiarities of “being a guy,” and move on. And be more prepared in the future for that MANLY MAN side to come out.