I dunno, there’s something unsexy about husband. Sure, when you’re first married, it’s a word you say with a giggle. "So strange," you say, "to call you that now. Strange good." And you both comment on the newness of it, feeling silly saying the words to a concierge on your honeymoon. "I’ll need to check with my husband; we’ll let you know." But with time, "Check with my husband" feels so very TomKat, and the charm of husband kinda stalls out on you.
I stop feeling independent.
It’s why the idea of boyfriend feels so much goddamn hotter. A new boyfriend to woo, to impress, to make fall in love with me. So you act like you’re the cool chick. You wear lingerie. Every time. Or wee bits of this and that, but you’re not walking around in Old Navy drawstring HOHOHO flannels. You withstand football, even feign interest… okay, no, I’ve never gone that far. It’s not as if you lose yourself, but you do, for sure, present your most agreeable side without giving out on your inner sassmonger. You don’t lose yourself; you loosen. You sit on his lap. You tell him to meet you at a bar. You kiss him on the mouth, for real. There’s none of that peck shit. It’s passionate, alive, doubling like dough left to rise. It’s the mindset I hope to keep, to reclaim. Because sometimes when I’m all about us, I forget about the me I used to be for we… and for me: the chick who’s capable of more than complaints. The chick who’s capable of anything.
"So from now on, I’m calling you my boyfriend, not my husband. Thought you should know. You know, so if I get too sexy for you, now you’ll know why."