Love Means...

A while back Marscat posted a message about how much she liked the movie ”Love Story.” Being married to a boy who has about as much fluff in his personality as a rock, I had to “humph” at the sappiness. Of course she was not so shocked by my opinion. Yet, had she ever met the boy I married, she may understand my lack of sap. In my house, the boy doesn’t give the proverbial “A” for effort, nor does he rah-rah for finishing last in one of California’s hardest stage races. I have to pat myself on the back for that stuff. Yet, after five years, I’m still crazy about him. But her post begged the question: does love really mean never having to say you’re sorry? I thought about it long and hard and it dawned on me on a way to a ride with Pink Fishnets a few weeks ago.

That morning we were running late (surprise!). I had put on my Bella jersey and ran around the house cleaning up and gathering riding items. It was darned hot and I was working up a sweat. We jumped in the car where I could put my pony tail together, stuff some toast in my mouth and rearrange my bag while he drove. It was 9:30 a.m. and very hot already. And I was still a bit worked up. (Did I mention the heat?)

As we drove down Foothill Expressway, I finally had a few minutes to chill and stretch. So I lifted my arms above my head and gave a good ‘ole fashioned yawn. Then I heard him exclaim with a disgusted look “Oh, honey!” I was dumbstruck. What could possibly disgust him? Did I brush my teeth? Check. I was confused. I’ve always been the picture of good decorum and hygiene, even within the private company of my husband. What could possibly be the cause of his disgust?

“Um, you have B.O.,” he said reluctantly. I think about this for a bit and a smile comes to my face. After five years of being victim to his own arsenal of chemical weapons in the wee hours of the morning, I have had my retribution. And, I had found my answer. Love means being able to say, “Honey, you have B.O.”

“Awe, thank you, honey! I love you too,” I tell him.