Having a Stud for a Husband

I remember being at home, pregnant and breastfeeding our baby, when I received a call from a woman who worked for my husband at Sojourner Magazine. She started by saying there was a rumor going around and that she wanted to tell me before I heard it from someone else. I took a deep breath and told her to go ahead, I was listening. Clearly uncomfortable, she hesitated before finally saying, “The rumor is… I want to marry your husband.” First, I told her that all rumors start somewhere and asked how this one got started. She said she told a friend that she wished she could find a husband like mine to have as her own. I told her to get in line.

When I first entered our relationship, jealousy was real for me as my ex of six years broke my heart by cheating on me. Mothers of babies are exactly that, mothers. Our attention is all on loving our little ones with little time left to care for ourselves, at least in the beginning when they are tiny little people needing as much love as we have to give them. Naturally, our insecurities come into play, often feeling less attractive than other woman. But at some point, I grew tired of that narrative. Jealousy became exhausting. So instead of obsessing over the idea that a stunning, slinky women with a flat stomach would purposely lean their surgically enhanced curves into him when asking how to make the printer work and steal his throbbing “heart” away, I shifted my mindset feeling proud of what we had together, and that he chose me.

He decided it would be nice for me to meet the women he worked with, so he took us all to lunch. I didn’t want to go, exhausted from wrangling my little ones, but I played along, trying to be a good sport.

I should preface this by saying that I suspect I have a touch of narcolepsy. When I’m stressed, I tend to fall asleep. So there I was, just finishing my soup, when one of the women casually remarked that my husband was eye candy. And just like that, head nearly in my bowl, I dozed off at the table. The intensity of her fluttering eyelashes was simply too much for my system to handle.

Still, I was immensely proud of my husband. He could seamlessly shift from contractor to publisher and back again, a rare talent. Admittedly, I helped refine his image, constantly harassing him about his slang and correcting his English. Determined to give my untraveled Denver boy a proper cultural education, I dragged him back to my old stomping grounds in New York City.

It was an eye-opener. With no familiar physical outlets other than walking, he sought release in the city’s dive bars, drinking his way through my favorites, like Lucky Strike. His naivety, combined with his rugged good looks, made him an instant magnet for the well-dressed gay men of Manhattan. Suddenly, we were being stopped on the street, men swooning over the Colorado boy standing out like a sore thumb in his ski jacket.

At one point, he turned to me, exasperated. “Why didn’t you tell me to bring my tweed jacket?” So off we went to Barneys, where the male sales clerks fawned over his broad shoulders and tapered waist, more than happy to assist in elevating his city wardrobe.

These days, I find myself more curious than anything, watching how effortlessly beautiful people move through life, often unaware of how much smoother the road is when the world rolls out a red carpet in reaction to their looks.

After the babies I decided to join the gym, after all, this was Aspen, the land where nothing stood in the way of wealthy cougars when they wanted something tall and handsome, whether married with children or not. Reluctantly, I walked in to endure my first punch on my pass and get my abs working. Looking around I noticed that all of the locals I had successfully avoided all these years were working out. Was this a joke? Trying to remain positive, I ignored the cold, industrial feel of the gym. No flowers, no warm paint, really bad erotic art showing parts of the muscled body and lots of smelly, staring locals. Is ten minutes enough? I decided to stick to the fresh outdoors and begin the same nuts, berries and vodka diet of the skinny bitches in my husband’s department were probably on.

To be continued ….