As part of our "Romantic Weekend," Harry and I decided to head to German Village in Columbus, a mere 15,000 (much exaggeration here) from our hotel.
"Let's walk it," my hubby proclaims.
"O-kay!" I stupidly agree.
Ten blocks later, I'm red-faced and my comfortably baggy jeans are now threatening to fall off with each dragging step I take. Harry is trotting along like some sort of marathon runner while I am ready to attempt to roll up like Sonic the Hedgehog and fling myself down the brick road.
"Are you - glistening?" he asks me, taking in my purple cheeks, matted bangs and soaked shirt.
"No, I was glistening three blocks ago." I smile at him sweetly. "NOW, I'm just sweating like a f'n pig!" He grins and tries to kiss me on my forehead.
"EW." I say, backing away from him and nearly twisting my ankle on yet another pot hole that seems to be the norm for German Village.
"I love you, babycakeshead, but oh, do I ever hate you at the moment." I pull my hair up in a sweaty ponytail, pout, and insist on a cab for the ride home.
Later, at the concert, he's loathing me, I'm sure, as we sit, sandwiched between throngs of overweight women clutching their Michael Buble t-shirts and swooning at the Canadian crooner. I am mooning over the man on the stage while my hubby keeps one hand snaked around my shoulder to either remind me that he's there or to keep me from throwing myself (or my undergarments) on to the stage below.
Running back to the hotel during the first monsoon to ever hit Ohio, we hop into our King-sized bed and I lean up one one elbow, looking at him seductively. "Do I really have to wear it tonight?" I whine, speaking of the "outfit" I purchased back in February for Valentine's Day.
"No, you don't," he said, patting me on my soggy head and watching as I snuggle into his armpit. Thinking this meant I was off the hook for Carnal Copulation, I started to drift off when I felt something grope me.
I was wrong. But at least I didn't have to wrestle my chubby legs into a pair of thigh-highs. So, Amen to that one!
I'm off now to sign up for Michael Buble's fan club. I figure you can get special privileges - like advanced ticket sales, autograph signings, meet and greets, naked tango lessons and free t-shirts.
Ya know, the usual!